An old mans trust

[Swinestalker]

It was cold and dark on the riverbank. I could feel my toes breaking through the thin, delicate layer of ice that covered the sand as I carefully took each step. We paused briefly at waters edge to behold the natural beauty of the cold clear sky, gleaming and sparkling with countless stars as it cast dim light across the open sandbar in the pre dawn hour. Before us lay the swirling river, gently gurgling along in the cold darkness. Taken by the moment, powerful emotions washed over me, emotions driven by instincts as old as mankind itself. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. I could tell my Grandfather was feeling the very same emotions. Excitement and adventure lay across that river! Two men, one young, one old, were about to hunt. I have often felt a kinship with peoples from ages past at times like this, often wondering to myself if caveman hunting parties felt the same emotions that I now felt? Bet they did...The pure and natural drive to hunt is a powerful thing indeed. It will drive men to do things. Do things like wade an icy river before daylight...Despite the powerful longing and desire to hunt, I did however, still dread that first step into the icy water. It was going to hurt...It always did...

[South MS Bowhunter]

  And….

[Roy from Pa]

 

[Possum Head]

Been there done that and I too brother, love the drive! 

[woodchucker]

Coffee time...!! 

[Swinestalker]

 The Homochitto river is an interesting river, a mysterious river, a dangerous river...It snakes its way through southern Mississippi eventually emptying into the mighty river this state is named after. For most of the way, it is bounded by alternating steep banks and large open sandbars. These tend to give way to thick hardwood bottoms and swamps. At normal levels it ranges from 150 to 250 feet across and there is only a lazy current. After periods of heavy rain however, it can rapidly transform into a swift, raging torrent several hundred yards wide and capable of washing out bridges, uprooting enormous trees and causing massive erosion. At these times, huge drift piles can be carried down stream. Normal depth ranges from a couple of feet deep to 8 feet or so in the bends. The sand is constantly drifting and a spot you can easily wade one day, can float your hat the next....

[Swinestalker]

 Grandfather and I had rode down to the river the previous evening to make sure it was still only knee deep in this spot. It was, but a deep hole lurked about 30 yards down stream. Both of us gasped as we stepped into the icy water and its chilling fingers took hold of our legs. How well I remember the first time we ever waded the river in cold weather. I was a young boy of about 8 years old. Apparently my grandfather could sense my fear. He took my hand, looked at me with a wry, but kind smile and said, “I’ll hold your hand.” “Now remember boy, the cold will hurt at first, hurt deep down in your bones.” “You just hold on to my hand and keep wading, soon you’ll numb up and it won’t hurt so much.” Over the next few years, he no longer needed to hold my hand, but always slowed his pace to stay near me, just in case. I was now a young man of 19 years and had made this painful, but rewarding trip many times. It did not escape my attention that over the last few years, the situation had reversed itself. I now instinctually slowed my pace to keep near him, just in case...

[Swinestalker]

He carried an old Remington Sportsman 48 semi auto 12 gauge. It was well worn from years of hard use. Much of the blueing was gone and the walnut stock had countless scratches, dings and gouges that bore testimony to the many stories it had to tell. I carried a beat up old Bear recurve. It had its own stories to tell. It had endured a rough life at the hands of a teenager full of youthful energy. A teenager obsessed with archery and hunting. It was actually my grandfather who gave it to me some years back. A WW2 veteran, he never had any real interest in archery. He did however have an interest in me. He had noticed the way I constantly shot my little cheap fiberglass bow. He had noticed how I drooled over the racks of new Bear bows at the Otasco department store. One evening in early summer, after working hard all day in a tire plant, he brought it home and presented it to me. Seems he had done some horse trading at work. No 12 year old has ever been happier.  Even had a quiver of cedar arrows to go with it! I was completely flabbergasted! Grandpa, probably noticing the shocked look on my face, and no doubt remembering the numerous instances from the past where my arrows had wound up in places they should not have been, sternly looked me in the eye and said, “Son, that ain’t no toy!” “If anymore windows get broken, tin roofs get holes poked in them, or anymore cats get ventilated, I’ll take that bow away and kick your behind so high in the air, the blue birds will build in it!” “Understand?” Yes sir! I gleefully exclaimed as I raced away with my new treasures. Grandpa’s bark was always much worse than his bite. Besides, the first two were just accidents, and that darned ol cat had made a full recovery....

[Swinestalker]

[Swinestalker]

[South MS Bowhunter]

 

[SlowBowKing]

This is the good stuff!

