(Reprinted from the March 2011 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal)
The theme of this column for the past couple of months has been the art of writing the fictional outdoor story. I described some of the basics I have learned in my quest to write outdoor fiction, and last month I posted the first of a three part story, “Last Hunt”. I attempted to emulate three important elements that every short story should include. A story should start in a situation, advance to a predicament, and end with a ‘wow’. Last month we introduced a situation, and left off with the main character, Fred, expecting a reunion with his childhood friend and hunting buddy Gene for the first time in years. This month, the story advances to a predicament – actually, two – a life changing situation and the pursuit of a big buck deer. Next month I hope to end it with a ‘wow’. Here goes.
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.
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