The first week of October was finally here.  The first three days were spent in my favorite stand watching 3 raccoons in which I had named Larry, Curly, and Moe.  The mother raccoon was slightly bigger than the two younger ones, and seemed curious to every movement surrounding them.  The days here in eastern Oklahoma in October were still in the 80’s with mosquitoes buzzing everywhere.  I was wondering if it were still to hot to hunt and questioned myself again over and over.  Each day so far, I had hunted morning and evening with only a few does showing up.

Our family is one of three families (all related) that live on the mountain with about 360 acres of land owned by our families.  Each year we hunt, we always establish the rules.  {8 Point or better for the husbands} {Wives and kids, buck or doe} Now last year I hunted all year and didn’t harvest one deer, but I had seen enough antlers to keep me excited.  Every time Bill and Grover, my brother in-laws, sure let me know how I got spanked on last years hunt.  Both are avid rifle hunters and tagged out the year I brought home nothing.  I was thinking about this already early in this season while elevated about 18 feet up in my climber.  I wondered, as every other hunter does, will this be my year.  As I looked down from my stand at the raccoons again on the 4^th morning of October 2007, I was once again thinking of how pretty they were and how every day I am in the woods, I look for the highlight of the day.  Whether this was the highlight of the day again, or was an owl going to sit on the limb next to me, a squirrel sitting on my boot, quail leaving a fast trail for a coyote, bobcats on the prowl, turkeys rustling, what was going to be the highlight?

Then, I saw movement directly in front of me.  I was a deer for sure, and no does were present yet.  I had placed my stand in what my wife calls the quiet spot.  High cedars with no brush, not to thick, but perfect for a good bow shot.  A well used doe trail to my right, and another trail coming in from the left, thicker trees to my front.  I could see about 40 yards around me with a creek bed behind me on a down hill gentle slope. The deer in front of me wasn’t spooked or aware of my presence as it slowly made its way directly toward me.  Sun to my back and the breeze in my face, finally, I could see him completely.  “Very nice buck” I was thinking.  As he moved closer and closer, I could count 4 on one side and 4 on the other.  Not sure if I wanted to take the shot just yet, I moved into position just in case.  Standing now and ready to draw, I used the bow as if I was hiding behind its small limbs.  The buck was much bigger than I originally thought the closer he moved to my stand.  20 yards and still coming, 10 yards and still coming.  He stopped, head concealed by a large cedar tree.  I came to full draw and picked my shooting lane.  As if knowing I was now ready to shoot, the 8 point stepped from behind the cedar and moved closer, directly into my shooting lane.  7 yards, I picked my hairs on the buck, just behind the shoulder and quartering down.  I could sense the raccoons to my right and felt a sense of calm, took a large breath, let it out half way, became steady as a rock and released.

The “quiet spot” deer. High 8 point, big body.

{‘Wham”}  I dropped him in his tracks.  I intended to penetrate spine, heart, and lung if possible for a deadly and swift kill.  My broadhead did exactly that.  I stood for a moment and watched the buck lie still and quiet.  Larry, Curly, and Moe were nowhere to be seen.  I called my wife using my cell phone and quietly whispered I had a good buck down, her response to me was “why are we whispering”.  Laughing a little I said, I am in the quiet spot.

After checking the buck in and heading to the processors, I continued to hunt the evening in another stand.  Each day I hunted, I elected to use my climber instead of pre-placed stands used each year.  October the 7^th, 3 days after my first buck of the year, my 14 year old son was ready for action.  This would be his first year bow hunting, and he practiced every day for the last two months.  He was actually quite good shooting the pillow target and 3D’s, in which I was very proud.  Sunday after church, he would be in the woods with me for the evening hunt.  Everything seemed to go wrong.  I found out he was afraid of heights the hard way, but patiently, I assisted him into a lock-on stand with steps, explained the safety belt, strapped him in and climbed down.  I hooked his bow on the bow string and up and away the bow went.  While the bow was being pulled up by my son, I was watching all around me, trying to quiet down the woods, when {Wham}!!!!  My right hand was numb.  I looked at my hand and there was a deep cut to the bone on the top.  My son had almost had the bow in his stand when the bow string slipped.  The bow caught me square across my hand.  Seriously nervous and seeing the blood, my son asked if I was alright and maybe we should just go home and get the hand took care of.  He said he was so sorry and it just slipped, and…………  I assured my son everything was fine, helped him get the bow up the stand, and assured him he was ready to hunt.  “Don’t worry about me son, you just keep your eyes out for the big one.  I will be about 100 yards straight across the creek.”  I pointed with my other hand where I would be, wished him good luck, then started walking away from his stand. After crossing the creek and out of sight from Chase, I stopped and looked at the top of my right hand.  I was hurt pretty good, and I still couldn’t make a fist yet.

