The Promise of Tomorrow

When speaking to a young man of 14, one must choose his words wisely. Phrases like “We’ll try to go hunting this weekend” or “Let’s see if we can plan a day to hunt” are generally heard as promises. And promises to a young man, if broken, lead inevitably to shattered hope. Nothing is more heart-wrenching than throwing water on the fire of youthful enthusiasm.

When I told Ben that I would try to work my schedule to accommodate Youth Deer Weekend at camp, his tender heart heard “We’re going deer hunting this weekend!” I knew that my wife and I were obligated to attend a wedding that Saturday afternoon. Sunday was free, but with a late night of wedding partying Saturday night, Sunday would be difficult. So it was planned. Friday afternoon I would get out of work early and we would head up the class IV logging road to camp. The road to camp is a precarious one, designed to “keep out the riff-raff.” Our trucks roll over pumpkin-bashing rocks like a determined turtle.

Arriving at camp, we execute the opening duties like soldiers. Propane turned on, lamps lit, water heater fired up, stove pilots lights on, wood stove primed with birch bark kindling and stacked neatly in a cross hatch pattern with dry rock maple topped off with hot-burning hardack.

We watch the late autumn sun set from the deck. The trees are barren of leaves. The temperature in the mountains drops precipitously as the creek gurgles an aquatic lullaby.

Soon we are back in the one room camp enjoying the warmth of the fire. We run a checklist of necessities for the morning and wipe our guns down one last time, as if honoring our weapons, believing that they will shoot straighter tomorrow morning if given loving attention. I fall asleep in the recliner, feet in front of the stove.

When I awaken, Ben is already in his bunk. I throw another hardack log on the fire and shuffle across the green plywood floor to my bunk with the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I fall quickly into a state of unconscious nirvana.

My Bed

I sleep better here in this rustic camp than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Perhaps it’s the mountain air, or the gurgling stream outside the door, maybe it’s the wind whistling over the ridgepole, or the old green door with the crack in the middle. I‘m not sure really what it is about this place that brings such deep serenity to my soul, but suffice it to say that, above all other places I’ve been, it ranks as my sanctum sanctorum. My soul rests peacefully in the old cabin.

When the alarm rings, we both awaken, groaning at the morning that seems to have come too soon. We quickly realize that this morning there is reason to rejoice. We are going deer hunting.

After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oatmeal and slab bacon, french roast coffee and orange juice, we head out into the inky blackness.

The wind has stilled and the leaves are crunchy. We hike down the ravine and cross the trickling creek where a bear has eviscerated a tree trunk to expose tasty termites. Arriving at our chosen stand, we position ourselves at the base of an old beech tree. Our hopes are high.

We wait. A chickadee greets us at sunrise and sings a cheerful melody, leaving us both smiling. Time passes. Ben fidgets. I tell him to pay attention. There are a couple of gray squirrels making a racket down the hill to our left. A crow sounds his cacophonous alarm. “Keep your eyes peeled” I tell him. “There’s a reason for all that commotion.”

We can hear leaves rustling in the distance. They are the rhythmic footsteps of a quadruped, unlike the playful leaping of the gray squirrel. If you listen closely it is possible to discern the difference. “Get your gun up, buddy” I tell Ben.

Ben raises his .223 to rest on his right knee and pushes his cheek into the walnut stock. A full-bellied doe saunters up the path acting annoyed and looking back over her shoulder. “Let her walk” I whisper. “Why? Why don’t we just take what we have in front of us?” he replies.  Youthful enthusiasm reigns again but is met by my quick retort, “There’s a reason she’s annoyed. Just be patient”

Moments later a 6 point buck ambles into the clearing, head down. His head suddenly snaps up thrusting his nose into the air currents swirling around us. He is drawing deep breaths. He never takes his eyes off the doe 80 yards in front of him. The buck is pre-occupied with the scent of love. “Get ready Ben!” I say under my breath. The buck is now 50 yards in front of us.

