Introduction: The following was written as I prepared to deploy for Iraq the following year. I had taken this and a few other opportunities to capture some of the most important moments I had shared with my son to that time. I was and continue to be, desirous to let my son know who his father was in the off-chance that I did not return whole. It is written directly to him, though he was four years old, with the possibility that he may not fully understand it for many years to come. I hope you enjoy it.
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Joshua. My boy. You like me, have been gifted with an inherent love of the outdoors. Since the time you were two years old, I have taken you with me as a Young Men’s Leader in the Scouts or just alone whenever I could. You have asked me all this past year to go hiking. I love to hear you say it. “Daddy, can we go hikin’?” It warms my heart. This Winter has been particularly tough on the both of us so cooped-up, unable to get out and be in the mountains. It makes me so very happy to know you have an affinity for the quiet respite that the mountains can bring. You received a Camel-bak from your grandparents this year for Christmas. They too recognize in you the tendencies of wanderlust that burn behind those dark eyes. I think back on this past year. I believe we went on four or five hikes. One with Lexi up Stockton Canyon, that we cut short, one up North Willow Canyon to find the lake, on the elk hunt in Strawberry, and of course this year’s deer hunt.
Son I will always remember, you with three layers of clothes on. The outer layer a florescent orange sweater that was too small for me, and way too big for you. I had to fold the arms up and roll them and it went to your knees. Your mother insisted on an orange knit cap, and blue thermals underneath your pants. We went on the rifle hunt. This was your first deer hunt. You went elk hunting a few weeks before, but only to hike around with grandpa Bill. This was different. This was you and papa up early in the “white truck”, headed for Lookout Pass between Tooele and Dugway, Utah. You were so tired that opening morning. It was a Saturday and you had gone to bed late. I worried about the frigid temperatures outside and wondered if you would you be warm enough. I woke up at 4:00 am and had you in the truck by 4:30. You continually asked me why we had to go when it was so dark outside. This season, October 2004, I had elected to go on the rifle hunt. I selected a unit that was close to home, because I had been gone for four months to Missouri for Engineer Officer Basic. I didn’t feel like your momma wanted me to be off gallivanting around far from home. I normally choose the archery hunt, because I feel it’s more relaxing and more satisfying. This year I decided to stay close to home, and to take my boy with me. Just you and me.
I had mentioned our hunt to Grandpa Bill, and even invited him. He had to work, so it was just the two of us. Grandpa mentioned that we ought to try Lookout Pass, that we had been successful there when I was a boy, and it had been many years since we’d been back out. I asked him for directions, knowing in my heart that we would get close but I couldn’t remember exactly where we had hunted before. After a little searching, I chose a road that appeared to wind it’s way up the canyon on the north side of the pass. We continually turned and dodged the juniper trees, walking the truck slowly up the canyon. We came to a wide dry gully, and I pulled us across in four-wheel drive. It was still dark, and we had a good 45 minutes until first light.
I had packed my backpack with an MRE, treats, water, flashlights, toilet paper, matches and an extra knife. It was fairly heavy, and I expected to carry it, as well as you all day. Not really wasn’t looking forward to a hike at that moment, I tried to coax you out of the truck. Because you were concerned about, “Pumbas” or mountain lions, you elected not get out until you could see the area around you. We sat for about a half hour, and when I got anxious and got out and began to get my gear on. Load the old Enfield 30.06 I thought about how I should have purchased a new rifle, something with a synthetic stock, and a nice new scope. I wanted to get up the trail. Concerned that you wouldn’t be warm enough, and repeatedly asked you if you were ok. In that way you have, you assured me that you were just fine, and were finally ready to hike. I thought for sure you would talk all the way up the mountain trail, however you were very quiet now. We practiced the night before you covering your ears if I shot, and how to get down low and not be seen.
In the ambient light I could see an ever widening swath of the trail, and the silhouettes of the mountains steep on either side of us. I began to retrace old memories in my mind, the cold air freezing our breath. The heavy shell-belt of my great-grandfather’s fit well around my waist; my “girdle” as my friends had often referred to it. Each set of loops but the last five, now in the rifle, contained a rifle shell, each one capable of bringing an animal to it’s demise. I looked down at you, and resolved that no matter how far I had to carry you that day, that as long as we walked upon the ridgeline, we could make a solid day of it.
