Kansas Bow Season, Day 2:  On Sunday night one small eight pointer cruised in from upwind and, boy, was he headed somewhere.  I moved quite a bit to draw, until I decided not to shoot but he didn’t care.  He just stiff legged it right on through.
Day 3:   No turkeys, coyotes or geese.  Same little “eight” from about the same direction again at about 7:30.  This time he moved downwind and was gone.  
I decided to walk some about 8AM so I began to still-hunt into the wind.  Thirty yards later I spotted a young buck with some forks on his head.  He moseyed on north and I moved ten feet when the woods came alive.  Three bucks came in, chasing a single doe.  I picked out the closest one, and probably the biggest, and let one fly.  “Miss,” I thought. I walked over to find my arrow and found evidence of a hit instead.
I trailed him for an hour, about a quarter mile, then I saw him laying down ahead of me in a fence row…with his back to me.
I… yes, fat and by this time of day overdressed, I belly crawled across a short grass field for seventy-five yards to a bit of high grass until I thought I was close enough for a shot.  I will mention here that after I had crawled for days I looked back to see how far I had made it…thirty feet.  I really wish someone could have captured me on video.  I’m sure it was hilarious.
Anyway I nocked an arrow, rolled to my knees, and drew my bow. We both got to our feet at the same time but he kept going, right up and over the fence.  Seemed like he wasn’t hurt at all.  He stopped and looked back and that was his downfall.  He made it just a little further to where I found him.
Ten points and, dressed, about 160 lbs.  I was tired and sweating but also able to drive to within fifty yards of him.  Starting in the middle of one quarter section and ending in the middle of the next quarter section, I was glad for that.
Sure miss my dad and mom.  Drove him by their place anyway on the way to the locker, for old times sake.

Another great day in the woods came to a close this evening.  I went deer hunting… again, with my son Steve and a couple of friends. We started off in the middle of a mile section, surrounded mostly by cedar trees.  If you have ever hunted amongst the cedars, you’ll know what I mean when I say it’s the ultimate corn maze.
Steve and I spotted some deer in a cut bean field so we glassed them a bit from a hilltop.  As daylight overcame them, they began to mosey to the cedars, but we were already there, waiting.
What grows wild in the woods that makes a deer run in circles?  Whatever it is, she had a bunch of it.  A single doe, obviously excited by the four smallish bucks nearby, ran in circles for about ten minutes, in and out of the line of bucks.  She jumped in the air and kicked to one side and then the other.  I’m guessing she had heard all the stories and wanted nothing to do with them. Anyway, the bucks seemed to shrug her off and continue their beeline to bedtime.
Steve picked out a deer and settled in for a shot.  I covered my ears and waited…nothing.  The deer trotted some and I burped at him (yes, a big ‘ol Diet Coke burp) and he stopped. I waited and, again, nothing.  The deer decided he’d had enough and sprinted for cover.  I looked at Steve and said nothing as he held up a rifle round with a nice big dent in the primer and the bullet still in the other end.
He told me he pulled the trigger, raised and lowered the bolt, and and tried again but to no avail.  He had to console me.  I hate it when opportunity knocks for one of my kids and then the door slams shut.
Anyway we decided to skirt the hillside to see if we could cut him off and fifty yards later, as we rounded a rockpile, I heard Steve say “Dad” and then his rifle boomed.  Another forty yards and high fives and back slapping ensued.  Steve had not hunted or taken a deer in years and he did not care if it wasn’t the bull of the woods.  It was like that first one all over again.  
We began the chore that always accompanies the taking of big game and, after retrieving my deer hauler from the truck, he rolled him off the hilltop and I followed,  my camo coat suddenly seeming a size too small.

When I was about sixteen years old, my dad took my older brother Karl and I deer hunting in the Kiamichi Mountains of southeastern Oklahoma. My mom worked as the high school principal’s secretary, so being allowed to skip school for such an outing was pretty easy as I never had to do the asking.  Mom just simply said she would talk to the principal. I also could not skip school on my own as it always seemed she knew I was gone before I had actually made it off the school grounds. Moms are just like that, I guess.

I finished my few extra credit lessons beforehand so I wouldn’t be behind and bragged to my friends about where I was going, while dreaming of a big buck to hang on the wall. 

The day finally came and we loaded the truck with a tent, clothes, bedding, guns, Dad’s old Coleman stove and various other odds and ends.  The food we took was stored in a couple of ice chests, but with no ice. I remember my dad explaining to me that the ice chests were to keep the food from freezing in the cold outdoors.  That was probably the first time I ever gave my dad that apprehensive look associated with one’s sudden realization that what we were about to embark on might be a bit rough. I mean, I liked being outdoors in the winter and I especially like hunting in the cold and snow, but I never thought of actually living in it.

After we were loaded, we told Mom goodbye and headed out.  We drove all day while talking with truckers on Dad’s new electronic contraption called a CB radio.  I was the keeper of the mic since I had to sit in the middle, so naturally I argued with my brother over who would talk next.  Thinking back now, I would lay odds that my dad wanted to throw that thing out the window by the time we got there.

When we did finally arrive we were met by our friend Riley, whom we met during the yearly excursions to Christ’s Forty Acres, Oklahoma.  Now this place was a literal forty-acre pasture with a creek bed in the middle, nestled in the southern Oklahoma mountains. A few dormitories had been erected, along with a mess hall and a large chapel with no exterior walls but plenty of wooden benches, with room for what seemed like a thousand men and boys.  Riley was one of the men in charge of the place and, as a Deputy Sheriff standing over six feet tall plus cowboy hat and a .41 magnum revolver on his hip, he got no arguments. He was also a preacher with a very gentle way about him.

