LAST HUNT, PART III
(reprinted from the Outdoor Sporting Library column in the Northwoods Sporting Journal)
This month’s column marks the third of a three part story, entitled “Last Hunt”. In the previous two entries (Last Hunt Part I and Last Hunt Part II), we introduced a situation: seasoned Maine outdoorsman Fred gets a visit from a childhood friend after decades of absence. The situation advances to a predicament: Gene arrives in northern Maine to hunt, but reveals the sad reality that brought him up to Maine this season – a terminal cancer that caused him to rethink his priorities. At the end of last month’s column, we left off with Fred hunting for whitetails on the back side of Silver Ridge, when he comes across the tracks of the big one. Here I attempt to finish up our story with a ‘wow’.
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”.
Leave a Reply