The Initiate

Guest Post by Francis Marion

Prologue:

I am big believer in the idea that the recipe for raising good kids is simple. Be patient and give them your time. If you spend time with them, take and interest in who they are and what they like and include them in activities (both work and play) that are gateways to adulthood then most of the time you’ll end up with good kids. I’m especially proud of both of mine. They are both turning out to be very fine human beings.

 

In the years that I have lived in British Columbia I have learned that hunting deer in the southwestern region of the province is simple. In the opening days of September the deer are still in their summer range. This means they are up high. As the season wanes, the weather cools and the first snows hit they move to lower elevations.  I say this facetiously of course, as this is where the simplicity ends.

Early deer season in our part of the world is decidedly not simple. I am a child of the prairies and growing up in Saskatchewan, “deer hunting” meant pushing whitetails out of pockets of bush in the agricultural zones. It is an activity as much akin to wing shooting as anything else. The same activity pursued in my current local is dramatically different. Here, just getting to where the game lives is more akin to an “Iron Man” competition than it is to hunting elsewhere and the older I get the less that statement seems like hyperbole.

Over the years I have learned a few important things about hunting in the high country: everything is steeper, further and heavier. Small mistakes can compound themselves quickly. Too little water, the wrong clothing, a slip of the knife or the foot or grabbing the wrong branch can spell disaster. Simply being in the alpine is risky. Hunting deer and other game there is challenging. Successfully taking game there is life affirming. It is why I go back year after year whether I am successful or not.

And this is why – in his 12th year – I brought my son with me on one of my sojourns to the top of the world. It was my hope that he would appreciate not only the challenge of hunting such a place but also of simply being somewhere so unique and stunningly beautiful. He never connected with a deer that year but he proved to me he could carry his own gear, rifle and weight. He was willing and prepared to join the odd but proud fraternity of high country hunters. Moreover, he truly seemed to appreciate the place. And so it was that we planned a return for the fall of 2014.

Twelve months later on the opening morning of the youth deer season myself, my son and a good friend of ours parked our SUV at the head of the same old horse trail we’d climbed the year before. The season takes place in early September in our neck of the woods, which means the deer are in their summer range. Where we live in the southwestern region of BC our day-to-day lives are lived at an elevation barely above sea level. Thus “high up” is defined as anything over about four to five thousand feet. In the “Cascade” and surrounding regions this is the place where the trees shrink, the air thins and the forest gives way to alpine grasses, shrubs and flowers.

Ascending the mountain and our bowl via the back way… what a view!

 

As we ascended the mountain, just a few short weeks after my sons 13th birthday, I wondered what the hunt would bring for him.  We had come with the intent of hunting for just the day. This meant an early morning and upwards of three to four hours of hiking and climbing to gain the elevation needed to simply begin looking for deer.  This would then leave us with about five to seven hours on the mountain before we would need to pack up in order to beat nightfall. Descending thousands of feet in the dark has never been my idea of fun, much less with an extra fifty to eighty pounds of venison on my back. As such the pace would be steady and deliberate. The boy would have to keep up if we were to have any chance at being successful.

We liked to hunt a particular bowl we knew held game so over the course of the morning we headed for the back end of the south side, circled around, over the top and parked ourselves at the upper western edge of the north-facing slope. We had a great view of the south-facing slope across from us so we pulled off our packs and started to glass. My son had kept pace well and the adults were grateful for the pause.

Nearing the top our bowl – only a few hundred more yards and a few more feet in elevation to go before my nap…

 

Shortly afterwards I decided to take a nap. With a cool, dry breeze in the air and the warm sun on my face who could blame me? The soft alpine grass made a wonderful make shift bed and I drifted slowly off to sleep. It would turn out to be one of the shortest naps I’d ever taken…

“Dad – there’s two deer coming over the top of the opposite ridge.” whispered my boy just as I was losing consciousness.

I popped open a single eye.

“Bullocks” I said. “I don’t see anything.” I closed my eye in an attempt to go back to sleep.

“He’s right.” my friend interrupted. “I think one is a buck.”

