Last Hunt

Here, in its entirety, is a story I published in the Northwoods Sporting Journal in 2011.

The last person Fred Barnes expected to hear from when he picked up the phone was his old pal Gene Burdette. It was with a somber voice on the other end of the line that Gene spoke with.

“Fred……..I’m sorry.  I know it’s been too long. Fred……….I want to go hunting.”

An appearance of a smile formed in the corner of Fred’s lips. He’d been waiting for a long time to hear those words.

“It’s good to hear yah voice, Gene. How soon can you make it up? Friday? Yeah, Friday sounds good. Come up to the house when you get here. Yup, same place as before, just up the road from Chase Brook over to the top of the hill. See you soon Gene………and Gene” he said with a pause, “it’s really good to hear from ya.”

Fred walked across the dimly lit hallway to the biggest closet in the house. He pulled out his old lever action .32 special and a gun cleaning kit, then sat down at the kitchen table to clean the rifle and think.

Fred and Gene had been best friends since they were little kids. They grew up on the same dead-end road just down from the small lumber mill where both of their fathers worked. Surrounded by northern Maine timber, lakes, rivers and beaver flowages, the two boys spent countless hours hiking around in the woods, and learning to hunt, fish and trap. They went to elementary and high school together, shot their first whitetail bucks together, and learned to trap muskrat and beaver from the old time mountain man who lived in a little log cabin down the road.

But after high school, things changed. The timber market was good back in those days, and Fred went to work in the woods, cutting trees that would make their way to the mill where his dad sawed them into boards used to build houses. Fred built himself a nice little house on some property near his childhood home and settled down. He continued to hunt, fish and trap the woodlands, and guided hunters during deer and bear seasons.

Gene took a different path after high school. Though he loved the woodlands as much as his buddy Fred, Gene wanted to get out and see more of the world. A year after high school, his parents moved to Boston, and Gene went with them. He wanted to find a better way to make a living than what northern Maine had to offer. He went to business school in Boston, found employment as a financial manager, and settled down in a suburban home with his wife and two kids.

As he began to polish the old rifle with a clean rag, Fred thought back to those early days when he went off to work and Gene left town. It wasn’t that they meant to drift apart, it just sort of happened. They called each other on the phone every so often those first couple of years, but there wasn’t much to talk about. Gene always wanted to hear how the hunting and fishing was, and Fred would tell him, but when the conversation invariably shifted to other topics, they didn’t really have much in common any more. Fred would often write Gene, urging him to come up to Maine for early bird season, or to hunt bucks during the rut, but there would always be something going on with Gene’s job that he couldn’t get away from. So they’d just kind of stopped talking to each other. That had been over twenty years ago.

The week went by quickly enough. Fred had a few days off coming to him, so he took the time to scout for deer in anticipation of he and Gene’s reunion hunt. One crisp fall day in the middle of the week, he took a hike beyond the back fields behind his house and into the cedar swamp along Chase Brook, the place where years ago the two young hunters had filled their first deer tags. Beyond the swamp and across the brook, Silver Ridge stretched upward several hundred yards and ended in a steep drop-off to the neighboring drainage of Beaver Brook. Along the base of Beaver Brook was an old logging road that Fred had helped build during his first year working in the woods.

It was the top of Silver Ridge where he and Gene, as high schoolers, had shared their last hunt together, though they didn’t know it at the time. As he reached the top of the ridge, memories of that last hunt came flooding back to his mind. He and Gene had been sitting in a clump of bushes  near the ridgetop one late-season afternoon, rattling a set of antlers for hours in hopes to lure in a rutting whitetail buck. They hadn’t rattled in one buck that day, but two, though they didn’t know of the fact until it was too late. When they stood up near the end of the day to retreat in defeat, they jumped the two monster whitetails. It was too late to take aim as the old bucks quietly bounded away like two old ghosts. Fred shook his head and laughed softly to himself. He remembered the frustration he and Gene had shared that day. Though they hadn’t killed the bucks, looking back, the memory was just as real.

Fred made the two mile hike back to the house with ease. He’d seen little deer sign on the scouting trip, but hadn’t really expected to see much. Deer numbers weren’t what they used to be when he and Gene hunted together. Regardless of the lack of sign, the ridge was a good a place as any for he and Gene to hunt this weekend. He knew the few deer that roamed this area and he knew their habits. Most importantly, he knew how to hunt them. He returned home to catch up on chores and prepare for his old friend’s visit.

