Savor the time you spend hunting with your family. You will never get to go back and re-live those days, and there will come a time when they are gone forever, with a finality that will stun you and break your heart, no matter how many warning signs you had.
I began hunting with Dad about thirty years ago. At first, I just walked along behind him as we went through the woods. After some years of small game hunting to whet my appetite for the pursuit and to develop my skills as a woodsman, we moved on to deer hunting together, which we continued to do for about twenty-five years.
Dad and I hunted together, period. If he went, so did I. If I went, so did he. We were hunting buddies, and that's what hunting buddies do.
Over the years, that's the way it was, even if he couldn't hot-foot it through the boonies anymore. If I went on a hog hunt and took off stomping through steamy swamps, stabbing hogs with knives and spears, Dad came on the hunt too. And while I was out there sloshing through the crud, he enjoyed flirting with the gals back at the truck.
It got to be routine that after we'd been someplace together, I'd be invited back with an addendum: "Make sure you bring your dad!" His genuine approach to life and his ready wit were appreciated by the folks with whom we hunted, and he was always right there, ready to hunt alongside us as best he could.
Sure, Dad slowed down over the years. And there were many times when he'd be the last one to leave camp in the morning. But he kept on coming along and hanging in there, and we enjoyed him being there to lighten our mood and to make us bend our thinkers with his unique approach to problems. His input was always valued.
After the 2006-2007 hunting season came to an end, things started looking up for him, as one of the first things he did was to get his eyes overhauled so he could see clearly again. He started loading ammo again, now that he could see his gun sights to shoot. But almost immediately, other issues cropped up to knock him down.
Dad just wasn't able to do things. Often, he had to lie down when he obviously wished that he could join in with the rest of us. All that he would say was that he felt crappy, and it took weeks to determine that he was experiencing severe pain "in his guts," bad enough that he could hardly stand to move sometimes. He wrote it off to an ancient hernia, but the rest of us weren't so sure... but what could we do?
After some badgering from folks who loved him, he mentioned his chronic pain to a doctor who took it seriously enough to refer him to a specialist, who recognized what was happening and got him checked out. The news was awful: Daddy had cancer.
Around that time, Dad came with us on a dove hunt. Although he didn't fire a shot, he was out there in the field on opening day. He enjoyed being at camp with us, and we enjoyed having him there, too. Sometimes I wonder if Daddy knew that was to be his last dove hunt. If he did, he never said so. He always wanted there to be a next time.
Shortly after his surgery some weeks later, which resulted in some re-plumbing of his insides but not in the removal of the cancer, we were able to bring him to camp for a muzzleloader hunt. We all enjoyed our time together in camp, and we did get him out to the woods with the new muzzleloader I'd just bought him. But then he had a chemo treatment, and started on a downhill slide that didn't look like it would ever stop.
It never did.
Near the close of that hunting season, I wrote these thoughts:
"The season is slipping away, and Dad can't hunt with us. No more do we get to enjoy his stories, jokes, wisdom, and smile. The docs seem flummoxed, as his predicted recovery from the surgery seems a waning dream in the face of his new symptoms and his inability to eat properly.
"We may get him back to the woods before he leaves us... God, I sure hope so. But I clearly see the end of an era, during which I feel certain I should have appreciated his presence in camp more than I did. To be honest, I know that I did appreciate him - and I also know that I was a jerk sometimes. Thank God I only have that jerkiness to regret... and that I know I spent all the hunting time with him that I could."
Dad did get to spend a few days at his brother's camp, the Lumpy Lodge, twice more before he just got too weak. He didn't do any hunting while there, but we did get him to the range one day so he could shoot his old 30 carbine one more time.
A few months later, Daddy died. The horror of having watched this strong hunter wither and fade was mildly offset by the peaceful way in which he passed. He left this planet with Mama on his right side and me on his left, each of us clasping one of his hands. He spoke no words, though he knew we were there and his mouth moved soundlessly, as if he wished to say goodbye. And then in the next moment, Daddy stopped hurting.
It's no secret among my friends and family that Dad and I were mighty close. We were the best of friends, forever and ever amen. And so his loss is terribly hard to take... especially as hunting season draws near. The coming season will be a trial and a test. There's no question that he would wish me to keep on hunting, nor that I wish to continue to do so. The only question is how I'm going to take hunting season without him.
Well, I will soon find out.
This sad tale was written with tear-filled eyes not to jerk at your heart strings, nor to gain your sympathy, but to encourage you to enjoy and savor what time you are blessed with. Don't take shared hunting time for granted, because nothing's free, and nothing lasts forever. And there's not much that's as precious and beautiful as time spent hunting with people you love with all your heart.
Also: If you have a father like mine, hug your daddy. Tell him you love him. Help him no matter what, without begrudging the time and effort it takes. Help him drag his deer, and let him kick back and tell how he got it while you shuck that critter out for him. And enjoy every last second of it, as best you can. Because before you know it, it's over. Done. A thing of the past. And suddenly, there is no "next season."
- Russ Chastain
