Pennsylvania Game News - November 2017 - 9

mountain's chiseled face revealed veins
of coal, exposed by men like my greatgrandfather.
The borrowed shotgun I carried was of
a gauge that matched my age. I tried my
best to cradle it in my small arms.
As we eyed the trail ahead, father and
son stood side-by-side, like the shotgun's
barrels.
Dad was a strong man of few words
at home and, in the woods, so, too, were
his boots mute.
The leaves scarcely whispered as his
strides covered more western Pennsylvania ground than my leaps, which were
crisply announced by the foliage.
Even then, I knew I was slowing Dad
down. I was but a boyhood burden for
an expert hunter. Yet the man had never
seemed more content.
As we hunted, Dad quietly shared
stories - as we neared a thicket where
he once pushed a deer to a buddy, then
again as we entered the stand of hemlocks
where he first achieved a double on ruffed
grouse.
It seemed every spot in the woods held
a memory. I was so enamored by my
father's tales, I'd nearly forgotten I was
there to begin my own. Abruptly, stories
were interrupted by shots.
Echoes from the gunfire reverberated
atop a blanket of red, yellow, and orange.
Even my poor sense of direction discerned the blasts came from family on the
opposite ridge.
Grandpa and Nate had stumbled right
into, and busted up, a flock.
Instincts harmonizing with experience,
Dad's demeanor changed.
"Get down and get ready. One might
fly this way," he whispered.
Wide eyes looked down to a trembling
gun. I feared the very thought of a shot.
Head bowed, I mumbled a prayer - one
NOVEMBER 2017

I'd heard Dad say.
"Look up!" ordered my father.
Directly overhead passed the largest
creature I'd ever witnessed in flight.
I steadied my gun the best I could and
sent both barrels skyward. The sight of
billowing smoke dancing with plumage
was equal parts shocking and sweet.
An indescribable energy that life never
before had shared entered my body as it
left the bird.
The turkey descended from the Appalachia heavens back to earth. I still can
hear and see the forceful crash. The landing site was mere steps from where oversized, handed-down hunting boots shook.
Rather than calming down, my heart
raced faster as I approached my quarry.
Similar to hunter, the hunted, too, was
a young male - a jake.
I proudly ran my fingers through its
black feathers, fully expecting coal dust
to stain my hands. Like the rapids below,
its plumage was brilliantly iridescent in
the autumn sun.
Short of breath and full of adrenaline,
I paused to look up at the man who had
made this perfect day possible.
Before I could say anything, Dad broke
the silence.
"Nice shot Marsh!" he offered, "Your
first turkey. I am proud of ya'!"
It had been the first audible sound since
the report of the gun and the collapse of
the bird, moments later. Knowing any
words I mustered would pale in comparison to such a heartfelt compliment,
I managed a delighted, "Thanks, Dad!"
I crossed the mountain's threshold that
brisk morning with a shotgun, hope and a
father. Before a coal-black darkness could
befall those hills, I returned with my first
turkey, and a hero.
All this time, I needed only look up
and see Dad.
9

Pennsylvania Game News - November 2017

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