The Spirit of My Grandfather

I believe it was 8th period, if memory serves me correctly, on a typically uneventful day during my senior year of highschool. I was called down to the main office, met there by my father who led me out of school while explaining to me that my grandfather had passed earlier in the day. 

I remember vividly the sensation of time seeming to almost stand still as I replayed over and over again in my head what my father had just told me. The brightness of the midday sun, crunch of gravel under foot, the near neon green of the grass and the muffled sobs of my sister who accompanied my father when picking me up, are all as clear to me today as they were back then. A day seared into me. One that I surely will never forget. 

He was a pillar, my grandfather, when it comes to who I am today, the character I live by and my relentless passion for the outdoors. Countless hours we spent together, rods in hand, on rivers, lakes and ponds. Studying his meticulous mannerisms which often led to full creels followed afterward by full stomachs. Observing the care he took, by moonlight, to remove the dry leaves that lay at the base of the tree where he sat upon his trusty bucket during our last hunt together.

Not quite 100 yards from that very same tree, only several months after his passing, I experienced a moment quite similar in nature to the day he died. However, this time, the emotions were far different. The agony, emptiness and sorrow, although still very fresh at the time, were replaced by elation, spiritual fulfillment and gratitude.

Up the trail he came, head down grazing on greens, meandering toward my stand at a snails pace. Wasn't till he raised his head at about the 60 yd mark that I realized just how big he was. It was at that point that I started to shake a bit, knowing he'd be broadside at roughly 30 yards in about a minute if he kept his position and pace on the trail. 

Although it was the first day of archery season, his neck was swelled up as though the rut were at its peak. He appeared more like a cow than a deer. Field dressed, he tipped the scales at a little over 235 pounds which would put him at a live weight of nearly 300 pounds, almost unheard of for a central PA whitetail.

I grabbed my bow, an old Jennings that my father had traded an old trail bike for probably a decade earlier. I recall it having negative let-off and an old diving board rest that required use of a finger to steady the arrow during and after draw. Nonetheless, the old Jennings nearly always fired true and this day would be no different. 

I drew back and the buck stopped dead in his tracks, kill zone conveniently shielded behind a tree. My father, in his stand about 55 yds to my left, laid witness to my drawing the bow but had no vantage of what I had drawn on. He relayed to me afterward his frustration, watching as I held full draw for what I am sure seemed to him like an eternity. For me, it felt like sitting through an entire episode of Ally McBeal while getting a continuous Indian burn. Both painful in their own rights.

Finally, the buck took two steps forward from behind the tree and I let loose hitting him square above the heart clean through both lungs. He barreled like a freight train through some high brush down into a bluff about 70 yds to my right just out of eye shot. I listened earnestly till I heard the tell tale crash as he took his final breath. 

The half hour I waited, post shot, went by like a flash. I watched as my father lowered his Baker, walked over under my stand and peered up at me asking "Did you get it?". The still surging adrenaline rendered me mute as all I could do was put my hands above my head in the shape of a large rack while grinning ear to ear like an imbecile. I pointed in the direction it ran, gathered my things, got down from the tree and joined my father in gazing at the largest whitetail I have shot to date. 

I remember vividly the sensation of time seeming to almost stand still as I replayed my shot over and over in my head. The warmth of the midday sun, the burning sensation of my shoulder muscles as I held full draw awaiting my shot and finally my own muffled sobs of joy and appreciation as to this day and this I firmly believe, that it was my grandfather who pushed that buck up to me that warm day in early October not quite 100 yards from the tree he sat under upon his trusty bucket the archery season prior. 

What I had thought, right after his passing and what caused me tremendous sadness, was that we would never get to share the woods or rivers together again. What I didn't know, at that time, and what I truly love about this tradition we all share in is that each time I wet a line or sit in quiet anticipation as the forrest wakes up around me is that he is and will always be right there with me.  

Shoot straight brothers and sisters.