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Author
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Topic: Sentimental Sap...
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booger
TOO BIG TO FAIL
Member # 3602
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posted November 13, 2014 06:09 AM
I guess as I get older, I get a bit more sentimental. Seeing Lonny’s post about hunting with his son caused me to think that spending time afield with your dad is what really drew me to hunting and the shooting sports.
My dad and I were 40 years and 5 days apart in age…he passed away 3 days after his birthday, and 2 days before my 16th birthday in 1977. While our time together was short, we packed in a bunch of hunting and fishing memories that have, and will continue to last my lifetime.
Last Saturday the 8th was another opening day for pheasant season here in Kansas. Next to Christmas, it was probably the most important day of the year that most young boys looked forward to. 1974 was no different. My dad had marched me down to the local sporting goods store towards the end of October that year, (the one I alluded to where I ogled the Weatherbys and Brownings in a previous post), and bought me my first ‘big boy’ shotgun. He plunked down $85 and I walked out of the store with a brand new Marlin 120 12 ga. pump gun, a box of Federal high brass 6’s, and a new gun case.
I put on a 6” growth spurt between 7th and 8th grades and the single shot 20 ga. I had from the year before just wasn’t cutting it—getting smacked in the nose with the back of my thumb every time I pulled the trigger on that thing wasn’t fun!
I managed to shoot a rooster on opening day in ’74, and saved the tail feather, although it got lost a couple of moves ago—my dad couldn’t have been more proud.
Fast forward to 2014. I was reminiscing with some hunter ed buddies one day after class while sipping some adult beverages, and it dawned on me that I was the same age this year as he was when he bought the gun for me in 1974.
I had not participated in an opening day since 1999 due to the predator calling bug biting me hard, so I made plans to head out on Saturday with another hunter ed instructor and his two dogs—along with the same Marlin 120 pump gun. I didn’t have Federal 6’s, so I made sure the magazine and my vest was full of Fiocchi Golden Pheasant 6’s!
Well, fairy tales do come true! After walking close to 7 miles all day, we saw a fair number of birds, but I didn’t have any shots at all. I had resigned myself to thinking that it was a good thought to try and shoot a rooster some 40 years later, and that it just wasn’t meant to be. In the next to last field we walked, I was fortunate enough to be able to have one of the dogs lock up on point right in front of me…I was rewarded with a young rooster flushing straight away from me, and one shot later, the dog was dropping the dead bird at my feet!
The tail feather of the bird rides in above the visor in my pickup, and I can honestly say that I have had a hard time wiping the smile off my face every time I look at it…
[ November 13, 2014, 06:12 AM: Message edited by: booger ]
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If we ever forget we are one Nation Under God, then we will be a nation gone under--Ronald Reagan
Posts: 911 | From: Bob Dole Country | Registered: Apr 2010
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Leonard
HMFIC
Member # 2
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posted November 13, 2014 06:39 AM
Yup, that's what it's all about. Memories.
I have not hunted pheasants in more than XX years. I killed it with a stick, along the Rio Hondo riverbed as a teenager. A struck by lightning moment.
Good hunting. El Bee
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EL BEE Knows It All and Done It All.
Don't piss me off!
Posts: 31450 | From: Upland, CA | Registered: Jan 2003
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ursus21
2nd place, John Denver lookalike Contest
Member # 3556
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posted November 13, 2014 08:18 AM
That is the most enjoyable post I've read on the internet this week. Thanks Booger.
Posts: 780 | From: Montana | Registered: Jan 2010
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Kokopelli
SENIOR DISCOUNT & Dispenser of Sage Advice
Member # 633
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posted November 13, 2014 02:51 PM
Very good !!!
Have you considered framing that feather ??
Maybe do one of those art-sy collage things with a license, photo, shotgun shell ??
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And lo, the Light of the Trump shown upon the Darkness and the Darkness could not comprehend it.
Posts: 7576 | From: Under a wandering star | Registered: Apr 2005
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KaBloomR
Knows what it's all about
Member # 4252
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posted November 13, 2014 03:34 PM
What a great story.
