The Old Man's Stand

The old man and his grandson slipped quietly through the dense brush at the edge of the woods. In the near total darkness of the early hour they navigated by habit borne of long familiarity; moving slowly and with frequent stops to listen intently to the sighing of the breeze and muted nighttime voices of the woods, towards the well-used deer stand by the creek bed. This particular stand location had been carefully chosen by the old man nearly thirty years before and had never failed to produce a deer. Consisting of a wild growth of brush growing to the edge of a steep drop-off to the creek itself, it was faced with a rocky outcropping that formed a natural rest for a rifle while concealing the shooter. All that was required was an annual trimming of new growth to maintain a quiet zone to hide within.

The overlook provided a mostly unrestricted view of the creek bed for a distance of a little under one hundred and fifty yards to the right and roughly two hundred yards to the left. Deer trails spider-webbed the area leading both to and from a cornfield a quarter of a mile away. A small brushy meadow across the creek and slightly to the left opened the woods and provided a convenient bedding place. The terrain and confluence of food, water and a safe bedding area proved appealing to does and their fawns all year long. This plentitude of does also provided an irresistible lure for cruising bucks during the fall rut. The attraction was so strong that the old man had always restrained from hunting from this blind unless there was no luck to be had elsewhere. The certainty of harvesting a good buck at this spot made it too easy, so until recent years it was not used until late in the season…and then only if other locations or methods failed to produce.

The old man’s health and stamina had gone into a drastic decline of late as years and tragedy both took their terrible toll. No longer could he tirelessly still-hunt for hours and miles on end as he once had. In recent years he had taken to coming to this spot even on the first day of the season. Here he might spend several days just quietly watching and enjoying the deer moving about and conducting their activities. Only during the last days of the season would he select a specific buck to take. In this manner he was able to continue to experience some of the old thrill of the hunt without dangerously exerting himself. It wasn’t that he would have minded dying in the woods; on the contrary, since the loss of his beloved wife a few years before and with little left to hold him, he could think of no better way to pass on than in the woods doing what he loved to do his entire life. What held him back was both knowing that his wife would not have approved of him deliberately taking senseless chances and a task that he had vowed for himself that had now come to fruition…the training of his only grandchild in the ways of the outdoors and true hunter. Over the last year, however, a peculiar heaviness seemed to have come to rest on his chest, with breath coming short and his legs always seeming to be tired; a fact he refused to share with anyone.

As they reached the stand, both stopped to breathe in the scent of the creek and surrounding woods. The rich, loamy fragrance of the damp soil blended with the warmly acrid aroma of the oaks and the sharp, clean scent of pines. The chuckling of the creek, water still too warm to have grown an icy cover despite the blanket of fresh snow, as it danced over the shoals and rocks was soothing and familiar. There was no stench of gasoline fumes or sounds of traffic and people. There were only the sounds of nature with its own fragrances. This was their comfort zone and retreat from daily life. Over the last few years the boy had come to learn to spend the bulk of each year looking forward to this time and place. For the old man it had become the only noteworthy landmark left in his life.

The boy was the son of the old man’s only child, a daughter. Though growing up loving to shoot, she had not inherited her father’s passion for the hunt. Wise enough to know not to press the issue, the old man had taught her all he knew about shooting and spent countless hours enjoying her company while just plinking at tin cans and targets. As she grew older, married and moved away, their times together became fewer as college, followed by her responsibilities as a career woman, wife and eventually mother, took up her time. Though a very good man and provider, her husband had little interest in the outdoors beyond golf, and distance had prevented as much association with his grandson as he would have liked. Upon the death of her mother, his daughter had detected the old man’s rapid decline. The devastated figure in the ill-fitting new black suit sitting at her mother’s funeral bore little resemblance to the strong confident man she had always depended on to fix anything or solve any problem. She quickly decided that her son should spend a couple of weeks each year with his grandfather in addition to the periodic family visits. She felt that it would benefit both; the boy was beginning to adopt bad habits and starting to make equally bad choices and her father needed a goal upon which to focus and look forward to for his own well-being. For the old man it was a lifeline thrown to him that involved a single simple decision; since the boy had early on expressed a desire to learn to hunt, it was quickly decided that those two weeks should fall within hunting season so he could properly teach the boy the skills necessary to enjoy hunting in a safe and ethical manner.

