Hunting the right thing

Those who read this are usually used to my charm and quick wit. Today however, I was struck by a different thought. On Saturday, like I have for some 25 years, I entered the dark woods, in search of deer. The morning was a bust, but the afternoon brought a fine 8-point whitetail, which was felled with one bullet. This was great, but I had the thought this year, that this wasn't the reason we were there.
We hunt because that is what we were taught. We hunt to spend that short time together in crummy weather. We hunt to ridicule and mock each other. We hunt because that is what the generations before have done. The deer take a backseat to the people around us. I found myself spending more time thinking about those who would have loved that day, long ago, then thinking of the deer.
There were family members, that I had never met. I listened to my Grandma tell stories of people coming in mass, to be together and tell their half truths and tales, over bad coffee and card tables. I missed those people who should have been there for one more hunt. I found myself enjoying the smell of musty oranges suits and the taste of year old candy found in the pocket. I thought of the thousands of times, I had told Tony he couldn't shoot. I wondered how many times I had kidded my Dad about sleeping in his stand. How many times had we sat there and not seen anything, and yet been perfectly content.
It was about then on that blustery day, I had that moment. We didn't do this every year to hunt the deer. We had come to hunt those memories. I was happy to hunt one more time along side Dad Powell and Pa. Those people who would have enjoyed the ridiculous moments, of ridiculous behavior. I spent hours this weekend, listening in my mind to my grandfather tell his stories, in my head, again and again. It was good thing I had listened over and over. As I told stories to my brother-in-law, who was taking it all in for the first time, I heard myself say, too many times to count, " Mr. Powell...", or " Pa...". I missed them for that, but knew they were enjoying our hunt too.
My hope is to someday have sons who enjoy this season with me. I am sure in the not to distant future, my brother, the brothers Powell, and myself, will be the old men. Cranky, trying to make that last trip to the toilet before we leave. Hopefully, there will be some sons leading the way. If not, we will go quietly out together for one more party. Again and again, we will lie about shots made, deer weight, and terrible weather. And we will remember why we are there. Because this is what we were taught. This is what we do. The people we grew up knowing were the hunting gods, did this very thing. We did learn what they said. We follow proudly in their footsteps. Its too bad that more people don't know the secret we know. We hunt memories. The deer are just a bonus.

Many thanks to those who show us the way and the ones still doing the guiding from a better place. My hunt is always better with my Dad. He'll tell you I shoot pretty well. Ron Powell and Pa are still out in the blind telling tall tales and shooting straight. May their hunt be filled with crazy big bucks and snow filled mornings.

ps. Tony shoots pretty good. Never gonna say it again.