I remembered back to the combined memories of hunts with my father and my brothers. Three boys under twelve, the second weekend of the deer hunt. It was an annual holiday. The wind in that canyon could get bitterly cold. I was concerned that I may even have to light a fire to warm you should the wind begin to blow down the canyon that morning.
As we walked down the trail, the quiet murmurings by you and reassurances from me, I noticed two forms on the East side of the canyon far above us. This canyon was sparsely treed and I knew instantly that these forms were going to be animals. I hoped that they might be deer. We stopped and glassed them. I tried to point them out to you, far in front and above us, in a side canyon. Two deer, I thought. “Get low buddy” , we traveled another 100 yards closer. By now the two forms were 600 or 700 yards from us. As I looked through the low-power binoculars, I could definitely place them as deer, but had no idea whether either of them was a buck. Each time I would breathe, they would fog up, and I would have to pull them down, wipe the lenses with my shirt and hold my breath for another look. About that time I noticed that in the little box canyon, somewhat closer to us, were another four or five deer. None of which I could identify for sure. We were much too far to shoot anyhow. Coming closer and ever lower, we edged upon a small hill, around the back-side, to gain some elevation and perhaps close the gap between us.
All during this you were so patient. You asked me if I was going to shoot the papa deer and I stated I would if I saw him. We topped out on the small hill in the high grass and sage. The deer could hear us and continually stopped to watch us. I didn’t feel comfortable attempting to get any closer, as they were so very close to the top of the mountain. They could easily bound over the top in a matter of a few bounces and we would never know for sure if one had been our buck.
We whispered back and forth, and I asked you if we would wait for a big-buck, or if we would take the first buck we saw. You recommended we take the first buck; a wise choice for such a little man. The two bodies we had seen originally began to move over toward the others. I was particularly interested in the two on the left, as I reasoned they must be bucks as they would not yet be in the rut, and bigger bucks weren’t supposed to be running with the does. We laid in the grass, me on top of my pack, breathing heavily in and out…fogging my binoculars over and over. I was certain that one of the two bodies had antlers, but I wasn’t totally sure. Once I would tell myself, it was a little spike, and then later I would think it might be the white tips on the big mule deer ears. I wanted this to be a sportsmanlike hunt, and I didn’t want to kill any doe accidentally.
I finally resolved that the one deer was in fact a buck. He was walking slowly. He was feeding as he went toward the draw that now separated the two on the left, from the four or five on the right. Occasionally glancing over to the group on the right, I couldn’t find any definitive evidence of antlers. The shot was steeply inclined. Though I had taken my pack off and rested the rifle across it, I had to arch my back terribly to get the needed elevation for a shot. I watched him begin to trot down into the gully. I pulled the 4x scope over to the right and waited for him to exit on the other side neared the other animals. I waited. I waited. I waited…where had he gone? I pulled the scope to the right and noticed the group of deer milling around. At this time I noticed what I thought was another buck. This one seemed a bit bigger than the original buck that disappeared, and I resolved to take him instead.
The sun was beginning to come up and I knew that soon, I would be looking directly at the sun, unable to see any of them. I had to act now, or not at all. I would later tell people that I shot him at about 350-375 yards, but would honestly put it closer to 425. I just didn’t want to sound like a bragger. At the first shot, with my back arched, taking half breaths, I walked the scope from his rump down to the front shoulder. He was pointed down hill and to the right and I placed the cross hairs two inches below the backbone. Every time I breathed the deer would almost totally leave the scope. The cross hairs alternated between a foot above and a foot below him as I breathed.
A breathe in, a breath out, a breath in, half a breath out, hold…no movement… a slow squeeze of the trigger. “VVWWWOOOOHHMMM!” Deer went everywhere. The recoil moved the deer totally out of my sight picture. I jacked a new shell in, checked with you to make sure you were ok, and looked back, watching. Looking for one of the deer to drop. The deer began to run across the side hill, some to the north, some to the south. I didn’t really expect to hit him anyhow I thought. But I can probably get off another shot if I can find him again. The deer all began to file into a line, running diagonally up the mountain away from us. I saw a slower body, hanging back. The buck! I noticed him lagging back, and gained confidence that perhaps he was hit. Although he had moved another 75 yards from the first shot, it was lateral to my perspective and didn’t seem much further. This time, I resolved to put the cross hairs two inches above the bottom of his ribs, behind the shoulder. He slowed to a trot, then walking. I picked a moment out ahead of him and squeezed the trigger slowly again.