Ben levels his grandfather’s rifle equipped with a 3-9x scope. “You’re gonna’ have to use the sights. He’s too close for the scope” I proffer. “When he steps out from behind that tree make sure that you’re on his vitals and don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you can hit him. Do you think you can take him cleanly?” Ben answers “I can. I promise.”

The rutting buck stops broadside to us, presenting himself for the shot. It is a moment like many in the annals of outdoor traditions. We are frozen in time. A boys’ first intimate encounter with a deer. A buck at that. Hearts pound and our breath is measured by the weight of the moment. This is what the Great Spirit promises us. The deep connection to an animal when we have the right to take a life and know that it is a part of our primal nature. You can get no closer to the soul of a deer than what we are experiencing right now.

Ben squints his left eye and slowly adds pressure to the trigger. The .223 barks and the big whitetail leaps forward and bounds down the hillside.

“Did I hit him?” Ben asks. “Do you think you did?” I ask.

“I don’t see how the heck I could miss something that close” Ben exclaims.

We walk quickly to the sight of the tracks where the buck dug in his powerful haunches before launching into his first bounding leap. “Any blood?” Ben asks. “I don’t see any do you?...look here’s a piece of hair!” Looks like there’s a small piece of hide attached to it….but no blood.” I say. “Looks like you might have grazed him.”

“I don’t get it! How could I miss something that close?” Ben says. His right eye is watery.

“It’s Okay Buddy. Sometimes our purpose is to just be there. Sometimes we bring home an animal and other times, we bring home a memory. You’ve just been blessed by a beautiful animal whose time is yet to come.…. That’s how it works. Did I ever tell you about my first buck? A 10 pointer that walked within 30’ of me?” I ask. “No. What happened?” Ben asks.  “I emptied my 30-30 on him and he walked away. It’s one of my favorite memories of my childhood hunts” “Buck fever?” asks Ben. “Yep” I reply. “We all get one pass, and today was his.”

We walk silently back to camp. When we arrive on the deck, Ben breaks the silence, “Can we come back tomorrow?” I inhale deeply and say “I guess so.” Ben jumps at the chance. “Promise?”

When speaking to a young man of 14, one must choose his words wisely. Phrases like “We’ll try to go hunting this weekend” or “Let’s see if we can plan a day to hunt” are generally heard as promises. And promises to a young man, if broken, lead inevitably to shattered hope. Nothing is more heart-wrenching than throwing water on the fire of youthful enthusiasm.

When I told Ben that I would try to work my schedule to accommodate Youth Deer Weekend at camp, his tender heart heard “We’re going deer hunting this weekend!” I knew that my wife and I were obligated to attend a wedding that Saturday afternoon. Sunday was free, but with a late night of wedding partying Saturday night, Sunday would be difficult. So it was planned. Friday afternoon I would get out of work early and we would head up the class IV logging road to camp. The road to camp is a precarious one, designed to “keep out the riff-raff.” Our trucks roll over pumpkin-bashing rocks like a determined turtle.

Arriving at camp, we execute the opening duties like soldiers. Propane turned on, lamps lit, water heater fired up, stove pilots lights on, wood stove primed with birch bark kindling and stacked neatly in a cross hatch pattern with dry rock maple topped off with hot-burning hardack.

We watch the late autumn sun set from the deck. The trees are barren of leaves. The temperature in the mountains drops precipitously as the creek gurgles an aquatic lullaby.

Soon we are back in the one room camp enjoying the warmth of the fire. We run a checklist of necessities for the morning and wipe our guns down one last time, as if honoring our weapons, believing that they will shoot straighter tomorrow morning if given loving attention. I fall asleep in the recliner, feet in front of the stove.

When I awaken, Ben is already in his bunk. I throw another hardack log on the fire and shuffle across the green plywood floor to my bunk with the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I fall quickly into a state of unconscious nirvana.

I sleep better here in this rustic camp than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Perhaps it’s the mountain air, or the gurgling stream outside the door, maybe it’s the wind whistling over the ridgepole, or the old green door with the crack in the middle. I‘m not sure really what it is about this place that brings such deep serenity to my soul, but suffice it to say that, above all other places I’ve been, it ranks as my sanctum sanctorum. My soul rests peacefully in the old cabin.