—–

Fred was just sitting down to have dinner when he saw the truck pull up the driveway in the fading daylight. Though over twenty years and perhaps a hundred pounds had taken its toll on his old buddy Gene, Fred easily recognized the face as Gene stepped out of his shiny new pickup truck and made his way toward the front door. Fred stepped out and they embraced – first a solid handshake, then a big old bear hug.

“Man, it’s great to see you Fred! How ya doin? You look great!”

“Likewise, Gene” Fred said with a little less enthusiasm. “Been eatin’ well, I see.”

“Ahh yes. It’s hell gettin’ old. Don’t get out near ‘s much as I should.”

“Come on in, ol’ buddy. Just in time for suppah.”

They sat down to dinner and to catch up on old times. Fred was a bit taken aback by how much his old pal had aged. He didn’t look like the same healthy young Gene who had trudged alongside him through the cedar swamps and hardwood ridges in the old days. Though his health appeared to be fading, he was here, back in his old stomping grounds, and Fred couldn’t help but feel a small bit of happiness to have his buddy back.

A hearty meal of rabbit stew and an even heartier conversation ensued. There was a lot to catch up on. They talked about the old days, some of the great times they’d shared together, and Fred caught Gene up on local gossip about their classmates and friends, the changes in the area throughout the years, and elderly neighbors and friends who had passed away. Toward the end of the meal, the conversation turned somber.

“I’m sorry about your dad, Fred. I meant to come up for the funeral, I just….”

“That’s okay, Gene. The old man’s time had come, like it will for all of us. He had a good life.” It was probably the most Fred had spoken on the matter since his dad had passed away six years before.

“Fred, there’s something I need to tell you,” said Gene in a low, calm, quiet voice, with a bit of apprehension. “I don’t know how to say it, I….I……”

“Come on, old buddy,” said Fred. “You know you can still tell me anything. What is it?”

“Fred, I…..I didn’t come here just because I wanted to hunt. I been to the hospital a lot lately. I…..I have cancer, Fred. It’s terminal, and the doctor says I don’t have much time left.”

Fred felt his eyes begin to tear up, and dropped his gaze as he regained his composure. Gene kept talking, but the words now seemed like soft echoes in the background of Fred’s mind.

“Fred. Fred!”

Fred looked up and his eyes met Gene’s.

“It’s okay, Fred. I’m okay. I’ve accepted it.” I’ve made my amends and I’m ready to live what life I have left. That’s why I’m here. I want to hunt.”

The calmness in Gene’s voice and the shift of the conversation to hunting helped Fred settle down a bit. It was a lot to take in, and he didn’t do too well with emotions. But hunting, he could do. Fred went over to the coffee pot and poured each of the two men a fresh cup. He then pulled out an old topographic map and spread it across the table. He looked at Gene with a smile, which was returned with an even wider one.

“So we’re going deer huntin’.”

………

As Fred walked through the moonlit hayfield in the pre-dawn hour, he thought about the night before, and his reunion with his old pal Gene. The whole thing had kind of taken him by surprise, and it was taking time to sink in. A lot of years had passed since Gene left their small northern Maine town, and the time away had slowly changed him. You could still see the fire in Gene’s eyes when he talked about hunting, but a sense of gloom was evident when he realized that he couldn’t do things quite like he had done before. He was out of shape and unpracticed, and knew full well his imminent demise, a cancer that had spread throughout much of his body.

That’s why Fred was alone walking through the field, headed toward the ridge where he and Gene had each killed their first whitetail bucks together. They’d discussed the day’s hunt well into the previous night, and Gene had persistently argued that Fred should hunt the back country, while he, Gene, would take the truck and ride the perimeter roads. There was an old logging road that intersected the timber on the back side of Beaver Brook, and Fred might push a deer in that direction while hunting the timber. Fred had given in. He knew how badly Gene wanted to hunt the fields, the ridge and the swamp that surrounded the brook, but they both knew it wasn’t possible. Fred would experience the hunt for the both of them, and Gene, while limited in mobility, could use the truck and roads to get himself to a place where he could participate. It might work, they both thought.

Fred reached the edge of the field just as daylight started to break. In past hunting seasons, before the great decline of whitetail deer in the region, this had been a good place to be this time of day. Many times before, he’d seen deer feeding on the edges of the big field as the cover of dark disappeared. This wouldn’t be one of those days. He turned and stepped into the dark cedar swamp.

About an hour of slow walking, looking through the trees and scanning the fresh skiff of snow for tracks had brought Fred through the swamp, across the brook and to the base of Silver Ridge. He looked up the ridge, covered with mature beech, birch and maple trees, and remembered how quickly he and Gene used to scamper to the top. Probably too quickly, as he knew they’d spooked many a deer in those younger days when boys were learning the patience of hunting. The sun was just peeking over the top of the ridge and would shine down the ridge in blinding rays of light soon. Head down, he ascended.

