The old man and 'Lil Man'
"Yeah, he's out there alright."
The old man grunted as he sat down.
"He's laying low in those pines, but he's out there. Soon as this rain let's up, he'll be ready."
Raindrops slid down the window as the boy sat on the sill, nose almost touching the glass. A slight fog stained the window as the boy breathed. He started intently through the rain at the pine grove just beyond the clearing.
The coffeepot began to whistle. "Coffee's ready," the old man said to no one in particular, getting up to pour himself a cup. It was JFG, of course. The old man never drank anything but JFG coffee. "Keeps the gray hairs away," he always said. Perhaps there was something to that. In his 78th year, his head was only slightly peppered with gray hairs.
"Yeah, he's out there alright," the old man repeated dreamily as he shuffled to the stove for the coffee. "I'd wager a nickel to a dollar that he'd go at least 170 this year. Biggest buck I ever seen, no doubt."
It was a grandfather/grandson tradition. The two had made their way to this old hunting cabin on top of the mountain for four straight years. At 12-years-old, the boy had killed a couple of deer but nothing big. Still, as is the case with every boy his age, every deer was a braggin' deer, and the boy was rightfully proud of the ones he had bagged.
The boy's grandfather had taught him everything he knew about hunting. From scouting to sitting in the truck at a field's edge and observing deer in the preseason to directing the boy on the stand on early morning hunts. "Fly your arrow straight, Little Man," the old man would whisper when a "shooter" approached their stand.
For the past few years, the old man had promised the boy that the kid would get himself a wallhanger. The man had put nine on the wall himself, and dreamed of seeing his grandson bag a trophy buck before their hunting days together were done.
During those same years, the old man had been watching a beautiful buck - a Boone & Crockett if he'd ever seen one - ease in and around the pine grove behind the cabin. Six times he had seen him over three years. The first year, the buck was a nice, wide six-point and the man knew that this one would grow into something special. By the third year, the buck was 13 points of typical mass, quite the largest buck that he had ever seen. He had almost let an arrow fly the last time he was up here last year but at the last minute decided to hold out and let Little Man have a shot at him next year.
He had smiled wistfully on that November day, as he watched the biggest buck he'd ever let walk - the buck he'd always dreamed of killing - saunter slowly out of sight. But he knew that next year he would be able to put his grandson in this same stand. And maybe, just maybe, his grandson would be able to bag a true trophy. And that would make it all worthwhile.
"Grampa, do you think he knows we're here?" asked the boy as he continued to stare at the pine grove, just a few hundred yards from the cabin.
"Yes sir, he knows, alright," the old man said. He held the mug in front of him, steam rising in front of his face, as he stared thoughtfully at the cabin wall. "This is his territory here. I'd bet he pays real close attention to everything that goes in and out. If it is a smaller buck, he'll just take care of business. If it's a human, he'll just sit right there and quietly wait for us to make the next move. He's out there now, lying underneath the boughs of one of those white pines in the dry. He can probably see the smoke rising from the chimney from where he's at right now. He's waiting on us to make the next move."
The boy turned back to the rain-smeared window. Then, looking puzzled, glanced back at the old man. "If he knows where we are now and is waiting for us to make the next move, how are we gonna get him?" he asked.
"Well, Little Man, we're gonna outsmart him," chuckled the old man. "Yessir, we're going to fool the ol' boy." He took a drink from the worn mug before continuing. "A buck like that isn't just any buck. He's lived this long by being smart and by outsmarting hunters just like you and me. But I happen to know where the trail lies that he uses to travel through those pines yonder. If we can slip out there and keep quiet and still, and keep the arrow straight, I believe we'll have a shot at him."
The raindrops were slowing and the boy could see some light in the western sky as he pondered if it would really be as easy as the old man said. Getting a buck like that was bound to be tough. But, then, if there was anyone who could outsmart a buck at his own game, it was his grandpa.
"Have you seen him, grampa?" the boy asked.
"Oh yes, I've seen him several times. I've seen his sign more times than I've seen him of course, but I've seen him a few times."
"Why didn't you shoot?"
The old man shifted his gaze to the window, a dreamy look on his face, perhaps as he thought back to that November day the previous fall, when the buck had stood broadside at just 25 paces.
"Well," said the old man after a moment. "I guess he just never got close enough."
Both the boy and his grandpa knew that this would likely be the last hunting season the old man would spend at the cabin. Diagnosed with Alzheimers in the spring, doctors had expected his condition to start worsening any day. Already, he sometimes had difficulty remembering important dates, like birthdays and anniversaries or doctors appointments. One time he had gone to the grocery store and couldn't find his way back home. But he hadn't forgotten the best tricks of deer hunting. He sure hadn't forgotten that.