When the alarm rings, we both awaken, groaning at the morning that seems to have come too soon. We quickly realize that this morning there is reason to rejoice. We are going deer hunting.

After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oatmeal and slab bacon, french roast coffee and orange juice, we head out into the inky blackness.

The wind has stilled and the leaves are crunchy. We hike down the ravine and cross the trickling creek where a bear has eviscerated a tree trunk to expose tasty termites. Arriving at our chosen stand, we position ourselves at the base of an old beech tree. Our hopes are high.

We wait. A chickadee greets us at sunrise and sings a cheerful melody, leaving us both smiling.

Time passes. Ben fidgets. I tell him to pay attention.

There are a couple of gray squirrels making a racket down the hill to our left. A crow sounds his cacophonous alarm. “Keep your eyes peeled” I tell him. “There’s a reason for all that commotion.”

We can hear leaves rustling in the distance. They are the rhythmic footsteps of a quadruped, unlike the playful leaping of the gray squirrel. If you listen closely it is possible to discern the difference. “Get your gun up, buddy” I tell Ben.

Ben raises his .223 to rest on his right knee and pushes his cheek into the walnut stock. A full-bellied doe saunters up the path acting annoyed and looking back over her shoulder. “Let her walk” I whisper. “Why? Why don’t we just take what we have in front of us?” he replies.  Youthful enthusiasm reigns again but is met by my quick retort, “There’s a reason she’s annoyed. Just be patient”

Moments later a 6 point buck ambles into the clearing, head down. His head suddenly snaps up thrusting his nose into the air currents swirling around us. He is drawing deep breaths. He never takes his eyes off the doe 80 yards in front of him. The buck is pre-occupied with the scent of love. “Get ready Ben!” I say under my breath. The buck is now 50 yards in front of us.

Ben levels his grandfather’s rifle equipped with a 3-9x scope. “You’re gonna’ have to use the sights. He’s too close for the scope” I proffer. “When he steps out from behind that tree make sure that you’re on his vitals and don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you can hit him. Do you think you can take him cleanly?” Ben answers “I can. I promise.”

The rutting buck stops broadside to us, presenting himself for the shot. It is a moment like many in the annals of outdoor traditions. We are frozen in time. A boys’ first intimate encounter with a deer. A buck at that. Hearts pound and our breath is measured by the weight of the moment. This is what the Great Spirit promises us. The deep connection to an animal when we have the right to take a life and know that it is a part of our primal nature. You can get no closer to the soul of a deer than what we are experiencing right now.

Ben squints his left eye and slowly adds pressure to the trigger. The .223 barks and the big whitetail leaps forward and bounds down the hillside.

“Did I hit him?” Ben asks. “Do you think you did?” I ask.

“I don’t see how the heck I could miss something that close” Ben exclaims.

We walk quickly to the sight of the tracks where the buck dug in his powerful haunches before launching into his first bounding leap. “Any blood?” Ben asks. “I don’t see any do you?...look here’s a piece of hair!” Looks like there’s a small piece of hide attached to it….but no blood.” I say. “Looks like you might have grazed him.”

“I don’t get it! How could I miss something that close?” Ben says. His right eye is watery.

“It’s Okay Buddy. Sometimes our purpose is to just be there. Sometimes we bring home an animal and other times, we bring home a memory. You’ve just been blessed by a beautiful animal whose time is yet to come.…. That’s how it works. Did I ever tell you about my first buck? A 10 pointer that walked within 30’ of me?” I ask. “No. What happened?” Ben asks.  “I emptied my 30-30 on him and he walked away. It’s one of my favorite memories of my childhood hunts” “Buck fever?” asks Ben. “Yep” I reply. “We all get one pass, and today was his.”

We walk silently back to camp. When we arrive on the deck, Ben breaks the silence, “Can we come back tomorrow?” I inhale deeply and say “I guess so.” Ben jumps at the chance. “Promise?”