Pennsylvania Game News - June 2012 - 21

always been a special time for me. For most of my life, especially after I left home and moved three hours away, the most enjoyable part of the year began on the Monday after Thanksgiving and ended two weeks later. The 50 weeks following were just an annoying wait until the next deer season came. Spending time with Dad, my brothers and, later, my nephews and my own two boys in the woods and around the wood stove in Dad’s pole building is what has made it so important to me. My earliest memories of Dad as a deer hunter go back to the early 1960s, and were centered mostly around my grandmother’s farm near Tidioute. Relatives and friends came from nearby and as far away as Ohio to stay at my grandmother’s farmhouse and hunt in the house-size rocks and laurel in the woods behind her barn. Long before I was old enough to go out myself, I sat in awe of Dad and the other hunters as they told and retold their experiences of the day, all while disposing of big plates of spaghetti, homemade bread and applesauce. I tried to imagine what it would be like to stand by the “nickle tree,” on the “big rock” or in the “hollow stump.” This ancient chestnut stump was big enough to hold two or three hunters if they were so inclined. I just knew I needed to see those places for myself and, of course, be a deer hunter like my dad. My first years of hunting were probably similar to what most of us experienced. At first, not old enough to carry a rifle or hunt on my own, I was obliged to put in my time obediently trudging along as I was led around the woods, from stand to stand. And my talent for locating and snapping every twig along the path, and for talking and moving at the worst times, seemed to be uncanny. In time I learned to minimize movements and noises while on stand and to walk without unintentionally putting on a drive for every other hunter in the area. I remember Dad’s patience when he first took me along. By then, my older brother Joe was old enough to hunt on his own, so
JUNE 2012

I, alone, was heir to all of the twigsnapping and ill-timed talking and moving rights. I remember the heartthumping excitement when seeing my first few deer up close with Dad, and after nearly 50 years, I can still remember where we saw them and how close they walked to where we were posted. The fact that it was buck season and they were all does didn’t matter: They were deer. I remember being totally amazed that my dad knew where to go and what to do to have deer actually walk up to us. Sitting or standing on watch with Dad was not always that exciting. I remember many periods of boredom and cold feet when the action was slow, and the minutes until we would move on seemed like hours. Dad always had things to teach us, though, like how to make a dry seat out of sections of an old stump and how and when to take advantage of other hunters moving around us. Seeing him in action when deer appeared helped us learn how to decide if a safe, humane shot was possible. It actually got even harder to be patient, for me at least, when I turned 16 and could be posted away from Dad. For the first few hunts he still needed to know where I was, so he would lead me to a likely spot, suggest the avenue of approach deer might use and then ease off to his own spot. His last instruction was always not to move until he came back for me. Now that was a test of endurance. Despite rain, wind, driving snow or an aversion to looking at the same trees over and over, it would have been unmanly to move before Dad came for me. The time finally came when Dad had enough confidence in me that I could roam the woods as I pleased. I was in control of my destiny. I could choose where I went and how long I stayed. Yes, I could follow my own
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Pennsylvania Game News - June 2012

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