Moving carefully, the boy laid his rifle on a small bed of exposed moss and silently shrugged out of his daypack. Gently feeling around on the ground, he cautiously cleared the snow from the area and made sure that no leaves or twigs were lurking in wait for a careless foot to fall on them and create a noise at the wrong moment. Seating himself on a low folding stool he had carried in, he quietly opened the pack, rummaged through the various objects within and extracted an old, dented green thermos. The old man grinned fondly at the sight of that old thermos, a battered and faithful friend of countless hunts and stands. Stretching out on a weather-beaten and torn old Army sleeping bag folded on the ground, with his back against a comfortable oak stump whose massive roots rose from the ground like the friendly arms of a favorite easy-chair and his legs contentedly aslant downhill, he watched the boy pour two small tin cups of the scalding hot coffee, handing the old man one and blowing softly into his own as the steam wafted on the vagrant breeze.

The first of those two-week periods had been the year following his wife’s death. Still mourning and bitter with no direction left, the old man had hated everyone and everything. Despite his daughter’s gentle scolding on their frequent visits, he was neglecting his house as well as himself in the rage and grief of his loss. Totally purposeless without his wife, he was in sore need of a distraction and reason to continue to function. The arrival of the then fourteen-year-old boy partially filled that void and brought light as well as a purpose back into his house. The boy’s hunting education soon began in earnest with a comprehensive instruction on firearms basics, shooting and safety. Towards the end of that visit they tirelessly roamed the creeks and ridges with the old man’s aging beagle Spud, hunting squirrels and rabbits with .22 rifles. Evenings, the old man served up savory dinners of pan-fried squirrel or rabbit, potatoes and gravy to the proud boy. The seed of the pride of accomplishment had been planted and, with the proper nurturing, would continue to grow straight and strong as the years progressed.

The cold measurably sharpened as the sun started sending out tentative, creeping fingers of light to brighten the eastern sky. The woods slowly, grudgingly, began to awaken with the chirping of the birds and the sharp angry chatter of the occasional squirrel. A sudden rustling in the brush revealed a fat raccoon contentedly ambling back to its den after a successful night of foraging; his fat rump waggling like that of a plump old char-woman headed home from her labors. A distant murder of crows decided to noisily greet the new day with their harsh cacophony of calls shredding the still of the morning. The boy sneaked a peek at his watch, nodded to his grandfather and cautiously picked up his rifle. Moving carefully and with great deliberation, he managed to load the old Savage with barely a hint of noise. The old man looked on fondly as the boy performed the functions with skill that spoke well of both his training and commitment. There was a certain pride in his eye that the boy, when he had found that his grandfather wouldn’t be shooting today, had asked to use the old man’s favorite rifle, an old weather and care-beaten Model 99, .300 Savage rather than the shiny new, scoped 7mm/08 Remington that he had given the boy last year. Touched by the request, he had happily agreed.

The second year had found the boy and the old man spending virtually every daylight hour examining trails and tracks. The boy learned to identify the maker of each track and their habits. He soon learned to locate those wispy “buck” trails that usually paralleled the more common game trails frequented by does and fawns and to estimate the size and dominance-standing of the makers of rubs and scrapes. Long days tracking, trailing and learning hardened the boy physically and mentally. Tired enough to fall asleep over dinner each evening, he would yet be up at dawn and be ready to start each new day. An introduction to quail hunting kept spice in the routine while adding a delicious change to their diet of the previous year. That was the year that he sat for several days where the old man now reclined; eagerly observing deer drift in and out of the meadow and finally watched his grandfather drop a nice 8-point with a single shot. The inglorious mess of field dressing and subsequent care of the meat and hide were a revelation to the boy, but he attacked and learned each in its turn. The old man continued to heal, though the pain was yet a constant dull ache and he still often awoke at night crying out his despair and loss.

Placing the rifle carefully on “Safe”, the boy slowly positioned it so that he could easily reach it with a minimum amount of movement and noise. Carefully looking around, he noted the position of each trail and mentally reviewed his mind’s chart of the distances to each. Glancing at the sky he realized that an impending threat of further snow seemed to have developed with the dawn. Heavy gray clouds, pregnant with moisture, were drifting on the horizon. He grinned to himself; it had snowed most of the night before and he loved hunting in fresh snow where each and every track was new. There was also a good chance that the threat of new snow would keep the deer moving until later in the day than normal.

The third year’s visit was the successful culmination of the work of the first two. All plans and energy were directed at deer season. Nearly tearing up with pride, the 16 year old had happily received his grandfather’s early Christmas gift of the new Remington. Hours and hours of scouting, lots of shooting of the new rifle, countless strategies discussed and plans made right up to opening day. The boy managed to shoot his first deer that year, a fat fork-horn, under the careful eye and guidance of the old man. The boy needed little help dressing or dragging the young buck out of the woods and was as proud as if it had been a new state record. The old man had insisted on having the head mounted for him and it still hung in the boy’s room with the understanding tolerance of his parents. That was also the year that old Spud died. The boy had campaigned strongly for the old man to get a puppy to keep him company. Even though the old man really missed the old mutt, he was still stalling, saying that he didn’t have the energy to train a new dog; while actually unwilling to acknowledge the silent thought that it was unfair to a new pup to very likely leave it without a master.

