Pennsylvania Game News - December 2017 - 3

T

HERE HE WAS - finally. I pulled
harder on the buck, dragging his limp
body over the carpet of day-old snow that
brightened the hemlock forest.
My father's jacket was a beacon as
the evening approached, a bright orange
lighthouse that let me know my day was
almost done, and the buck was close to
being safely loaded in our Jeep for the
long drive home.
Although my father was angry I was
so late to meet him, I knew this was a
consequence of his worry about me, and
his aging body.
What would he do if I didn't show up
before dark?
I'm sure he was also anxious about the
long drive home. But I also knew that he
was proud of me for bringing in one more
buck out of the depths of the Allegheny
National Forest.
That was the last time my father and I
would share the woods, the last time he
would load his pump-action .35 Remington, the last time he would wear his
hunting jacket.
He wouldn't hunt without me, as we
had been hunting together for a decade
or more and many of his other hunting
buddies had passed away, or had stopped
hunting, long before.
My work and growing family left me
with no time to travel back home for the
first day of buck season, our own special
holiday that is so important to Pennsylvania families.
By the time my career settled down,
and my family life allowed me some
freedom, it was too late. Age caught up to
my father, as it must for us all. Decades of
working in a Pittsburgh steel mill took its
toll. One day we were sharing the woods,
the next he was in a wheelchair, then a
nursing home. Or so it seemed.
As time passed, we savored our huntDECEMBER 2017

ing memories together, and he kept saying
he'd make it to the deer woods that year. I
promised I'd be there to help, but I knew
his hunting days were over. His heart tried
to will it to reality, but his body and mind
continued to rebel.
I wish we could have made it happen,
just one more time.
Now his memory is all that remains,
woven into the fabric of his hunting jacket,
the grace of his deer rifle, the edge of his
KA-BAR knife.
These and other mementos make the
past come alive, and remind me of one
of the greatest gifts I ever received - the
opportunity to hunt with my father.
I wear the jacket each winter now, not
during hunting season, when I prefer an
orange vest, but during snow season when
chores still need to be done or my kids
have a snow day and toboggans await an
afternoon of fun.
Every time I put it on, it reminds me of
the man who filled it so much better than I.
The first time I put on the jacket after
my father's death, my hands entered the
pockets like a kid on Christmas morning.
The front right pocket had his whistle,
to signal a deer down, or, just in case, a
need for help. The left pocket contained
his drag rope, still waiting for the next
deer it would help pull over the powdery
forest floor.
But like the memories it holds, this
jacket has pockets everywhere.
A large back pocket - mostly unheard
of these days - kept his spare gloves, a
leather-and-orange-cloth mix more useful
for working on a truck than staying warm.
I'd seen all of these items before -
many times - and in some way was
expecting to find them.
But in another, almost-hidden pocket,
3
Pennsylvania Game News - December 2017

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