Art was one of Dad's friends, and had been for decades. Dad knew him from work, where they both plied their chosen trade of sheet metal. I originally met Art when I was thirteen years old, the first time Dad brought me to Art's hunt camp at the Ocala National Forest... which is now my home.
Dad had nothing but good things to say about Art, and I soon learned that he was correct. I began my lifelong pursuit of deer hunting in Art's camp, a boy among men who refused to belittle and treat me very much like a boy. As I write this, more than a quarter-century has passed since that time, and I've never missed a year of deer hunting in the forest where I got my start.
Through it all, Art was there. On my first day of deer hunting, which was on opening day, Art shot a buck. It was a nice one, especially for public land in Florida. Maybe that's what got me hooked, I don't know. But it definitely stirred something inside of me, something that hasn't settled down yet. A few years later, two men were there for me on the day I took my first buck in that forest: Dad and Art.
Art was one of Dad's favorite people, and vice-versa. Dad and I camped at Art's place for years and years, even long after Art had stopped hunting in Florida. His work had taken him all over the country, and he did his hunting hither and yon across North America, taking big northern whitetails, elk, caribou, and moose. We still had some good visits, and we were always good friends. When I bought Art's place and moved in, we didn't see Art as often, but the friendship still remained.
Then one day, Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. That thieving illness eventually stole the life from his body, though his spirit remained indomitable. When the end was approaching, Art composed a message to Dad, which I read to him as we sat together during one of his last days. I know Dad enjoyed and appreciated it. It was a touching tribute to the old hunter from his good friend of many years.
After Dad died following a terrible battle with cancer, many people were shattered and shaken, including yours truly. Also including Art. The grieving had begun. In time, so would the healing.
I'd better back up a little. Just as our cancer war was beginning, Dad was scheduled for a very tough surgery. They would either remove the cancer, or they would not. Even if it could be removed, life would change. A lot. I made him a deal as we waited in the tiny room where he was being prepped for surgery: All he had to do was pull through the operation, and I would buy him a new inline muzzleloading rifle.
He did, and I did. And he loved it. He carried that rifle on his next (also his last) deer hunt, two or three weeks after the surgery. But the cancer was still in him, and things just started to slide downhill and he never found the traction to climb back up.
The rifle was a Thompson/Center Omega 50-caliber muzzleloading rifle. I also mounted a good scope on it, and zeroed it for him. He liked the gun, but he and I both disliked the owner's manual, which was obviously composed by lawyers and other folks who thought they knew more than they actually did. Dad spent some time leafing through the manual, flagging the BS portions. But he had his new gun, and he loved it. He never did shoot it, which may make it the only gun he owned which he never fired.
After Dad passed, that rifle just sort of sat around. I wasn't ready to sell it, but I wasn't going to hunt with it. I prefer my Savage 10ML-II muzzleloader, and hunting with the T/C just didn't feel right... meaning that whenever I looked at it, my memories included as much bad as good, and I knew I didn't want to keep it. But still, I wasn't ready to sell it off.
Well, our friend Art had gotten interested in Florida hunting again, after he joined a local hunting club. And although he had recently bought a new muzzleloader, he'd also taken a notion to own a gun that had belonged to Dad. This was quickly arranged, on the Thursday before muzzleloader season, which was to start on Saturday. That Thursday happened to be the one-year anniversary of the day I zeroed the rifle for Dad.
On Friday, Art took the gun to the range and zeroed it with just a few shots, although Dad had removed the scope and Art had re-installed it. Come Saturday, Art went to the woods and sat in a stand he had never hunted, on a hunch. While there, he said a prayer and had a quiet conversation with Dad. Goosebumps covered his body, and he felt without doubt that Dad was right there with him.
Yep, Dad always did enjoy hunting with his friends.
A few minutes later, two does walked by. A few minutes after that, a buck followed them. The woods were thick, and there were only five openings through which Art might get a shot. The deer made it past the first four of them, but five turned out to be that buck's unlucky number.
Art dropped the seven-point buck with a single well-placed shot, not much more than an hour after dawn on the first hunt of the first day of the season, the first time he ever set foot in the woods with Dad's rifle. It was the first time that rifle had ever been fired in the woods. And it was Art's first Florida whitetail since those many years before, when he killed that eight-point buck on my first day of deer hunting.
You'd be hard-pressed to find a better way to honor Dad's memory.
The grief was far from over, but the healing had surely begun. And it had happened with a rifle, in the woods, on a deer hunt. And more than most things, Dad loved rifles, the woods, and deer hunting.
It's nice to know Dad's still with us when we head to the woods. Things can get awful lonesome without him.
- Russ Chastain