I opened my eye again and felt around for my binoculars lying in the grass next to me. I held them up to my open eye like a monocular and began scanning the opposite side of the bowl. I was still sprawled out in the grass in the same position I’d dosed off in when I saw both deer descending the opposite slope. “Hmmph” I said. “Yep. The lead one is a buck.”

My son was ready to roll. I wasn’t. I’d just started my nap and was still groggy. “They’re too far away.” I said. I put down my binos and opened my other eye. My hunting partner already had his laser rangefinder out. As I looked for mine the buck and his doe bedded down across the bowl from us near a small patch of trees.

“How far?” I asked my buddy.

“A little over 400 yards.” he replied quietly.

“Son, that’s too far for you to shoot.” I pulled my range finder off my belt and confirmed a distance of 408 yards. “You’re going to have to make a stalk if you want to try and take this thing.”

“Ok dad.” he responded coolly.

He grabbed his rifle and I grabbed my binos and shooting sticks. We made a plan to get closer. We were going to have to use a few small boulders and a couple of shrubs for cover as there was little between the buck, the doe and us.

Waddling off we began our descent into the bowl as we were just slightly above and across from the two deer. We duck walked from our position to a shrub, from the shrub to a boulder and finally to another small shrub. Pretty soon we ran out of shrubs and boulders.

We stopped. I put the range finder on the tree next to the buck and got a solid reading of 202 yards. We were out of options and cover. There was nothing between us and the buck but grass and a few alpine flowers. What’s more, the buck had turned in his bed and was now looking straight at us. The doe’s ears were on red alert. It was the end of the stalk.

“Ok son,” I said quietly “ they are basically straight across from us at a little over two hundred yards. Your rifle is sighted in for 100 yards so I want you to put the cross hairs right on the center of his chest just a few inches above the bottom of his neck. You should hit the vitals square on. Remember to breath easy, relax and squeeze on the exhale.”

I put out the shooting sticks and he crept up into kneeling position behind them. He loaded a round into the ’06 and exhaled.

I prayed for a clean kill.

For a moment worlds collided and time stood still. At the sound of the rifle I was 12 years old again, dressed in hunter orange with my first white tail in my cross hairs. I was lost between then and now, there and here and as the sound of the shot dissipated and time and space reasserted itself I was overcome with relief.

My prayer was answered. The fork horn buck never moved from his bed.

“Great shot son.”  I heard my father’s voice in mine as I put my hand on my son’s shoulder. Without prompting he ejected the spent casing from the chamber of his rifle. “You won’t need another round. Well done.”  I said and stood up from the long grass we were kneeling in.

My boy was trembling with adrenaline. We took a moment to breath then we looked at each other and high fived. The moment from the sound of the shot blossomed slowly from one of deliberation to celebration. We shouted and high fived again and I put my arm around him.

As we approached the deer I looked for signs of life in the young buck then, confirming it was dead, let my son kneel down next to his first kill. He ran his hands through its coarse red and brown hair and over the soft velvet of its antlers. He was speechless. So was I.

You can’t see it but were both grinning from ear to ear.

 

Taken at around 6000 feet elevation my 13-year-old son stood for a moment like he was a giant amongst men. He helped me gut and butcher the deer then my partner and I loaded up our packs with the meat for the long hike out. My son carried our gear and his trophy rack. Two points or twelve – it mattered not. He cut the rack from the buck’s skull himself and strapped it to his pack. Trophies – like beauty – are in the eye of the beholder. Today my son had earned his place in the rare fraternity of high country hunters and he knew it. He never complained about the work or the hike out. He took it all like a man and carried out his two point as though it were a Boone and Crockett buck.

Leaving the bowl and heading back down the mountain towards the vehicle.

 

Three to four hours later – our bodies tired and battered from the hike down and out – we finally arrived back at the Jeep. We loaded our gear and headed the rest of the way back down the mountain in comfort. It was a quiet ride. Exhaustion seems to breed introspection amongst hunters and as we came back into cell range I handed the phone to my son. “Call your mother,” I said “and tell her we’ll be home after dark.” They were the first words we’d spoken since we loaded the SUV.

While my boy was chatting with his mom my partner asked me how I was.

“Sore and tired.” I replied. “How are you?”

