A SHORT STORY ... In Honor of Mentors

[Grizzly Adam]

Note: I have posted this before, but I thought that the interest stirred by a recent post about the influence of mentors in our lives has occasioned a good opportunity to post it again ... so, for those who like such things:

The Tree

The old man’s breath whistled between his teeth, and he listened with nostalgic surprise. What had happened to the boy who ran like the wind? Where was the man who could walk miles without stopping? The grill of his pickup grinned mockingly at him through the brush, as if saying, “Resting after fifty yards, old-timer?” He could not deny growing older, but this betrayal from the body he had so long taken for granted was unsettling. Age had once been a mystery and then a joke; now it was a disturbing reality.

The frosty December air promised snow, and the old man’s ragged breath floated away in billowing clouds of steam. “I’ll look like a locomotive coming through the woods,” he mused. “Probably scare off all the game in the country anyhow.” No going back, though. Age was catching up to him, but the old man was determined to make the reaper sprint for the prize. He stepped into the trees and found the trail.

His heart pounded with a cadence that made a background beat for the whispering voices in his head. They had all said he shouldn’t go this year--not that they understood the going anyway--only his daughter’s youngest comprehended the old man’s need. He was seventeen now; they’d first went squirrel hunting when he was only nine. But even this hunting buddy said the old man was overdoing it lately: “You’re no spring chicken anymore, Gramps. You need to sit back and leave the deer hunting to us younger bucks.” He’d laughed as he said it, but the old man had seen the truth in the boy’s eyes. They thought he was too old to do it anymore. But what was he to do? Sit down and give up? “Not me,” he thought. “Not yet.”

Forty minutes of walking and stopping brought him to The Tree, a giant old double-forked gum that dwarfed the trees around it. He had discovered it fifty-six years earlier, when the area had been freshly logged. It had been spared because it had no timber value, but had proven priceless over his years of deer hunting. The Tree was an an old friend, and fond memories flooded the old man’s mind. His son’s first deer. His grandson’s first deer. Countless animals for the freezer, and not a few trophies. There was Big Six, the huge-racked buck without brow tines, and Ol’ Crazyhorn, the weird non-typical whose mount had graced his living room wall for thirty years.

He looked up at the wooden stands he’d built in The Tree over the years. There was what was left of old Number One, it’s dark and mossy boards hanging askew with age and rot. Number Two’s framework rested atop those remains, it’s fractured wood still bright where a falling limb had broken it during a winter storm. And then there was Number Three, still serviceable and likely the last he’d ever build in The Tree. He chuckled to himself as he viewed the layers of his deer hunting history. His grandson didn’t care for his old homemade stands anymore than he liked him hunting by himself these days. The shiny new ladder stand he’d gotten him for his birthday was still in the garage, still in it’s box. He felt a twinge of aggravation as he remembered what the boy had said: “Those old stands you nailed together are getting to be as frail as you are, Grampa. This will be a lot safer for you.” But he wasn’t interested in deer stands from a catalog. It just wasn’t the way he did things.

Ten minutes of effort found him seated in his perch. He felt the fatigue with bitter surprise, and wonderingly considered his heaving chest and pounding head. The old man despised going to doctors. He’d always been healthy, and liked to think of himself that way, but this--well, maybe a checkup wouldn’t hurt after all. Soon enough the woods settled down and the sounds of nature replaced the rushing of blood in his ears, and the old man was hunting. Again. Just like the first time. Like so many times.

He saw the buck before he heard so much as a twig snap. A shadow took form and became the back of a deer, it’s outline partially visible behind a tangle of brush. “Come for the acorns,” the old man thought. “Too cold to stay still. Had to eat something.” He laughed silently. So many. There had been so many over the years, and here was another.

The buck didn’t move much. The old man had to give credit where it was due; this was no careless whitetail. For nearly a half-hour the buck stood, statuesque in the cold, it’s own breath twin plumes on the breeze. Then, a step. Another. The old man could see the deer plainly now. A good buck, with a decent eight-point rack. He’d let it get a little closer before shooting. No need to hurry the shot. He glanced down at the old Marlin rifle that had once been his dad’s. No trace of blue remained on it’s steel; every bit of varnish was worn from it’s stock. A network of scratches lined the old wood, like so many veins of time and use. The gun looked like the beloved tool it was, and the old man wondered how many deer had been taken with it. Hundreds, certainly; scores of them his own. And soon, another.