The boy suddenly stiffened slightly as he caught a glimpse of furtive movement in the brush across the creek. Stepping daintily through the new snow, a big doe and two yearlings slowly emerged and cautiously headed for the creek to drink. Having quenched their thirst, they moved gradually towards the bedding ground in the meadow, stopping briefly here and there for a mouthful of succulent graze that still peeked through the snow cover while nervously watching for any signs of danger. They hadn’t even bedded down before another and then another doe arrived until it seemed that there was a steady stream of deer coming out of the woods. Interspersed with the does were a few spikes and a couple of fork horns, but the big bucks appeared to be hanging back yet. The boy relaxed and returned to watching the does. Just like the years before, the bucks would come in their own time. He turned and grinned at the old man. He would wait.

The old man watched it all with a proud eye. How the boy’s grandmother would have loved to see him now. And how much he wished that the boy had the opportunity to know his grandmother better. Thoughts of his wife had lost much of their bitter sting to be replaced with an illusionary sense of seeing her influence in all of the places so familiar to him. Memories that used to leave him devastated were warm comfort now, but there still were times he felt that he could almost see her standing just at the edge of his vision, almost as though if he could turn just fast enough, at the right time, he would catch her standing there with her gentle loving smile. He could still clearly remember her cheerful scolding that day in their kitchen about his habit of leaving gun parts on the kitchen table. As he passed her he had patted her fondly on the bottom. She had spun around in mock outrage, smiling and a spoon raised to swat, when he saw the sudden look of confusion cross her face and the light quickly fade forever from her lovely hazel eyes as she slumped to the floor. The doctors had all assured him that it had been fast and completely painless; that she had been gone before she even collapsed. He was infinitely glad that it had been quick and without suffering, but forever regretted that he had not been given time to say all the things that he wanted to say, should have said, needed to say; the things she had always deserved to hear but he had seldom voiced. He had finally come to terms with his grief and thrown his efforts and love into his time with the boy. There was no lessening of his sense of loss…only a softening of the devastating emotional pain that had been attenuated by his desire to teach his grandson. Once the worst of his grief had passed, his lasting tribute to her memory was to keep the house religiously cleaned, as she would have, and to keep everything exactly the way she had left it. But to this day, the overwhelming memories made him unable to sleep in the big four-poster they had shared contentedly over so many years, choosing instead to sleep in what had been their small guestroom.

A faint bristling charge suddenly seemed to fill the air, like that of the feeling just before an impending electrical storm. Becoming aware of the change, the boy slowly straightened on his stool and quietly reached for his rifle. Watching the slopes carefully, he could see nothing moving yet, but instinctively he knew without doubt or question that the time had finally come. Ever so slowly a dim shape materialized in the brush. Like a skilled magician’s illusion, the shape slowly took form as a massive buck strode to the clearing. Gazing regally around the edges of the meadow, he took in the does and younger bucks at a glance. His arrival was a primordial signal for the young bucks to scamper into the brush leaving the big buck the sole and undisputed ruler of all he could see. The old man’s eyes widened at the sheer mass and width of the buck’s rack, though neither he nor the boy took the time to count points. Without speaking, both knew that this was The One.

The boy slowly raised his rifle and struggled to bring the sights to bear firmly behind the buck’s shoulder. A faint tremor increased as he fought to steady the dancing sights on his target. Suddenly the old man whispered the first words spoken between them since entering the woods, “Relax, take a breath and squeeze.” The sound of his grandfather’s voice, so quiet as to almost seem like a thought in his head, calmed the boy enough for him to remember the basics. Allowing the rifle to gently settle into his shoulder, he let the sights slowly drift across his target as he smoothly began his trigger squeeze. Just as the sights crossed the big buck’s shoulder the old Savage spoke with authority. As if hit by a bolt of lightning, the buck leaped high into the air, staggered once and collapsed in his tracks. The spent brass case spiraled high, spinning and winking in the sunlight to clink musically on the rocks as the boy instantly levered another cartridge into place and waited expectantly. The bedded does had vanished like noisy ghosts at the sound of the shot, crashing through the brush in a desperate escape, but the buck made no further movement.

Looking over at his grandfather, the boy grinned and said “Thanks.”

“It was your shot to make or miss. You made it. Damned nice shooting. You go on over there and take care of him,” said the old man. “Think I’ll just wait here. Don’t believe my legs are quite up to that climb down and back up again today. ‘Sides,” he grinned, “He’s your buck. You shot him, now you get to do all the work.”

