Tony once told me that he quit hunting for several years. He’d been wounded in combat. After returning from the war, he went hunting and was nearly struck by an errant slug. Tony said, “I didn’t survive the war just to get shot back home.” It was his own father-in-law, George, who talked him into going back into the woods.
Tony is small and quick and made of steel cable; he’s built like a lightweight boxer. George needed the younger man’s legs to drive game his way, his arms to haul out game, and they both needed the meat. They hunted together for the next 45 years.
Tony’s daughters tell me that he and George weren’t close. I believe differently. Every landmark we pass on the road or in the woods triggers a memory of their hunts together. At a hairpin turn, I now know, is where they discovered a road-killed deer at night on their way to hunt.
So here we are, carrying on a tradition of fathers- and sons-in-law sharing another hunting season.
George came from a time that was harder than Tony’s and unthinkably harder than my own, a time when there were few deer and few dollars. A whole deer wasn’t going to waste. They jumped out of the car and tossed the deer in the trunk. As they proceeded to their hunting spot, the trunk began thumping, louder and louder, until they were forced to pull over. Tony chuckles as he recalls George headed for the back of the car carrying a tire iron.
Past the hairpin turn, the road dips at a creek barely contained by a culvert. This is where George and Tony once found a big buck stuck in a fence. Tony leaves the end of the story hanging, but I think I can summarize it: different times, different ethics, same George, same tire iron.
Other favorite stories actually take place during the hunt, like “George’s perfect 150-yard shot with the old shotgun that had only a bead sight,” and “Hoofprints in the snow that were made right in front of George while he was sleeping.” The stories are unique, but they all end with the same phrase: “I sure do miss that old guy.”
So here we are, carrying on a tradition of fathers- and sons-in-law sharing another hunting season. I sat on that bucket until it got dark and never did see antlers. But I won’t soon forget the squirrel that kept trying to get to his cache under the cushionless bucket, the 16 turkeys that browsed by, or when we dragged out Tony’s six-point buck while he told me its story.
Mostly though, I’ll never forget the sight of Tony this morning. He was walking into the gray woods at first light, in the orange coveralls he always wears. He was moving slower than in previous years, and heading for the creek bottom; he doesn’t get up to the ridgetop anymore. It was then that I had this thought for the first time: When he’s gone, I’m sure going to miss that old guy.
Kurt Cox and his wife, Denise, are formerly of Golden, Colorado, and now live in Panama City, Florida. Kurt has been making new stories with his nephews. It always pleased Tony to hear them, before he passed away. Kurt sure does miss that old guy.