The boy thought about his grandpa's condition. He didn't know a lot about it, other than what he had learned in his fifth grade health class. The teacher said that a person's brain lost its ability to function and that they eventually wouldn't be able to take care of themselves or recognize anyone around them. The doctor said that his grandpa's condition was beginning to advance. To look at him, you couldn't see any signs of health problems.
The boy thought back to his first deer hunt with the old man. He had been eight years old that year and he had thoroughly scouted the area around the cabin with his grandpa. There had been no illness back then, and the two had talked anxiously for hours about the upcoming hunt. When it came to hunting, the old man was as excited and impatient as a kid. They had hunted for four hours that morning while only seeing a couple of does. After sitting in the truck and listening to John Ward call the Tennessee vs. Alabama football game on the AM radio while eating dinner, they had returned to the woods for the evening. As luck would have it, they had both scored that evening; the boy got a forkhorn and the old man had shot a six-point. "Keep your arrow straight, Little Man," the old man had whispered as the buck walked slowly into view. Shortly after those words, the six-point had walked into the clearing behind the four-point. The old man told the boy to shoot when he was ready, while slowly pulling back the string on his own bow. Just as the boy let his arrow fly, the old man shot. Both arrows were true to their mark, and both had been all grins as they had walked from the woods on that October evening.
"Looks like the rain is letting up," the old man said, jerking the boy's attention back to the present. "Guess it's time to go after him."
The boy didn't need to be told twice. Any opportunity to get in the stand was a welcomed one, and this one was especially so. Though the boy had never seen the buck they were hunting this day, he knew that if Grampa said it was the biggest buck he'd ever laid eyes on, it had to be a monster!
A short time later, the old man and the boy were easing into the ground blind that the man had built just a couple of weeks earlier.
"We'll ease in here and sit real still and I'll betcha he's gonna come wondering out here before dark," the old man whispered.
The boy gripped the handle of his bow and settled back against the trunk of a golden-leafed poplar to wait. It wasn't long before he heard the tell-tale crunching of footsteps in the leaves. His heart jumped to his throat as he anxiously scanned the forest floor for the source of the noise.
A flash of movement. Then another. Something brown slipping through the underbrush. The boy began to slowly raise his bow. Then the deer slipped clear of the bruch and it was only a doe. She slowly walked into the clearing upwind of the blind and began feeding on the acorns that had peppered the forest floor.
The old man looked at the boy and grinned. "She had me and you both fooled, didn't she, Little Man?" Turning his attention back to the clearing, his grin froze. "There he is!" he whispered earnestly. As the boy slowly turned back his head, he saw the most magnificant buck he had ever seen. Thirteen points and every bit of 175 inches, the huge deer had followed the doe into the clearing. Standing just 35 yards away and angling slightly from the pair, the deer needed to turn only a bit to offer the perfect shot.
The boy's heart was thumping as he slowly rose his bow and began his draw. He held it at full-draw and waited as the buck stepped sideways to approach the doe. "Keep your arrow straight, Little Man!" he vaguely heard the old man whisper as he zeroed his sights and attention on the biggest buck he'd probably ever kill. He waited for the buck to take one more step, then carefully flipped the trigger on his release and watched the arrow sail true to its target.
Lowering the bow, Travis watched as the deer bounded for the edge of the clearing, then fell in a heap. Breathing a sigh of relief that hardly matched the exhilaration he felt within, he got up and walked to the edge of the clearing to retrieve the deer.
Walking up to the deer, he counted eight perfect points. Not the biggest deer he had ever killed, but then few things could match the impressive 13-point buck he had shot in 1984. It was then, on his grandpa's last hunt, that he had had the honor of bagging the deer that is every hunter's dream. His grandpa had been plenty proud and the two had joked that day that they would go back the next year and chase the big buck's offspring. But the old man's condition had quickly worsened during the winter and he was gone before the last of the spring thaw.
Yet, as the man sat holding the antlers of the eight-point and reflecting on the hunts of years past, it was almost as if the old man was still there, as if he had never left. A breeze kicked up, scattering leaves and rolling through the tops of the pines in the grove. As the sound rushed by, the man could almost here a voice riding on the wind:
"Keep your arrow straight, Little Man." The man grinned. "Thanks, grampa," he whispered.
Grabbing the deer by the antlers, he turned and headed for home.
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