He recalled the alarming sight and warning tail of an impudent skunk bumped in darkness. He heard the sputtering grunt of a feral hog sow with squealing piglets in tow, and the yips of delinquent coyotes who never seemed to stand still for the hunter to shoot. He felt the warmth of the plum colored sunrise on his face, and the dripping of silent morning fog banks hiding wily bucks as they patrolled for does in the protection of low flying clouds. Through the eyes of his teachers, the
a younger brother to a gun accident as a child according to rarely mentioned family anecdotes, he never taught him the other hunting fundamentals.
The hunter had learned his lessons by trial and error, careful study of other hunters, and hunting books and magazines through which he continued to hunt vicariously and learn long after the season had ended. However, more than any other source, the teachers had shown him the true hunter’s path.
THE HUNTER FEARED THAT ON
HIS DEATH ALL THE MEMORIES OF
THESE MAJESTIC BUCKS AND
THE LESSONS THEY TAUGHT HIM
WOULD BE LOST, LIKE FLICKERING
IMAGES OF A BYGONE ERA.
hunter once again saw the dark silhouettes of thick-antlered bucks hidden by nightfall who, as if by magic, disappeared before offering a shot.
To the hunter, although these lessons had nothing to do with strategies to harvest a trophy buck, they had everything to do with defining the deer hunting experience.
The hunter considered the teachers to be companions of a sort. Only he and they had shared the hunt on the day they were taken. He knew that in addition to feeding his body, the teachers had fed a hunger in his soul to escape modern civilization and enter a natural world containing no artifice.
They would never live the moment of truth when, in the blink of an eye, they had to decide if, when, and how to shoot that suspicious prowling buck at full alert without being detected, relaxing amidst heart-pounding desperation in order to make a good shot. They would never stand on ground no man had touched, being lost and found at the same time.
The call of the deer woods had skipped a generation from his grandfathers to him. Could that happen again? Although he could pass on his two laminated wood compound bows, and scarred but prized deer rifles, how could he pass on the teachers’ lessons?
The hunter feared that on his death all the memories of these majestic bucks — and the lessons they had taught him — would be lost, like flickering images of a bygone era.
What would happen to the rooms full of shoulder and antler mounts that artists of nature had brought to life? Would they be sold at garage sales, hung in pool halls, cannibalized into lamps and chandeliers, or just discarded as trash? Like his memories, and his bones, would they also blow away with the dust of eternity as if they never existed?
His love of hunting grew from deep family roots. Each day in the field, he felt the presence of his grandfathers, knowing he carried with him not only their genetic and material legacies, but also an unspoken bond of the hunting experience.
For reasons unknown to him, the hunter’s father had shown no interest in deer hunting, and never took him deer hunting, even though the family ranch was only an hour’s drive away from their home. Although his father had properly emphasized the primary importance of gun safety, having lost
The hunter was fortunate to have two sons, tall, honest and strong, now both in their twenties. He had taken both of them hunting in their youth, the youngest shooting his only deer, an 8-point buck, when he was 11.
For reasons he did not understand, his sons, as well as both of the sons of his now aging hunting companions, preferred the cartoon world of video games and other 21st century pursuits to the reality of breathing in, exploring and becoming part of the natural world as a hunter. His sons, and many others of their generation, felt no bond with the land, now being progressively subdivided, disemboweled and transformed into parking lots, shopping centers and tract homes. To them, hunting seemed more like work than fun. They would never play the role of detective, finding an old buck’s thick shed antlers and fresh rubs, locating his bed, while hoping to meet him face to face on the frost covered stage of opening day.
They would never witness the frenzy of the rut, the rapture of holding the rack of a deer of a lifetime, the crackle, hiss and pop of a hunters’ campfire, or the trading of “What did you see?” stories at the end of the day among life-long hunting companions.
The blinking message light on his cell phone yanked the hunter from his somber reverie as he pushed the button to listen.
“Hi, Dad. Just wanted to let you know we got the results of the sonogram. The doctor says we’re going to have twins, a boy and a girl. They’re due in three months. I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you next week. Love you, Dad.”
The smiling hunter paused, then reached for pen and paper. With the movement of his hand, words began to form in his mind, beginning a lesson of his own. Then, he wrote the title, “The Legacy.”
“I hope you grandkids are both right-handed,” he began.
— Attorney John Brownlee is a deer and deer hunting fanatic from King-sland, Texas.
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