The deer fed closer, pawing up white oak acorns as it came. “A fine buck to end the season with,” thought the old man. He had killed a few does earlier in the year, but this was a trophy. He’d taken bigger, but he would be proud to put this one in the truck. After all, they were coming harder these days.

It was time. The old man’s wrinkled thumb rolled the hammer back, and he eased the Marlin’s forearm up over the weathered two-by-four of the stand. “Always take time to get a good rest,” his dad had told him, and it had been good advice. Seventy-two years later, he still looked for a solid shot. The old lever-action seemed nearly to point itself as he lined up it's iron sights on the buck. He’d never used a scope in all these years, he thought with a swelling of pride. Didn’t need one in the woods. The rear sight was only a gray blur, but he was close. It would be easy.

The buck drew near. Forty yards now, and the old man noticed with interest that this was no youngster in his sights. His own aged eyes assessed the deer’s narrow hips--the sagging jowls--the squinty eyes and the curly topknot between it’s antlers. This buck was more than mature, and the old man wondered if it was in decline. “No matter, my friend,” he thought. “You’ve made your last mistake.”

He pulled the trigger. The Marlin roared.

His grandson heard the echo roll through the hills. “Sounds like Gramps struck again,” he said to no one in particular. “Guess I’d better go help him drag it out.” They had long had an agreement about shots fired.

He knew the old man had been hunting at The Tree again. He hardly went anywhere else these days. It was his favorite stand, and the grandson’s too, for that matter, though he longed to tear down the layers of home-built platforms so he could install a sturdy steel ladder stand. There was no doing that while the old man lived, though. Quickly he collected a flashlight, his knife, and a drag harness. When he had thrown on a coat, found his gloves and stuffed his feet into boots, he was out the door and into the woods back of the house. He would take the shortcut, and they could ride back in Gramp’s truck.

Daylight waned with every minute, but he knew the way like the back of his hand. He quickened his pace to offset the growing chill. Only a few more ridges now, and once across the big hollow, he’d be getting close. “Hey, Grampa!” he shouted as he slid down an incline. The winter woods rang with his cry, and repeated in refrain, “Grampa ... Grampa ... Grampa ...” There was no reply, but he had expected none. “Stubborn old man,” he thought. “Probably jump out at me any minute now and scare me half to death.” It would not be unlike his grandfather. His mind drifted back over memories of their good times together, and he realized that stubborn or not, he loved the ornery old man like no other.

He turned the flashlight on as he drew near the path the old man had used to walk in on, and let it’s yellow beam play ahead as he turned onto it and walked toward The Tree. “Got that deer gutted out yet?” he shouted. “Yet ... yet ... yet?”

Not far now. He came round the final crook of the trail. “Gramps?”

Two shapes appeared in the shadowy sweep of his light. He saw the gleam of the buck’s rack first, before he saw the gleam of the old Marlin’s barrel.

And he knew.

[Pydpiper]

Wow Adam, that was a great read, it gave me chills.

[saxman]

I enjoyed that very much Adam.

[Doe Master]

Thank you very much for that story

[wabi]

The old man’s breath whistled between his teeth, and he listened with nostalgic surprise. What had happened to the boy who ran like the wind? Where was the man who could walk miles without stopping? The grill of his pickup grinned mockingly at him through the brush, as if saying, “Resting after fifty yards, old-timer?” He could not deny growing older, but this betrayal from the body he had so long taken for granted was unsettling. Age had once been a mystery and then a joke; now it was a disturbing reality.

Some of it sounds all to familiar these days, but when the time comes I couldn't think of a better way to go.
I'm counting on a lot of years before that happens, though! I can still walk the miles, I just take more time so I can enjoy the walk these days.

[bomtek44]

That is a great story. No matter how long we are here, and how healthy we remain until we depart.....it is still a very short journey. We can all still remember events that happened when we were young as if they occurred yesterday.

I heard someone comment today, "when an old man dies, a library is lost forever." There is much to learn from our mentors.

Thanks for the story,