“VVWWWOOOOHMMM!” again the deer left the scope. I jacked a new shell in, and searched again for him. By this time, the first two deer had made it over the hill, and two does were looking back down toward another deer lagging far behind them. Without looking closely, I took aim on the last deer, knowing without doubt, that this seemingly sickly deer, was our buck. I took aim, breathed in, breathed out…again in…again out…a half a breath …a half squeeze.….a sudden flash of white at the bottom left of the scope. I let off the trigger. Pulling left I recognized the death throes of a back leg and the soft underbelly of a deer. ‘Jeeeeeeeeeze! I thought…I just about damn-near shot two deer!’ Then, with a sickly feeling…I realized I had shot twice already. In all the commotion, there really might already BE two deer down. My thoughts raced. Should I find a second deer. It should be a buck. Would Troy tag it? No wait, he had a tag for another area. A deepening sickness pervaded the moment. At that time, we began to hike. Though a straight line distance was only around 450 yards, the adrenaline and dwindling youth fought out for who would make it to the top of the hill. As I told you we had knocked him down, I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before 8:00 am.
I was too anxious to see if there were multiple deer to have you hike behind me. I grabbed you up, and taking the shell out of the chamber, I put you on my shoulders, and the back on my back, shouldering the rifle we made it up the steep incline to where the deer was last spotted. I covered some considerable ground and remarked in my head at how far 500 yards can be when your going up a 45 degree hill with a pack, a kid and a rifle on your back. We made it to within 75 yards of where I thought I had seen the buck go down. I thought for certain I had watched that exact spot. I was getting very nervous, because I couldn’t see any deer yet, and we were way too close not too. There was only one small stand of willow thicket on that side of the canyon, and the rest was covered with 2’ high sage brush. Again that sick feeling. I couldn’t breath. I put you down, which made you nervous, and began to circle in ever -widening concentric circles. No deer. Not only are there NOT two deer, but now there are NO deer. No blood. I began doing the geometric calculations again in my head. Looking back at the spot where I had taken the shots. This was definitely…well, I am 80% sure that this is where he went down. After 15 long minutes of searching, I resolved to go back to where I had shot the first time. As I neared the spot, with you still in my sight, and within 100 yards of where you were, was a nice two-point buck on his side. Well, there’s the first one. Oh no. Oh no no no no. If this deer is here, where I shot first, WHERE is the other deer? There has to be two deer. Again I am feeling nauseous at the idea of any game-warden believing my story.
I went back to get you. I put you within a few feet of the big bodied deer. A nice buck I thought. He would look great in the smoker. Or more likely, I would hope that someone in the Ward would be able to use the meat so we didn’t have to. I had made it a habit over the past few years of donating the meat to families in need within our neighborhood. This deer would probably be no exception. Your mother won’t eat deer anyhow. I’ll skin him at home, pay the 50 dollars to have him cut and wrapped and ultimately give him away before next season.
Along the right side of his body, directly behind the shoulder, and two inches down into the rib cage, was a nice little hole. I rolled him over and checked for another wound. There was a sizeable exit wound on the other side, low, and I wondered how the trajectory would allow for a high entry, and low exit, on an animal above me?? Hm. It gave me hope that I might find another small wound when he was skinned out.
As I began to dress the deer, your eyes got very wide. I removed the testicles and explained to you very plainly that it was necessary. After removing the scent glands on the back legs, I cut his throat and turned him down hill. I then commenced the dirty business of rolling up my sleeves and opening the abdominal cavity. As I was moving the deer, one of the back legs came within inches of you, and you jumped back, and refused from that point on to come closer than fifteen feet. As I opened him up, I smelled the acrid scent of a torn stomach. UGHHH….arrghhhhh….probably ruined meat and arrrrghhh! I removed the diaphragm and went looking for lungs and a heart, which were notably absent. I wondered how he could have traveled the 150 yards back over to where he died without the aid of any blood or oxygen. The thick-black jelly confirmed that he hadn’t breathed or beat his heart since a split second after the trigger was pulled.