The boy laughed and nodded his head. Thumbing his rifle to “Safe”, he dropped lightly over the edge of the ledge and started sliding easily down the steep slope.

The old man smiled sadly to himself, “I remember when I used to be able to do that. Been a spell.”

He watched as the lanky boy forded the creek on the massive old fallen oak trunk that served as a bridge from bank to bank and cautiously approached his buck. Nodding in satisfaction, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his battered old briar pipe as he saw the boy, now certain that his buck was down for good, carefully clear his rifle of cartridges and set it safely against a sapling. The old man watched as the boy made a leap into the air almost as high as the one the buck had made.

“He’s a 10-pointer, Grandpa!” he shouted, the sound of his voice echoing down the creek and across the clearing.

The old man waved back and made a half-salute with his pipe stem. Contentedly, he finished tamping the tobacco in the bowl, expertly cracked a kitchen match with his thumbnail and touched the flame to the pipe until it was drawing smoothly and to his satisfaction. Leaning back again, he watched the boy work as he enjoyed his smoke.

Finally he could come to this place without the brutal heart pangs it used to bring. The old man and his wife had often walked the little trail farther down the creek in the spring to look for mushrooms and wild flowers or nuts and berries in the fall. He seldom returned with mushrooms or nuts, but his wife always could find flowers or berries for the table and carried them home in her little blue wicker basket. He invariably grumped that he only went on those walks because she wanted him to, but neither was fooled. Despite his rough manner he had loved his wife deeply and had always enjoyed time they spent together no matter the activity. Their walks along the trail usually ended with a sandwich picnic under a massive oak on a little bed of soft green moss delicately trimmed with ferns that shyly crept to the edge of the stream. Those were joyous days of laughter, conversation, plans and love drawn indelibly in the soft gold, green and purple shadows of memory. They had always considered this their private place, secret and distant from the rest of the world, and it had held a special meaning for both.

The boy carefully unloaded his rifle and propped it securely against a bush. He then expertly rolled the massive buck onto its back and drew his knife to begin the task at hand. Having been well taught, he soon made short work of the field-dressing chore and slinging his rifle securely to his back began dragging the buck back uphill to the stand. Crossing the log spanning the creek while dragging the buck was a bit tricky but the boy made it and soon reached the side of the stand. Stepping around the edge of the rocky ledge he smelled the rich aroma of the pipe smoke and grinned.

“Mom would be furious and giving you one of her famous lectures for that right about now!” he laughed as he rounded the ledge.

The old man looked impossibly tiny, slumped over with the pipe lying on his chest and smoke still gently drifting from the bowl. On his face was a look of amused bewilderment and acceptance. The overriding impression was one of deep and utter peace. Instantly the boy knew that his grandfather was no longer with him; that he was gone, past cares, pain or sorrows. Gently laying the old man’s rifle on the ledge, he removed the old battered pipe from the man’s chest, carefully checked the side of his neck for any signs of life and then eased the once powerful body to the ground. Kneeling as if in prayer over his grandfather’s still form, he slowly leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead while a thousand thoughts and memories flooded over him.

 “I’m sorry I never told you before Grandpa, but I love you” he murmured as the tears began running unashamedly down his cheeks. “I hope you knew. Be sure to kiss Grandma for me.”

Tenderly covering the old man’s tired face with his ancient battered hat, the boy stood and looked around to see if there was anything else he should do before heading back to the road and his cell phone to call for help. As he started uphill he noticed the snowstorm that had been threatening all morning was beginning to close in with fat, wet flakes drifting gently down.

“Guess I’d better hurry. That storm looks like it could mean business,” he muttered as he set a hunter’s practiced, long-legged pace up the slope toward the road and waiting pickup.

Maybe, just maybe, had he looked a little closer and strained his eyes real hard before he started up that hill he might have barely made out a faint shape in the distance, no more than a vague fleeting shadow, a wavering outline only slightly darker than the brush, trudging slowly along the little creek bed trail into the face of the oncoming storm. Dimly seen through the snowflakes that were beginning to fall, the figure seemed to stand a little taller, straighter and gain in strength and purpose with each additional step. Just before the snowflakes finally closed in like a curtain falling on a stage to conceal the figure from view, the boy might have also seen a second much slighter shape emerge smiling from the edge of the brush and stand quietly poised, a little blue wicker basket dangling from one hand, the other held out in tender welcome. As the first form drew abreast, it gently took the extended hand of the one waiting. Together they continued side-by-side, step-by-step and hand-in-hand under a massive old oak and through a little bed of soft green moss delicately trimmed with ferns that shyly crept to the edge of the stream, and into the storm until the falling snowflakes hid them forever from sight, leaving behind nothing…nothing at all.

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