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"It always gets a helluva lot worse before it gets any better"
Posts: 302 | From: Utah | Registered: Nov 2012
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Eddie
Knows what it's all about
Member # 4324
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posted November 14, 2014 04:33 AM
Thanks for the story one of the best post I have read for along time. Got me to thinking about the old days me and grandpa would run the dogs coon hunting back in the early 70s. That's what hunting is all about, spending time with family and friends in gods country making memories.
Posts: 275 | From: Oklahoma | Registered: Feb 2013
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Paul Melching
Radical Operator Forum "You won't get past the front gate"
Member # 885
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posted November 14, 2014 04:51 AM
That brought back many memories for me as well great story thanks for taking the time to share.
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Those who value security over liberty soon will have neither !
Posts: 4188 | From: The forest ! north of the dez. | Registered: Jul 2006
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Leonard
HMFIC
Member # 2
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posted November 14, 2014 06:07 AM
Times afield with Dad are precious memories.
It was 1970, we took a week vacation to northern Nevada. Me my cousin Mike and my father.
We set up camp in an abandoned miner's cave that had not been used since 1946, clues being the Log Cabin Syrup cans in the shape of a log cabin tossed in the ditch out back, and a notice stapled on the door, mainly.
Mike got his first bobcat; buck fever requiring three shots, but the highlight of the entire trip was the lion my dad killed. Really special, and I will never forget it.
He was a great guy, died much too young at 72; Nanc loved him as much as her own dad.
Ah yes, Memory Lane. Slips by so quickly.
Good hunting. El Bee
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EL BEE Knows It All and Done It All.
Don't piss me off!
Posts: 31450 | From: Upland, CA | Registered: Jan 2003
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Moe
Knows what it's all about
Member # 4494
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posted November 14, 2014 12:13 PM
Nice post. I'd like to say my dad inspired me to hunt and fish but I never hunted with my dad and as a kid only went fishing with him a couple of times. He had no patience for helping me with tangled lines, baiting a hook or tying a knot. My old man was career Navy and was at sea for over a year at a time so I learned to hunt with my cousins and, believe it or not, learned to fish from my grandmother. But I loved my dad and was proud of him. During WWII his ship had 16 battle stars and he participated in ever major sea battle in the Pacific.
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I snatch kisses. And vice versa.
Posts: 593 | From: Oregon | Registered: Nov 2013
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Lonny
PANTS ON THE GROUND
Member # 19
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posted November 14, 2014 06:22 PM
Nice stories guys. You really get to know someone when you spend time hunting with them.
I hope guys don't think I've about lost it with my story, but I've only ever told my wife and that's because it concerned her dad.
Last fall, on here, I posted a pic of my son Josh and his first buck. He got this buck on his grandpa's and my late father-in-laws property. My FIL/Josh's grandpa died 9 years ago and it was sudden and painful. He was as good and honest a person as you'll find anywhere. I never heard him curse or speak badly about anyone. Truly a salt of the earth guy who and if there is a place where good people go when they die, no doubt he's there.
My FIL had owned this 300 acres for 40 plus years. His hand was all over the property from the fences, to the corral, to the roads, and the numerous rock bucks built to hold fences up on this rugged little piece of ground. I can't help but feel his presence when I look at all the sweat and work he put into that land.
Anyway, on the day we were hunting, the only deer we saw were across a 500 yard wide steep canyon and they were also on the other side of the property line. The other property is absolutely NO HUNTING. The deer stay on that side of the fence the majority of the hunting season because they know its safe.
We simply had to be content looking at them and wishing. As we laid prone and watched the band of bucks and does for an hour, I knew there was zero chance they would ever come our way. Not only were they safe on that side of the fence, but the rough, steep canyon separating us was another reason they would never come to our side.
As we watched, I suddenly got an overwhelming feelng that we were going to get one of those bucks. It was really weird,this feeling was so powerful that I couldn't shake it even though all indications said there was no way we would get one of those bucks. But somehow, I KNEW it was going to happen.
We watched the bedded deer for a few more minutes and all the while this feeling of impending success just kept getting stronger to the point I told Josh to get ready.
In the distance, we heard a low flying plane approaching and when it flew over the deer got up and every single one of the went over the ridge AWAY from us and out of sight. For some reason though, one buck broke away from the bunch and came our way. I've watched hundreds of mule deer move around in this country and they usually follow the a lead doe. One deer simply does not leave the herd.
