Published in the August, 1998 issue of Pennsylvania Game News as The Final Buck
"Bob. Bob wake up. Breakfast is ready." I opened my eyes and looked up to see my father's face peering down at me. "I remember a time when you boys couldn't wait for Opening Day," he said, as he ambled back to the kitchen. At 70 years of age, dad still ran the camp.
It wasn't that my brother and I had lost interest in deer hunting, but now that we were grown with families of our own, we appreciated an opportunity for a little extra sleep. And the old farmhouse that served as our camp always felt warm and cozy during deer season.
My brother Tom was already at the table when I walked into the kitchen. Dad was cooking. They were discussing strategies for the day and what our chances of scoring might be. While in deer camp the conversation usually revolved around deer, rifles, and the weather——even when Tom and I were much younger. We fought and argued as much as any two brothers could, and during our teen years we disagreed with dad more often than not. But no matter how we treated each other during the rest of the year, we came to deer camp as friends. We were deer hunters, but not quite equals. Tom and I were the apprentices learning from the master. None of us realized that morning that our apprenticeship was about to end.
After breakfast we gave the walkie-talkies a final check and headed out to our tree stands. The air was cold and damp. It was still dark, but each of us knew the woods behind the house as well as we knew our own backyards. Our tree stands were strung out like pickets about 60 yards apart. We reached dad's first and helped him up. Later I wished Tom luck and climbed up into my stand. Tom’s was the last in line.
Dad taught us at an early age to hunt from stands—and to stay in the stand. Only once did I disregard his advice, and I paid the price for it: After hours of not seeing anything and fighting off the cold, I decided to go back to camp for some hot soup. I checked in with dad as I passed his stand on the way to camp. He tried his best to convince me to stick it out, having already invested so many hours. But I persisted and left the woods. I had nearly reached the back door when a shot rang out from Dad's position. Moments later dad's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie telling me that he had just dropped a nice buck—and—that it had come from the direction of my stand. Following that day I took the soup in to the woods with me.
I glanced at my watch. It was 7:30am. The darkness was giving way to daylight. I searched the woods for movement. Nothing. Not a stir, not a sound.
Then suddenly, my vigilance was interrupted by a rifle shot that came from dad's direction. I readied myself in case the deer was headed my way. Just then dad called on the walkie-talkie.
"Bob. Tom. I got one. He's a nice one too. Come on over." Minutes later Tom and I converged on dad's position. He had shot a nice 7-point. We shook hands and listened as dad recounted the details of how the buck had tried to sneak through behind a couple of does, and how he had to twist around in his seat to make the shot. He also mentioned feeling a sharp pain in the back of his head when he pulled the trigger. I thought that was a bit odd, but he said it didn't hurt anymore, so we dismissed it. After all, dad had been shooting that same .303 Savage for more than 10 years. I field dressed the buck then Tom and I dragged it back to camp.
We hung the deer up, took a few pictures, and warmed up with some hot coffee. Dad said he wasn't feeling very well and rather than push for us, decided he was going to lie down and rest a bit. Having already suffered a mild heart attack earlier that summer, it seemed like a good idea for him to take it easy. Since it was still early, I headed back out.
Settling into my stand, I thought about dad's luck. It couldn't have worked out better. He got his buck, and he didn't have to sit in the cold damp air all day to do it. Another hour or so passed without incident. At around 1:00pm dad called on the walkie-talkie.
"Bob...are you there?" His voice was shaky.
"Yea, dad. I'm here. Anything wrong?"
"Son, I'm not feeling well at all. I've got some pain between my shoulder blades. Do you suppose I could be having another heart attack?"
"I don't know." He was obviously worried. "Stay calm; I'll be right there." I told Tom I was going back to camp to check on dad.
When I broke through the tree line I looked ahead to the farmhouse. The kitchen window faced our usual exit point from the woods. We often looked for one another through this window. I felt relieved when I saw dad peering out at me as he'd done so many times before. When I reached the steps, he opened the door.
"Oh, Bob. Am I glad to see you. I feel horrible."
"You’re not looking so good either. I think we better take you to the hospital and get you checked out."
I helped dad into the Jeep and drove him to Indiana Hospital. Dad was admitted right away, and the barrage of tests to find out what was wrong with him began. There was nothing I could do. I returned to camp and advised Tom of what was happening. By then it was about 3:30pm. Two hours of daylight remained. Knowing dad, he would have said, "You might as well finish out the day. You never know when you might get lucky."
I pulled my hunting coat on and headed out to my stand. In the solitude of the woods, I began to wonder what my life would be like without dad. He had always been there for me—especially when I was younger.
When my "regular" friends were too busy or didn't care to go small game hunting with me, dad would go. When small game hunting we walked two abreast. I walked on dad's right, and he on my left. But now I wondered, when I look to my left for that familiar orange vest and hat, would dad be there?
Sometimes, instead of hunting, we would just pack a lunch and drive the back roads around Tionesta. Dad would tell me stories about the camps and the men who built them. He knew a lot of people in that part of Pennsylvania.
Darkness was closing in. I climbed down and headed for camp. As I cleared the trees I looked to the kitchen window. No one was there. It was then that I felt the greatest sense of loss. Even if dad survived this latest mishap, things would never be the same again.
The next day the doctor rendered his findings: A blood vessel in dad's spine had ruptured causing blood to collect in that area, and it was putting pressure on the spine resulting in dad being paralyzed from the armpits down. The recoil of dad's rifle apparently caused the rupture.
On Wednesday dad was transferred to Allegheny General Hospital in Pittsburgh for an operation to relieve the pressure on his spine. Following the operation, dad spent the next few days in intensive care. He seemed to be improving. Then, on Sunday morning, his organs began to shut down. By afternoon, he was gone.
I'm thankful for the picture I took of dad with his last buck. Now when I look at it, I see the joy in his smile, the love in his eyes, and the years of hunting tradition captured on film. I look at dad and remember the countless trips afield with a gentle, selfless man, and my best friend. I think of the picture itself as a baton passed from dad to me.
It will soon be time for my son, Jonathan, to begin his apprenticeship in deer camp. The picture is dad's way of reminding me to be understanding and patient. And to be mindful of the times when a boy doesn’t want the company of his father; he just wants the company of a friend. Soon I'll be looking out the kitchen window watching for Jonathan to return from the woods, and he'll be looking to see me for reassurance. And that will be good, because dad will be looking down on us both.
The End