[elkken]

   

[Swinestalker]

We had not been able to hunt together much over the last couple of years. His only daughter, my mother, was lost to cancer and it had been a difficult time for us both. It was now late December, just a few days before Christmas and we were both excited at the prospect of getting to hunt together again after such a long time. Growing up, we hunted together every season. My grandfather spent countless hours afield with me. He never really killed many deer, as most of his efforts were focused on giving me opportunities. This was back in the 70s and 80s when semi auto Remington “Woodsmaster” rifles were the in-style weapon to have. Bowhunting at that time was virtually unheard of in our neck of the woods. Being a young teen that “hunted with sticks” as some of the family called it, I took all manner of ridicule and was the butt of many jokes. It was all in good nature, but I was still regarded as kinda “different” nonetheless. The family owned a large tract of land along the Homochitto and hunting was a very social thing with uncles, nephews, cousins and friends joining in. They usually ran dogs in the mornings and took stands in the evenings. My grandfather realized fairly quickly that this was just not my way. He sensed something in me and unselfishly adapted the way he hunted, the only way he ever known how to hunt, just to suit my style. We began to hunt together in a unique fashion, him with his old shotgun, me with my bow. I had no bow hunting peers, so my grandfather did the best he could to be one. Over the years, we certainly did not do a lot of damage to the deer population, but we had more genuinely good times afield than should be allowed by law. We were there to hunt, and therefore our goal was to kill, yet it was far more than that. It’s a deep bonding that I believe only other hunters can understand. About 100 acres of the family land was across the Homochitto river. Because of the difficulty and inconvenience of getting across the river, no one in the family really hunted there much, except me and grandpa....

[South MS Bowhunter]

Loving it!

[Mike Falkner]

Keep it going

[Bisch]

This is awesome so far! I’m in for the rest!!!

Bisch

[Swinestalker]

He carried the old shotgun over his shoulder with a familiar ease. Draped over the barrel were his socks, boots, and pants. I carried mine pretty much the same way from my bow limb. He also carried an old rucksack that contained our lunch and the bomb. The “Bomb” was our terminology for a wad of straw, small sticks and lighter pine that we would use to easily and quickly start a fire on the far shore. I can assure you there is nothing better than a good fire after wading an icy river! It would warm us up and dry our feet before putting the socks and boots back on. It also allowed us to “smoke up” which was our scent control plan. To this day, even with all the fancy gimmicks and sprays, it remains my preferred method. We reached the far shore without tripping, falling or stepping in a hole. He was still amazingly strong and sure footed for a man in his 70s. In no time at all we had a crackling fire going and we were warming up nicely. The sun was just beginning to cast its first dim glow in the East before the coming dawn. I could now see he was out of breath and breathing heavily, taking this quiet time to catch his breath before we began to hunt. The flickering firelight accented the heavy lines in his face, and the many scars on his hands. It was plain to see that time had robbed much of his vigor and strength over the years. It had not however,  robbed him of his desire and will! His piercing blue eyes locked on mine and he said, “Ok son, what’s the plan?”. Despite his age, I could see the childish excitement and thirst for adventure dancing in his eyes. I saw a child’s eyes in an old mans face. Indeed, I saw for the first time, a glimpse into my own future....

[Swinestalker]

He listened intently as I explained the plan. We were still out on the open sandbar by the fire. The sandbar gave way about 50 yards past us to a thick and dense stand of river willow that ran parallel to the sandbar for about 400 yards. The willow in turn gave way to mature hardwoods after running a couple of hundred yards deep. Grandpa would go in the willows and very slowly stalk his way up to a point on a small ridge in the hardwoods. I would ease down the sandbar a few hundred yards and do the same. This would take all morning. Hopefully, we might push deer past one another. I would continue to stalk back towards his position until I reached a point about 150 yards behind where he would be. There would be a rise between us and I would whistle to him from there. I could hear him if he shot, but he could not hear me. Over the years, without fail, when we met back up, he’d excitedly ask, “Get anything?”  We then gathered our gear, wished each other luck and headed our separate ways. The sun was now beginning to crowd the horizon. I turned and watched the old man as he slipped into the willows and disappeared. I thought how different things were now. I was no longer a child to be protected and coddled. I was now a man and treated as an equal. A man he respected and trusted. My standing in the family had changed as well. No longer treated as an oddball, I now carried a position of genuine respect. I had developed into a successful woodsman that regularly brought deer back to camp. Many of the old men now sought my advice about hunting. It struck me then that my plan this morning put grandfather in a far more advantageous position than my own. It was not a conscious decision on my part, yet as I turned it over in my mind, I realized that his success was indeed far more important to me than my own. Reaching the wood-line, I slipped a razor tipped broad head out of the quiver and nocked it, something I now did without looking and with a practiced ease. As I stepped into the willows I thought again about my grandfather and all the countless times he’d un selfishly put my success in front of his own. Oh how badly I longed to hear the deep boom of that old Sportsman 48 break the morning silence....

[2fletch]

Thanks Clifford for this great narration. Hunting under any circumstance is rewarding, but hunting with a relative or good friend is the max's. I will never forget the time that I spent with dad, grandfather, and uncles, in Kentucky, Tennessee, and Indiana.