This buck did just that and kept coming our way like it was magnetically drawn to us. I about fell over when it crossed the property and just kept coming! We repositioned a bit and got setup. The buck kept on a coming until it reached a nice little spot and promptly bedded down all within easy rifle range and Josh's first buck was had.
In my mind and experience, this should never have happened. It was really as if a grandpa was using a guiding hand on ground that had his handprint for decades to give his grandson a first buck.
Like I said, I don't want to sound all weird here, but I've never had a more intensely positive feeling prior to any success while hunting. Especially considering the odds said otherwise.
Posts: 1209 | From: Lewiston, Idaho USA | Registered: Jan 2003
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Dave Allen
Hi, I'm SUPER DAVE, IN CHARGE OF Q STUFF (and Goat Leader) "I'm really not trying to be a dick".
Member # 3102
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posted November 14, 2014 07:03 PM
You don't sound weird at all Lonny.
I really enjoyed reading your story. Sometimes it's best not to question how things play out.
There is no doubt in my mind based on, what I'm hearing ol' Grandpa had sumthin' to do with it.
Enjoy, the experience, the memory's and everything that came along with it.
Posts: 1986 | From: Jordan Valley Oregon | Registered: Aug 2008
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Leonard
HMFIC
Member # 2
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posted November 14, 2014 07:23 PM
All I know is, I hate it when people call me Lonny, Leon or Leo. That's weird. Worse yet, my mom told me in all seriousness that she really wanted to name me, Bruce! OMG! (gag) Dodged the bullet, that time!
Everybody I know, at work or back in school called me, Leonard. Nanc hated "Leonard" and never called me that unless she was mad at me. Then, she pronounced it: Len-ord. To her, I was Len, from day one. I chose not to argue with the lady.
Good hunting. El Bee
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EL BEE Knows It All and Done It All.
Don't piss me off!
Posts: 31450 | From: Upland, CA | Registered: Jan 2003
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Cdog911
"There are some ideas so absurd only an intellectual could believe them."--George Orwell.
Member # 7
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posted November 14, 2014 07:23 PM
Great stories. I must admit that I have learned more about the likelihood of something after this life from personal encounters and things that were just too deliberate to be coincidences than from Sunday School, so I, too, think your Grandpa was pulling the strings.
Tim's story led me to recall as well how the pheasant opener in Kansas has always been a boy's right of passage. I spent the years from about 5 until I was twelve walking behind my dad with a sunflower stalk to teach me how to handle a gun safely. Opening day was my dad, my dad's dad, my uncle and a half dozen other men that were, and continue to be like family to me. Whether we were hunting pheasants or coyotes, it was always the same group. The run up to opening day was epic. We always made the trip to Salina to get shells, new vests, and anything else we needed at a place called Weeks' long before WalMart was even an idea. The Interstate from Salina back to Solomon was a solid line of red taillights going west to the pheasant mecca of Tim's haunts.
Morning always dawned cold and sitting in the truck waiting for shooting light with the heater going was like waiting to open Christmas presents. Half the time I was itching to shoot a bird. The other half of the time I dreaded having the pee scared outta me by the cackling of a pheasant launching from the grass at my feet.
Couple years back, I penned a piece for Predator Hunting magazine called Hunt of a Lifetime or something like that that told of my dad, the guy who taught me how to call coyotes, and my son. The idea for the story came from a discussion on one of the forums where someone had posed the question: Where, and with whom, would you go on your hunt of a lifetime if given the chance? There were answers like Africa, Alaska and the like. But, the best answer I saw - the one that got me to thinking - was one man who said he'd already been on that hunt, several times, with his dad who had recently died. Given the chance to hunt with anyone else, he said he'd want to have his dad back for one more hunt.
Well played.
Thanks for sharing, Tim, Lonny and Leonard.
[ November 14, 2014, 07:24 PM: Message edited by: Cdog911 ]
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I am only one. But still, I am one. I cannot do everything, but still, I can do something; and, because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.
Posts: 5438 | From: The gun-lovin', gun-friendly wild, wild west | Registered: Jan 2003
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Lone Howl
Free Trial Platinum Member & part-time language police
Member # 29
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posted November 14, 2014 08:43 PM
Awesome story Lonny!
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When tyranny becomes law, rebellion becomes duty.
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