“Sore and tired.” he responded.

“Do it again next year?” I asked.

“Hell yah. I’m there.” was his response as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

-30-

17
Leave a Reply

avatar
  Subscribe  
Notify of
card802
card802

Great story.

I started taking my son hunting when he was 11, he shot his first buck (8 point) when he was 14, he never killed another deer.

He always comes to hunt camp, enjoys the fires, the eating, the drinking, the camaraderie, just not the killing, he’s 32 now.

filthy mouths and bad attitudes
filthy mouths and bad attitudes

I always felt the best way for a child to learn anything was at the side of his parent. Quality time is a myth, its those huge all day amounts of time that does it, because in those long quiet times around mom or dad that the little questions come out and the opportunities for discussion and reassurance are made.

ILuvCO2
ILuvCO2

Awesome story FM. That sure is beautiful country out there. Nothing like hunting in New England, where most of your shots are less that 50 yards through cover.

I took my son out when he was 12 on youth day, got him set up against a tree by sun up, and I laid down to nap. 15 minutes later he taps me and says Dad, a deer. I just waved at him and said it is probably a squirrel. He taps me again, Dad, a deer. So I sit up slowly, and sure enough there is a nice doe looking at us at about 30 yards. I said ok son, take off the safety and slowly raise the shotgun (shotgun only area, he had his 20 gauge with a slug), and take the shot. Well he did and totally missed. We went over to the spot the doe was at and he just started bawling and saying he was sorry. Broke my heart. I told him that EVERYBODY misses, but to no avail. He has not wanted to go since that. Well, he said he would go if he could bring his ipad. Not happening.

Francis Marion

card802,

I’m not sure it matters if he hunts. He knows how (important) and gets the part about camaraderie – as important a part of the equation as anything imho. I try and make sure we don’t get too caught up in the “gotta get something” end of the equation. I just try and make sure that we’e out there and that he knows that the important part is our time together and the experience as a whole. We connect with game less often than we do but we always learn something each time we ago – whether about flora or fauna or one another. Every trip as an education, a little work and a good time. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

harry p.

Awesome story, thanks for sharing!

nkit
nkit

What a great story, Francis Marion. I truly enjoy reading articles such as this on TBP. You are a great asset to the website. Your recipe for child rearing is seasoned with wisdom. As on old fart with a couple of thirty-something year olds that both turned out very well, you are on the correct road. Be it hunting, fishing, hiking, sports – whatever, the time that you spend with them is critically valuable and when they fly far away and deal with their own children, you will appreciate the times together even more so…I suppose that’s just another reason us old guys tend to anthropomorphize our dogs – we miss our kids.

card802
card802

Francis,

I agree 100%. My son brought his three year son old to bow hunting camp last year and we had a ball. We carved pumpkins for Halloween, fell in the creek, scouted for deer, stayed up late to cook food over a campfire, got up early for breakfast and took a nap later.

I have a very good friend I hunt with from time to time, he grew up without a dad and taught himself how to hunt, and he is a great hunter.

But he has no idea how to function in a family style hunting camp. The experience of setting up camp, the bonding, the shared meals, the laughs, the hunt, the shared celebration if success is achieved and cleaning up the camp.

I feel sorry for the guy, it’s all about the kill for him, if a kill is not made then the hunt is deemed a failure.
He wonders why I would rather hunt in Michigan with family and friends rather than hunt in Illinois for the big bucks.
My wall is full of big buck heads, I need more space for family and friends.

Bob
Bob

I took my son fishing when he was 7. He hooked a good-sized catfish, and I was so proud when he reeled it in by himself with my coaching and encouragement. Neither of us will ever forget what happened afterward. After keeping our catch on a stringer for a couple of hours, we were ready to pack it in. I had decided to clean the catch right on the bank, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the mess later.

My son became agitated when he realized what I planned to do. He wanted to take home the fish he caught, and keep it in the bathtub as a pet! Unfortunately, the poor fish was too far gone to release, and there was nothing to do but filet it. My son refused to watch.

