Warm yellow light splashed across my room, followed by the suppressed nudge of my dad. "You want to go", he said. Did my "Alarm Clock" ask me if I wanted to wakeup?! Well, since it didn't require me to rise, I chose to go ahead and put my feet on the floor. The cold wooden floor sped my steps to fireplace in the living room, where the clothes I had lain out the previous night warmed and waited. "How does this work?" I would wander, then just watch as the man of the house put on a clinic. Wool socks first, then the longjohns...now it makes sense. Camo pants, a thermal shirt, then a flannel - and a dark coat this very morning rounded out my uniform. Oh yeah - I needed the charcoal handwarmer - but I was certain dad had that ready and waiting in the pickup. He always did. All I had to do was make it to the truck...and brush my teeth. He made it easy for me to make up my mind about leaving the warm house for the cold outdoors to chase deer, doves, or turkeys. It was deer this morning.
Nevertheless, I topped off my uniform, which by now had started to smell a little like bacon and eggs. Yuck! He knew I wouldn't eat them, but had not neglected to lower the cereal and procure the milk. I would eat my Cap'n Crunch. He would eat livestock. I knew better - I was 9 years old. The plates and bowls hit the bottom of the sink. The cooler, empty, was put in the back of the truck. Our weapons, his a Remington, mine, the equally accurate Daisy BB gun, were placed in the gun rack in the back window of the Chevrolet. We had business to do, I thought. I was taking part in a rich and strong tradition. Hunting and being a man, or atleast emulating one, were my self-imposed marching orders. The Chevrolet rattled and sputtered, but the 305 screamed to power...the brake was released and after loading up the hounds, we departed the driveway, east bound.
Our drive to the Hatchett Creek Hunting Club generally lasted about 30 minutes, give or take. This particular morning, he asked about my school work in Mrs. Carter's 4th Grade classroom...he also teased me about my "girlfriend". The travel and conversation were interrupted only by deer crossing the road and a stop at Magic Mart, in downtown Rockford. He got coffee, I got 2 sodas. One for now, one for later, I thought. He would suggest a couple of snacks, one for now and one for later. I always obliged. Slim Jim and Doritos - That's what everyone else ate. After the provisions were secured, dad would help me load up in the truck. The weight of my treats, coupled with the bulk of my outfit required a little help getting in the truck. My feet, covered with suede workboots, barely met the floor board - so a little help was a both needed, and today, appreciated.
The 3 mile windy road was red with taillights. The hunting club had lots of members, some as youg as me, but most the age of my dad. The CB radio came to life...nicknames - call names - blasted from the speaker. I always wanted one. I now know that you earn those, not ask for them. As we pulled in to the lot, other parties, similar to our own were planning hunts, feeding dogs, lying and laughing. Dad could participate handily at those tasks. The other men would acknowledge me, and it felt welcoming. This was one of my favorite parts of the day. The old building were hunting stations were assigned was marked and carved with the names and initials of hunters from another era. The dates under them made me felt like I had already missed a whole lot - and I had to catchup.
Once we were assigned a hunting location, dad always grabbed a couple of maps, and this morning was no different. One for me, and one for me to take home...he didn't need one - he had hunted those hills for years. As we parked the truck, I would crack open soda # 1. He would tell me where the wind was coming and where exactly we would sit. During or after the brief exchange, we would exit the cab and make our way to the dog box. The plothounds in the back were ready to go, and so were we...Once the word came over the CB, we released the dogs, not to see them for a couple more hours.
We crept into the hardwood forest off of Bentley Barn Road. I liked Bentley Barn Road - it was muddy and rough. Nevertheless, as we walked slowly, we found a pair of trees, one for me, and one for him. Dad loaded the Remington with buckshot. He watched me, and trained me, on properly loading my BB gun. "Don't ever point that thang at anything you ain't gone shoot" he'd say...and "Keep the durn safety on, until right before you shoot". Eventually, we had both loaded up, and we waited. This particular morning, animals were on the move. Every 10 minutes or so, leaves would rattle up and down the "holler", and we would wait steadily. One doe, two beagles. I was dissapointed. I wanted the "Big One" to stroll through.
After about 30 minutes, the charcoal handwarmers showed up...he knew my hands were cold. And my feet - he unlaced the boots and rubbed my tiny feet until they were warm. I felt better. And my soda can was beginning to run dry. After an hour or so, we had given up on the hunt. It was time for hoop cheese and potted meat...but he pulled out a can of sardines. I tried my first and last sardine of my life that morning. But I'll never forget it. I uncapped my final soda to wash out the taste. We loaded up and went after the hounds. We took it slow, and he told me stories of past hunts, and their subsequent successes and failures, but they all sounded fun. I desperately wanted stories of my own. Today, I am slowly building a catalog of stories...some from my hunts with dad, and some of my own with my friends.
The CB radio rang out, and we were alerted that our dogs had been captured and secured at the club' kennel. They weren't going anywhere, but we where. We rode some other roads, all of which were muddy and rough. I would follow along with my map...one road I never went down was the Charcoal Pit Road...I have always wandered - maybe that's were they put new members...maybe there aren't any deer...or maybe there were, because the deer certainly weren't on the Bentley Barn Road.
After a couple of hours and an empty Dorito's bag, dad and I returned to the headquarters and pulled our dogs away. It was time for us to head home. And I was glad. And he knew it.
I remember nearly every hunt I went on with dad. I didn't know it at the time, but he was teaching me life lessons...sometimes on purpose, and sometimes, not. He never made me go, but made it worth my effort if I did go. I learned that killing a deer wasn't the best thing that happens on a hunt, though it appears to be the immediate goal. Generally, it was the bookends of a hunt that made the hunt. The anticiption beforehand was matched only the anticipation for the next hunt...which set in on the way home. Anticipation is the sweetest form of agony. It is tough to wait. I was just glad to be apart of a big tradition, never realizing that me and him were building his own traditions and memories, and beginning mine.
Youth Waterfowl Day is just around the corner. Lots of kids will go afield for the first time. All of these children are going with the expectation of filling a bag limit. I just hope they all go home with a filling of memories. Those that can offer their time, should. Take someone. If no adult ever took a kid hunting, would there be anymore hunters? Hunters are the most giving to their hobby. They pay taxes on their sporting goods and licenses that protect and enhance future habitat. This habitat is enjoyed by hunters for only about two months out of the year, but birders, boaters, and hikers reap the benefits of protected land throughout the year. Hunters also learn about life and death, and achieve a healthy respect for both. If you can recruit a new hunter you've got one for now, and hopefully, one for later...
Enjoy the day...
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