Not wanting to leave the woods with my son still in a stand, I elected to set up on a trail I knew of and wait it out.  I pulled off the climber from my shoulder and worried a little about if I could even use the stand to climb or not.  After setting up the stand at the bottom of the tree I picked out, we were going to find out if I could climb with one hand.  It actually wasn’t that bad.  Up the tree I went, got situated, smiled a little at how stupid I was to stand directly under my sons stand when he was raising his bow then shrugged it off as “my stupidity, my fault.” Now situated and seated in my stand, I wondered if I could even draw my bow back with the bum hand.  So, I stood up quietly, drew the bow and wow, man did that hurt.  I sat back down and thought once again, I hope a big buck goes by my son instead of me this evening.  Not real sure I could even draw again.

45 minutes later, about 6:05pm, I caught movement from over my right shoulder.  Yep, you guessed it.  It was a buck, but a very small buck.  Knowing that early in this season the bucks were still traveling together, I stood, turned and prepared.  Sure enough, 5 yards behind the 4 point, was a small basket 8 point.  Immediately I decided not to shoot this small 8.  To my surprise, directly on his heals was a really nice 8 point.  Now I was getting excited.  By the way, the first buck in front had walked directly under my stand and was now in front of my stand.  I drew slowly, aimed center mass of the shooting lane in a gap in the brush.  The small 8 point buck walked through the gap, and then “There he was”,  A fine 8 point standing in the gap.  Once again, I picked my area of hair behind the shoulder, quartered down, controlled the breathing, paused, and slowly squeezed the trigger release.

“There he was”, A fine 8 point standing in the gap

{Wham} I dropped him in his tracks.  I intended to penetrate spine, heart, and lung if possible again and sure enough, the broadhead did the work.  Can you believe this, 6 yards, another nice buck on the ground, just laying there.  I stood in amazement, I was shocked.  This was a really nice buck, pretty wide and may score as well.  The odd thing about this was, “dropped in his tracks.”  The very thing every hunter hopes for is to find the deer, or even better a swift and clean kill.  Well, not only did I find the deer three or four days ago, I found this one too.  I was like a dream.  Two 8 point bucks, both bow kills, both in the same week, both dropped in their tracks. I realized after a brief moment of silence, that my hand did not hurt anymore, and to make things even better, my son was on this hunt with me only 100 yards away. The two bucks that were in front of this one, there would be a good chance Chase saw them or even may get a shot.  But what will always cross my mind is how big was the buck that was still coming in from behind the buck I harvested.  I saw him jump when I released.  I climbed down and walked to Chases stand, walked cautiously up to the side of him and told him we had a good buck down.  Excited, he said he saw two bucks running and asked how big my buck was.  I told him, “well, I don’t know really, maybe you should help me track him”.  Chase was so excited when he walked up to my tree, buck in plain site.  “Man, I’m gonna get me a buck like that” I went to retrieve the 4-wheeler, we loaded the deer and headed to the house.  I was kind of in a hurry as the darkness was starting to set in, and I still needed to check this buck in too.  Arriving at our home on the mountain, my father stepped out on the deck and observed our approach.  My father had just come in from out of town that day to visit us for a week, so that was kind of cool him seeing me bring in another deer.  He was a big deer hunter with hunting skills that I always admired.

As far as the wife goes, she was so excited.  Not so much that I had gotten a nice buck, but that I had gotten two nice bucks with a bow in the first week of hunting season.  She rubbed it in real good to her two brothers whom still hadn’t harvested anything.  The next morning, as I watched the brother in laws roll out to the woods to deer hunt, I told them the same thing I always told them.  “Good luck and I hope you get a big one” Every bit of this is true, and I honestly believe this will be hard for me to beat next year.  After all, now my season just went from deer season, to “dear” season.  Being tagged out in the first week of bow season is a sure sign that honey-do’s will be a major part of the rest of my season.

I can hear their whispers wherever I go. “Control your breathing, concentrate on the blade, and squeeze.” “Feel your way along with your toes instead of watching your feet.” “Work your way down through that black-growth and you’ll find ‘em in that stand of beech.” So persistent are they that I sympathize with a schizophrenic who feels as if he’s never alone. Unlike him, my voices are not a psychotic delusion created by chemical imbalances crying out for the saving grace of lithium. Real men spoke those words and no amount of time or distance will ever silence them. They are my last connection to a past that I crave but know I’ll never see. They define the man who hears them. And I pray they shape the lives of my sons.

When I close my eyes and listen to their whispers I return to my youth and, in some ways, to times that I never lived. I can still feel my father’s warm breath on my ear as I concentrated on the front blade of the Model 94’s sights, silently asking a god yet known to help me prove I was ready to join the hunt. I can see the gentle face of my grandfather as he admonished me for being so preoccupied with the obstacles in my path that I never saw the animal in front of me. I can feel the weight of my great-grandfather’s right hand on my shoulder as the old mystic described where he knew the deer would be feeding on beechnuts. And if I let my mind misbehave, I see their fathers and grandfathers passing on the same lessons of how to live off the land.