On the way home, I explained about eating what we caught, which I had talked to him about before the fishing trip. In that very small, adult-like voice that kids can affect, he said “I can’t believe you are going to eat my fish…” To this day, I cannot get him to eat fish of any kind! I have given him fish oil gummies instead! LOL Also, he has never gone fishing again, despite numerous opportunities.

A few years later, we settled on golf as our bonding sport, and we have a fine time with that. Recently, I have gotten him to laugh about his fishing experience, but he still won’t go. You never know…

ConfederateH
ConfederateH

This idyllic image of father/son hunting expedition reminds me of the plague of selfie’s raging across the planet. Like so much of Jew corrupted western culture it is only a distant fantasy that is unattainable for the vast majority. Like that perfect yoga-pant figure, or exotic italian sports cars.

If the authors point is that fathers should be an essential part of their children’s live, then all this macho-hunter selfie porn is just boasting.

card802
card802

I do yoga, in camo!

comment image

Francis Marion
Francis Marion

card802,

I had no idea you were so ripped! Nice pants too.

Confederate says:

“Like so much of Jew corrupted western culture it is only a distant fantasy that is unattainable for the vast majority……”

Wow – depressed much?

You’re right though – enjoying your time with your kids and caring about their upbringing is becoming more and more unobtainable by modern standards. Ever ask yourself why? I’ll give you a hint. It has nothing to do with – as Stucky would put it – da joos. You can’t blame all of your problems on someone else.

Plus – I’ve never owned an Italian sports car or taken a selfie. I have a German sports car and my buddy takes our dead critter photos. Also – there is a difference between being proud of something and boasting. You should learn the difference. Thanks for commenting.

Warmest regards,
Francis

Joey
Joey

Great article. I also live in B.C.

I did it all for a boy with no Dad, and a Mom too soon dead and gone.

With us it was sports. He excelled and loved whatever he tried. Wonderful life for the first sixteen.

Then, some weeds got in the way .

And two years of hell on earth. Now, he is starting to see some light.

I admit doing lots of prayers.

starfcker
starfcker

Much as I love the article, francis, it’s the prologue that I like best. Rock on.

KaD
KaD

Commercials now teach kids to have their parents arrested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xl2Z8krNAI0

Desertrat
Desertrat

One thing I noticed about our hunt-camp folks: Heroic deed stories were always about other hunters. Oopsies happened to the story-teller.

There’s something about sitting by a campfire as it dies to coals. For me, it’s a connection to all the hunters who have gone before. Back past the rifle and the bow to the spear and atlatl.

Only the hunters and the gardeners are do-it-yourself types when it comes to food. All others have to hire their scut work done for them. Even me, when in a restaurant or grocery. 🙂

Llpoh
Llpoh

I hunted and trapped and fished when younger – big and little game. I and my kin killed them in large numbers for both food and money.

I understand it, and do not condemn it, but I no longer kill animals, save for vermin, though I still fish (catch and release save for dinner).

I love animals, and have come to believe we should leave the wild ones be, if possible. We as a species are slowly, sometimes quickly, eradicating too much, in my opinion.

If people hunt, it is up to them, and their consciences. But as for me, I will not do it, unless forced by hunger, and have not encouraged my kids to do it. We bond with nature in other ways.

Francis Marion

Desertrat,

I’m right with you. I like being connected to my family and my past through the hunt. It’s an age old tradition for us going back to the first generations that came to this continent. For some of our ancestors I would speculate it goes even further back.

Llpoh,

Everyone has there way of looking at the world when it comes to their food. I have no issues with how anyone does it. One of my closest relatives and friends is a vegan on a little farm just down the road from us. We work together in our gardens and share the produce. She has her beliefs and I have mine and we come together in the dirt where we have common ground 🙂 and our families love one another regardless of the nuances. For me personally I prefer to know where my food comes from and I want my kids to understand that when they eat another critter it means it had to die in order for it to happen. Someone once said that “killing is damn serious business” and I expect my progeny to understand that what’s on their plate was once alive and to not take it for granted. It’s also a good life skill.

As for game populations – I can only speak for where I’ve been – but they are in no danger of extinction from being hunted. Quite the opposite in fact. Western Canada is rich in game – always has been and likely always will be short of an act of God.

Discover more from The Burning Platform

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading