Hunting

Buddy Malone is an avid hunter and he took his son Daniel on a black bear hunt near the Elk River in British Columbia, Canada for his senior hunt after graduating from UMS-Wright in 2009.  Daniel was also a baseball player for the Bulldogs and will play for the University of South Alabama Jaguars.  The bear Daniel killed was 5 foot from nose to tail.   He harvested it with a .50 caliber Thompson Center muzzleloader.  The outfitter called the bear in with a “deer fawn distress call.”  Buddy said they saw 17 different bears in 7 days and could not count the elk, moose and deer.   They also saw grizzly bear, bighorn sheep, mountain goats, wolves and a lynx.   The outfitter was Harry Luenbeurger, owner and operator of Baldy Mountain Outfitters and highly recommend him for a Canadian hunting adventure.

THE LEGACY

 

By SCOTT VERNON

Owner
Bow Hunter Pro Shop
Saraland, Alabama

 

Originally written in 2003

     Every hunting season begins with high expectations.  Maybe this will be the year I outsmart that wary whitetail—finally get the big one.  But even in the most successful seasons, as the sun sets on the last day I’m often a little relieved, somewhat disappointed, and sad all at the same time.  Explaining this mixture of feelings to someone who is not a hunter is not easy.  I don’t know if you are born with this fierce love of the sport of hunting, but I do know it can be instilled from a very early age.
     My dad was a hunting addict.  He taught me if you are going to do something, you give it 100%, and he modeled that in everything he’s ever done.  Though my father was undoubtedly one of the most successful hunters in south Alabama, something I most admire him for is the time he spent with me in the woods.  I can close my eyes today and remember what the woods looked like and how they smelled.  Rarely do I go hunting that I don’t think about something my dad taught me twenty-five or thirty years ago.
     I killed my first deer on opening day of 1972, when I was a very excited nine year-old with many years of hunting in front of me.  It was back in the days before shooting houses and green fields, before Gore-Tex boots and Thermax underwear, before 270’s and thousand-dollar scopes.  This was dog hunting at its finest.  I carried a Springfield 410 that we had bought for $75; I wore old green rubber boots with yellow strings, and strapped to my belt was a bone-handled knife that I could have cut down a tree with. I was finally grown-up enough to get to stay out of school on opening day.  I was a man now—or so I thought!

     The excitement I felt when I first saw that big nine-point still grips me, thirty years later.  I can still hear my dad behind me, telling me to take my time and shoot.  I can remember aiming and firing, smelling the smoke from the gun, and watching the deer go down.  I can remember the elation I felt and the pride in my dad’s eyes.  You would have thought he’d killed it himself.  I can remember the hugs and, of course, the ceremonial blooding of my face.  Etched in my mind is a picture that will be with me until the day I die: my hero and me on the bank of the Alabama River Cut-Off.  That cold November day my dad gave me a gift which can never be taken from me: my love for hunting and the love of God’s great outdoors.
     But the strongest memory I hold is lying beside my father in bed that night in camp.  Of him putting his big, strong arms around me, telling me how proud of me he was and saying he loved me more than anything in the world.  He’s never verbalized it, but I believe my dad realized a dream he had since the day I was born—a dream that someday he could share my first deer-hunting experience. 

     My dad gave me one more thing that day: a legacy to be passed on to my children.  I burst with pride every time I see my kids dressed in camo, riding a four-wheeler in front of me through the woods.  They have hunted with me a couple of times each year since they were two years old; but this is the first year Jessica, my twelve year-old daughter, has actually wanted to shoot a deer.  Brandon, my ten year-old, had rather ride four wheelers and climb hills in the woods than sit for hours in a shooting house, and it was almost impossible to hunt with him.  His motor-mouth never runs out of gas unless he’s asleep!

     Recently, I have begun to realize that the teachable moments that come with spending time with your children are more important than harvesting a deer.  I decided to make hunting fun for them, rather than work.  I joined a club in Selma with some great guys, hoping that both Jessica and Brandon could see some deer when they went with me, and maybe even get their first bucks.
     I let Jessica stay out of school the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.  One of the guys in the club had seen some bucks in a green field on opening day and sure enough, Jessica and I saw some does and a nice fat cow-horn.  I tried to get her to shoot one of them, but she wanted to wait for something better.  When it got dark, with deer still in the field, we got down, and I must admit I was proud of her for not taking that cow-horn.  She knew that we don’t normally shoot small bucks.