All three of them were hard men, descendants themselves from a long line of hard men. Hundreds of years in the mountains of northern Maine proved Darwin right on some level; only the strong will survive. Their rough exteriors hid a gentle spirit that I have not seen since I chose to leave the Wabanaki nearly two decades ago. Faces darkened by the sun and chiseled by the wind offered smiles or thoughtful expressions and rarely scowled at my clumsiness. Hands calloused by decades felling timber were quick to embrace me or pat me on the back. In all my years with them I never heard a curse pass their lips, nor did I ever hear the words “I love you.” The absence of that sentimental phrase never created a doubt in my mind. Their actions and whispered instructions reverberated much more than those syllables ever could.

Today the world is full of self-professed sensitive men that care for so many causes yet are guilty of so many trespasses. The headlines and social dilemmas created by the supposed sophisticated modern man perplex me. Once, not so long ago, I knew three men who were superior in every way. They demonstrated it in how they survived and provided for their families. The hunt, like everything else in their lives, was a necessary vocation and not some mere recreational activity. They felt no joy in killing but the survival of their own outweighed the animal’s sacrifice. The meat loosened the purse strings a little. Muskrat hides and beaver pelts ensured the family had presents under the tree. Reliance on the land created a spiritual connection between the hunter and the hunted. Father, after downing the biggest buck of his life, patted the deer on the neck, apologized, and then shed one of only two tears I’ve ever witnessed on his cheek. These hard men, in their quests for survival, formed a brotherhood that I admire and long for.

Fifteen years ago I became a father, and therefore a likely candidate for the office of grandfather and great-grandfather. I want my sons, and their sons, to share the bonds that I experienced and to understand theirs is a lineage of survivors. My greatest fear is they will grow up to be modern men who vocalize convictions but never take a stand; men who will not provide for their families or value the land they walk on. I want them to be hard men, like the gentle giants that guided me more than a decade ago. But now I’m without those guides that led me into the evergreen forests of Passadumkeag Mountain as a boy and helped me safely emerge as a man. Great-grandfather was eaten alive by a cancer before my journey was over. Grandfather’s body succumbed to years of providing for his family and arthritis now keeps him inside on cold days. Father can still walk, but a drunk driver ended most of his hunts by ruining his right arm. During my early days of fatherhood I wandered aimlessly, lost and confused in a foreign land. I didn’t know how to connect with my boys, how to teach them all of life’s lessons passed down through generations. Then I listened to those whispered voices and realized three hard men taught me how to live when they showed me how to kill.

I suddenly understood that those long struggles in thigh-deep snow with 50 pounds of traps on my back had defined my spirit more than any school or job or friendship. Because of those hard men I had grown into a survivor in my own right. They showed me that the right course in life often proved the hardest, which only made the rewards in the end taste even sweeter. When they filled my packbasket with a man’s load and ignored my boyish whines they taught me how to carry my fair share. As my skills grew they forced me to make decisions for the group, and in doing so made me a leader. The more I reflected on those times the more I realized exactly what I had learned. The cold dark and rainy night spent alone guarding our equipment from thieves showed me how to conquer fear. Self reliance came when they made me run my own trap line, where my many mistakes could have meant death in the cold waters of Bowers Brook or the alder thickets atop Vinegar Hill. Confrontations with lesser men that used the land like a whore made me stand up for what I held sacred.

I am not a hard man like my three forefathers. I spend most of my time behind a desk where I feel their whispers on the back of my neck. Jack London’s “Call of the Wild” pulls at my soul as I recognize a piece of me in Buck. I don’t belong here, but I must stay. Survival, for me, has taken on a new form. To care for my family I must continue with the detestable and mundane course I’ve set for myself. That too I learned from them. Far removed from my ancestral home the other lessons of survival learned on the hunt have sustained me. When rifle fire and mortar rounds pounded the Bosnian forest around me I controlled my fear. Hard work, paling in comparison to the load of traps that made my lungs burn years ago, earned me awards and respect. I am not a hard man, but I share traits of those three hard men. I want my boys to become even better men, able to survive in a changing world. To prepare them for life I turned to my roots where I’ve found so many answers.

Last year, Robert, my oldest, took his first steps on his own journey into manhood. It was just he and I, but we were not alone. When he made mistakes the words I spoke were first whispered in my ear by my father 25 years ago. And I’ve come to understand that those words came in turn from grandfather, and great-grandfather, and other hard men before them that I only know through stories. Because of their convictions, and hard work, and love, I now know how to be a father on my own. When Robert pulled the trigger for the first time they were there when his triumphant shout echoed through the valley. And they were no doubt there when he sheepishly wiped a tear from his cheek as he realized that the price of our survival was that beautiful animal’s life. When I remember that hunt my overindulgent mind can see three hard men standing off to one side. They each have a knowing smile on their face, content that the cycle of life is rolling along and that they are still providing for their families.