The top of Silver Ridge was always a good place to stop. An old wind-blown tree offered a bench seat at just the right height, with a great view of the backside of the ridge. Fred sat there to catch his breath. Through the leafless hardwood trees he could see the cedars and black spruce trees that covered the swamp below. Over the years of hunting this area, he’d begun to pattern the deer habits here. Though deer numbers were lower now, there were always a few does living in the swamp below. Just as reliably, a far ranging buck or two would always make their way into the area and find these does during the rut. An older buck that considered this a part of his large territory would walk this ridge line and make various rubs and scrapes, sending a clear message to the younger bucks that might care to get in on the action.

Invariably, this was a place where deer would show up. When they would show up was another question entirely, one that was answered when Fred began to descend the ridge toward Beaver Brook, and saw the tracks of the monster buck.

—–

They were big. Perhaps the biggest set of deer tracks he’d seen here in over a decade. Fred thought of Gene as soon as he noticed the tracks. He wished his old pal could be here to see this! But Gene wasn’t far. By now he would be sitting somewhere along the old logging road about a mile away. The tracks were fresh, and Fred decided to follow them for awhile.

The old buck was ranging through the territory. You could tell he’d been here before, as the fresh tracks led Fred across old rub lines and scrapes along the side of the ridge. The tracks then zig-zagged down the ridge a ways, and stopped in a small sheltered spot with a good view of the surroundings. This was where the deer had bedded for a short time. Fred scanned the area as far as he could see, but no deer were visible. After the buck had left his bed, he had made a beeline directly down the ridge and into the swamp. This was where the tracking got interesting.

Fred spent most of the day tracking the big buck through the swamp and along Beaver Brook. The track took him places he never would have dared venture otherwise. They went over, under and around thick blowdowns, through groves of small bushes and sometimes swung around in confusing circles. Finally, around mid-afternoon, time stood still and he saw the buck.

He actually heard it first. The sound of a snapping twig carried across the still air of the valley and Fred looked up. The patch of brown seemed to float as the buck bounded through the trees. It stopped in an opening about fifty yards away, stood broadside, and gave Fred the shot of a lifetime. The impressive rack was complimented by the buck’s huge body, and Fred lifted the rifle to his shoulder, pausing a split second to think about Gene on his last hunt, wishing his buddy could see this. As quickly as it appeared, the buck bounded away and disappeared in the trees. In a rush of excitement, Fred followed quickly at first, then stopped to catch his breath on the banks of Beaver Brook.

The buck had crossed the brook. Fred sat down on a log. He wasn’t far from the logging road Gene had been planning to hunt, and the buck was headed in that direction. He pulled a sandwich out of his small day pack and took a swig of water. No, he wasn’t far from Gene now. Maybe, just maybe………the buck might cross that logging road and step right out in front of Gene. And that was when he heard it.

The crack of a rifle sounded, barely audible above the soft gurgling of Beaver Brook. Fred stood erect and listened for another shot. Nothing. He put his lunch away and scrambled across the brook. Had it been a shot from Gene’s gun he’d heard? Had he shot at the big buck? Had he hit it? Or was the gunshot just a figment of Fred’s imagination? The anticipation built as he followed the tracks of the whitetail on the other side of the brook and they led directly to the road.

A ribbon-like opening appeared in the forest ahead as Fred scrambled along, following the deer tracks as they climbed out of the swamp and onto the road. He quickly looked around the opening. The pickup was there, off to the left and parked in the middle of the road, the driver’s side door wide open, but Gene wasn’t in sight. He looked back down at the buck tracks. He followed their path across the road and down the embankment on the other side. And there he saw a spot of blood and a patch of hair. His heart raced. Gene had shot the big buck! A set of boot prints joined the buck’s tracks as they disappeared into the forest. Fred followed.

He entered the forest and looked ahead. A faint bit of hunter orange was visible in the distance, and he raced toward it. As he arrived, two figures came into view, both lying on the ground.

Gene lay there, motionless. His rifle leaned against a cedar tree, his buck tag on top of the snow beside it. Hunting knife in his lifeless left hand, his right still held a grip on the antlers of a massive whitetail buck. And his lips were curled into a smile.

The smile sent a calm feeling over Fred as he knelt down and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. The loss of his friend didn’t seem so overwhelming just now.

“If you have to go” he whispered to Gene, “I guess this is as good a way as any”.