I surveyed the terrain and realized that this would be a dragging and not a carrying mission. Besides, I couldn’t shoulder this deer, carry a backpack, a rifle and a four-year old boy. No, we were dragging today. I offered you a ride on his back after I did the logistical calculations, knowing that I needed to shift my upper body and would unavoidably drop you if I put you back on my shoulders. It was steep and rough terrain, and I worried constantly that you would pitch forward and hurt yourself. Well you didn’t. We both made it down to the trail-head, you taking this opportunity as license to begin talking. Talk you did. All the way down to the trail. Questions about why my hand was up inside the buck. Why we got up so early. Whether Pumbas would take our deer. Questions, but as long as you kept moving.
We got to the bottom of the mountain and I resolved to drop the deer there, and return with the truck. I really didn’t feel like dragging him another half mile to the truck. On our way back to the truck, we discussed many of the intricacies of the day’s events. We passed an old Mexican gentleman. He commented to me on what a big boy I had, and how impressed he was at your hiking ability. He also commented that despite my efforts to quiet you, that he heard the majority of the comments and queries you made. He handed you some candy, I nodded it was ok, and you thanked him. We bade him good-luck and continued to the truck.
Upon return with the truck, I realized that it can be more difficult to get a deer into a pickup than I remembered. Though the tail-gate was down, I had to jump in the back and pull him by the horns up into the truck.
We were back in the driveway before 1100 am. Your mother even asked what was wrong as soon as we pulled up. You proudly stated that we had a papa deer. That daddy shot him, and put his arm up inside him.
In the process of skinning him out, I noticed that I had missed a second wound. This one was low in the rib cage, also, on the right side. I let out a sigh of relief. One high behind the shoulder, one low behind the shoulder. Not an ounce of meat wasted. No other deer was lying dead in the sage somewhere at Lookout Pass. I will admit, a quiet satisfaction at knowing that uphill, at between 375 and 450 yards I had shot that deer, not once, but twice, exactly where I wanted it.
Now. Every year I consider spending the 700 dollars to buy a new rifle. The old 30.06 that I use was Great Grandpa Bud’s. It’s ugly and marred. The stock has been extended and the sling continually comes loose at the top. However, every year that I get the opportunity to look at a deer through the 4x scope, it does exactly what it’s supposed to. I once asked my dad about his own rifle, an old military surplus 1903 A3 30.06. Why he wouldn’t just break-down and buy a better rifle. He could buy a variable scope that would allow a much closer view. Why, a new rifle, perhaps in a bigger caliber, would surely do the trick. I am older now, and every year I pull that trigger, I learn to trust my dad a little more. I am convinced that there isn’t an animal in North America, that with proper shot placement, that 30.06 wouldn’t bring down. Sometimes you just stick with what works I guess. The old 0.06 is reliable, tried and tested, cheap to shoot, and non-glamorous. The old 4x scope seems to do ok too. It’s been said, and I believe, that if you can’t see it in a 4x scope, you shouldn’t be shooting at it anyhow. Funny how dad’s tend to be right about those things. I think this year I’ll fix the sling. I’ll wipe down the barrel and the stock. I’ll get a new ring for the scope. I think a few weeks before elk season I’ll put a few rounds through her. Check to see if she’s hitting true, and go out and do it again. I hope you’ll be with me.
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If you've read this far, please excuse my English and grammar. I've felt it more necessary the past couple of weeks to capture my thoughs, than I have to practice my prose and diction. The most recent post regarding my brother and the feedback I have received has encouraged me to make more of these stories and personal thoughts known. I realize the potential that exists for this knowledge to be used somehow negatively, but I believe the risks are far outweighed by the positive responses and the potential therein for these stories or thoughts to help you, the reader as well as provide a positive respite for my ever-wandering psyche. These posts can be cathartic for me, and serve almost as silent group-therapy when I find that they have touched someone for good. I will continue to make these and other thoughts available as long as I need the outlet, and you the reader continue to read them. I sincerely hope you enjoy them. They are, after all a peice of my soul and who I really am finding myself to be. We are all compilations of the stories that make us up, and bind us. Those moments in which we can laugh at ourselves, cry at our innocence, or share that another might not falter all bind us together and make us who we are.
If you like these please share them. Sometimes you never know who needs to recall a moment from their own past, and smile silently at learning that another shares their same passions and fears.
God bless you.
J
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