Like leaves in a sudden gust of wind, memories swirled, fluttered and sailed over the tides of time. The past, often hesitant and timid suddenly grew bold and experiences long past leaped up clear and poignant once gain. I’d unexpectedly found Dad’s, Richard L. Robertson’s, 2000 doe license in a drawer.
I remembered we were standing in the camp kitchen and just finished frying eggs and bacon, buttered the toast and were ready to eat. There are few things more delicious than bacon and eggs, not only because they go together so well, but because this tasty breakfast was the beginning of so many wonderful hunting and fishing experiences over the years.
The bare plates were quickly washed. No one wanted to come back to hardened, dirty, egg-covered dishes. The camp rule was always clean up, keep things neat and tidy. It was and is a good rule.
Once on the road we discussed where we’d hunt and how to best work together, hopefully pushing deer back and forth between us.
The telephone pole we traditionally parked beside was numbered 4570. Both Dad and I owned 45/70’s and being slightly superstitious, as all hunters are, felt it brought us a little luck to park there. We both patted the pole as we passed, grinning a little at each other. What the heck, it couldn’t hurt could it?
The next decision was where to meet for lunch? We both agreed on a shallow draw with a grove of several large hemlock trees. The hemlocks provided shelter and broke up our outlines. The snow was always shallower under their thick boughs and we’d both shot deer there in the past.
Dad always dressed rather uniquely. He’d hit several productive garage sales during the summer and therefore was well dressed in comparison to his normal appearance. Dad didn’t believe in paying big money for specialized hunting clothing simply to hunt deer no matter how warm and waterproof. He took a perverse pride in outfitting himself as cheaply as possible. His parsimony was a family joke of long standing; you never could predict what he might be wearing.
Today he was wearing used 100 percent wool dress pants over his long johns instead of worn blue jeans. Wool pants were warmer and shed snow instead of freezing solid like jeans. He’d also picked up a thick wool sweater for pennies. A blue stocking cap was pulled over his ears with a well-worn orange hat over that. A second hand jacket was covered by his ancient, tattered, hunting vest.
I’d seen worse.
His inexpensive green, steel shank boots were never warm except while walking, but, fittingly inexpensive. Dad could never qualify as a LL Bean poster child, but today he was dressed warmer than usual.
Well, comfortable except for his ever present cheap, thin, cotton gloves that is. His other clothing I could understand, but never the boots and gloves, I hated having cold hands and despised frozen feet.
We separated and I worked my way into the wind, stopping often, keeping a sharp eye open. Despite my care a doe and her fawns saw me first and snorting, bounded off. Naturally, they ran directly away from dad’s route.
Continuing on, I stayed in thicker areas and slowed even more. After half a mile a brown shape caught my attention and looking through the scope made out a doe feeding, head down. I soon discovered several other deer, but it was difficult to see if any had horns in the brush. One deer looked particularly suspicious; darker coloration, larger body and extremely alert.
I stood watching for a long time, growing slowly colder. As the deer fed I determined all of them were does except for the larger deer which never moved. Then the wind changed, a breeze fanned my neck and in less than a minute the lead doe’s head snapped up.
Though unable to see me the deer knew danger threatened and slowly began filtering away, back into even thicker cover. When the big deer finally turned I saw the flash of high horns over his head. Once again fate and the fickle wind had frustrated me.
By noon I was at the rendezvous and soon caught a flash of motion. It was dad working up the narrow stream toward me. I had a big fire blazing and he quickly saw me and walked up.
The wind had increased, the bitter air turning his face bright red and, of course, his hands were clenched in an attempt to keep warm in those cheap gloves. He sat immediately, holding those frozen fingers to the fire and gave me a spectacular grin. What was it about that grin of his that so touched me? Can I even put it in words?
First, welcome son. Then, a touch of, “What are we crazy fools doing out here in weather like this?” Third, undisguised happiness and perhaps a touch of pride I was woodsman enough to find the right spot in this flat, look alike terrain as well. But greatest in that smile I believe was simply the fact we were together doing something we loved.
The sight of his smile still remains, sharp and clear, touching tearfully the deepest recesses in my heart, as fresh as if he stood before me still, his hands before the fire.