     The next afternoon we went back to the same field.  We saw a doe, but Jessica refused to shoot; we saw a spike, she refused to shoot; we saw a bobcat, and she couldn’t get a shot.  I was a nervous wreck, while she seemed to be cool as a cucumber.  About mid-afternoon a four-point buck stepped into the field from out of nowhere.  Jessica is somewhat shy and reserved, but when she saw that deer I don’t know which of us was shaking more, her or me.  Giving me a play-by-play, she told me where her crosshairs were and when he was broadside.  For over five minutes, she watched through her scope until she was convinced she had the perfect shot.  When the gun finally went off and the deer fell, I was trembling more than if I had taken the shot myself.  I was so proud that Jessica had killed her first deer, but more proud of her patience.  I suddenly understood why my dad had been so excited the day I killed my first deer, because I was now connected to Jessica in a way other than father to child.  She wasn’t just tagging along to be with Daddy anymore; she was my hunting buddy. 
     Undoubtedly feeling more pressure than he would admit, Brandon spent the next few days hunting with a single goal—not to let his big sister out-do him.  He is like me in the patience department; he has none.  It didn’t matter to him—buck or doe, big or small, he just wanted his name on the board.  We spent three days together scouting, putting up tree stands in the morning and hunting in the afternoons.  We saw plenty of deer.  The only problem was that Brandon invented new ways to miss a shot—he even missed one doe twice! He was dejected, but we found ways to laugh about it. I was able to teach him, as my dad had taught me at his age, that hunting is about being with friends and family.  It’s about the hunt and being in the outdoors, and if you harvest an animal you consider it a bonus. 
     Brandon and I hunted pretty hard for the next month, his patience growing a little more each time.  There were times when he had marginal shot opportunities, but he chose on his own not to take them, fearing wounding an animal.  Could it be that my little boy was becoming a hunter before my very eyes?
     A few days after Christmas we sat in a shooting house that my 89 year-old grandfather, still very much a hunter, had built many years ago in his backyard.  Brandon, my dad and I had re-assembled it on the edge of this field in Selma. One of the great blessings of my life is that my granddad, my dad, my son and I—four generations of Vernon’s—have several times had the opportunity to hunt together.  When we are all together on a hunt, there are over 150 years of hunting experience among us!

     As the afternoon wore on, Brandon and I saw a deer come into the field, a nice little four-point buck.  This was it!  At first Brandon didn’t think it was big enough, but the more he looked at the deer, the more excited he became, the more he shook, the more I shook, and pretty soon the whole shooting house was rattling.  Brandon raised the 243 to his shoulder and aimed.  “Daddy, my scope won’t quit moving!” I managed to contain myself, and after Brandon took a couple of deep breaths, he settled down enough to fire.  I jumped at the noise, and so did the buck.  Brandon was sure he had made a good shot.  It took me a minute to convince him that if he had, the buck wouldn’t be standing there looking at us.  But with the skill of a veteran hunter, he bolted another round in the gun, took a deep breath, aimed and squeezed the shot off.  This time the 100-grain bullet found its mark—a perfect shot at over a hundred yards. “Daddy, I got him! I just got my first buck! Yes, I did it!” He was exploding with excitement, and so was I.  We hugged, we high-fived each other, we hollered and acted like a couple of kids.  Brandon kept saying over and over, “I did it.  I finally did it!”
     As the field darkened that night I realized how my dad must have felt thirty-one years ago.  The pride, the love, the excitement, the anticipation of hunts to come, and gratitude for the chance to share in such a special event. I also realized that God had allowed me to cross that milestone in both my children’s lives in the span of exactly one month.  Jessica took her deer on November 28, and Brandon got his on December 28.  Back at the camp, after all the excitement had died down and all the phone calls had been made, I took the time to pass on another tradition.  As we lay in bed I put my arms around my kids and told them how proud of them I was, and how much I loved them.  I told them they had helped me realize a dream I’d had the first time I held each of them in my arms.
     I look forward to many more days in the woods with my two hunting buddies.  I hope I can teach them as much about hunting and life as my dad taught me.  I can never repay my dad for the time he invested in me and the sacrifices he made, but I can pass them on to my children with hopes they will pass them on to theirs.  A hundred years from now it won’t matter how many deer I killed or how big they were, and it won’t make a difference how much money I made or how big our house was.  But if I can give my children my time, teach them to live by God’s Word, show them how to be parents to their children—then I will have been successful in my life, no matter what the world deems success.
     As the sun sets on another hunting season this year, I may well be looking forward to the next one, and I’ll be a little relieved it’s over.  But there won’t be any disappointment.  This truly has been the best hunting season I have ever had because of the time I spent with two of the most important people in my life.
     If you’re a father, when you take your children hunting your “success” will go down, but the investment you make in the lives of your children will pay big dividends for years to come.  Trust me, your definition of success will change.  Take every opportunity to wrap your arms around your kids and say you’re proud of them and love them.  It will bless you more than it will bless them.