Riley directed us to an area in the national forest, just a mile or two from the Arkansas state line, where we could set up camp and hunt right out of the tent flap.  We set about putting up the tent and establishing camp, fire and all. This thrilled me to have a campfire to tend every night. We cooked hamburger and fried potatoes most every night and we even had some marshmallows to toast.  We had no canned or bottled drinks, aside from a gallon of milk and some orange juice, only Dad’s five-gallon metal water can which never needed ice because hey, this was wintertime in the mountains.  

I carried an old Savage bolt action 30-30 with a box magazine.  This was an old, odd-looking rifle but it was deadly accurate and I could shoot it well.  My brother sported a Remington semi-auto .308 rifle with a scope. I remember how heavy it was and how much more I liked my 30-30 and its lighter weight.  I believe my dad carried a Remington 700 scoped rifle, the first real deer rifle he’d ever bought for himself. He was a handloader and a meticulous one at that.  If he couldn’t make three shots touch at a hundred yards he would go back to his bench and work up loads until they did. From the time I was sixteen until he died, I bought only the occasional box of bullets or can of powder, but never a box of factory-loaded ammunition. I really miss that now and I think about it every time I purchase a box of shells.

I hunted around camp since we were atop a hill and I could see down in a valley in about any direction I looked.  I never saw a deer that weekend. My brother left camp every morning and made himself at home on a dirt two track that ran through the property. On the third day, a fine nine pointer crashed through the woods and came to a stop at the edge of the road.  Karl said later he had heard the buck coming and had gotten his gun up and pointed in the right direction. When the deer appeared he already had him in the scope, with crosshairs centered on the left shoulder, and he was squeezing the trigger. His rifle roared and the deer crashed away over the road and into the brush.  

I nearly jumped out of my new electric socks at the rifle’s report.  I was too far away to hear the deer crash in the woods, but soon I was listening to him tell the story and watching my dad beaming with pride at his son’s first deer. Karl had heard, as had I, that one should always give a deer half an hour before taking up the trail but that was not going to happen today.  We found the buck in the scrubby brush just a few yards away. He hadn’t gone very far at all. I remember Karl recounting later how he worried about getting his gloves off in time to pull the trigger, if the opportunity presented itself, and how he had forgotten all about it and fired with his gloves on and was amazed he had done so without a problem.

Field dressing chores were performed by my dad since Karl was still shaking and I didn’t really know what to do yet. A number of other hunters ambled by during this time, making comments and shaking hands, and we decided that buck was being hunted by several people at the same time and one of them had probably jumped it and sent it across Karl’s path.  We took the deer to Riley’s church and cut it up in the kitchen, cleaned up the mess and took some over to his house for a fine dinner of fried venison backstrap, potatoes, gravy and pie for dessert, all prepared for us by his wife, whose name escapes me now but she was a fine lady and a grand cook. That was the first time I remember eating fried backstrap and I thought it was amazing

The next day we broke camp and headed back to Kansas. I believe I slept most of the way home because deer hunting is hard work, after all.  If you ever have the chance to go camping in the woods with family, please do it. We did it several times and it constitutes some of the best memories I have of my youth and my family.  Deer hunting at the same time was an added pleasure that I will never forget.

I went fishing the other day. I took Marlan and Gary with me as they are two very good fishing buddies, and it was the least I could do. We fished the trout pit south of McCune, Kansas, and had a blast. Now by blast I mean we caught fish, of course, but more than that we connected again as friends.

Now don’t go getting all girly and mushy on me; just hear me out. This work, work, work lifestyle we all lead can wear on a person from time to time and because of that, once in a while we need some camaraderie and good old-fashioned fun to recharge our batteries. This was just such a trip.

We hunted the trout, literally. We stalked them and threw to them during their swirling surface dances, their fins out of the water while eating who knows what. These fish were far off shore, thirty to forty yards, and it took a quarter ounce spoon to reach them but when we did, they came a running, so to speak.

Three grown men whooping and hollering like kids, laughing and telling stories, if you can imagine that and all the while the sun dipping low in the west. This meant our time together would soon come to an end but we ignored it and fished on. Off in the distance we could hear a deer snorting at whatever spooked it, and then a few turkeys gobbled. A few minutes later the owls began their chorus of spooky nighttime tunes followed by the coyotes howling to tell the world they were alive and well and on the prowl. And we continued to catch trout.

I looked off to the west as the clouds cleared and witnessed a brilliant reddish-orange orb sinking into the horizon and noticed it’s reflection off the water, still so bright that it turned my friend Gary into a mere shadow just a few feet away.

In thinking back on our trip, I see that we began by deciding to just go fishing but I think, down deep, we all knew we were looking forward to a great time with friends, the kind of trip one tells their kids about. Well, we had just such a trip and it came via something as simple as the opening of one’s eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of God’s nature, given to us to enjoy and relish and talk about.

I thought about going back tonight but I really didn’t think I could improve on that memory so I just stayed home. Sometimes I wonder if stopping to smell the roses and relive the good times we’ve had with family and friends is enough, and concluded that it is…but not always since, of course, we have to take those trips and make those memories first in order to relive them.
I dearly love those times spent with friends and family, where we agree this was the best trip ever. But I thank God for the ability to remember them years down the road and relive that smile on a long past father or mother’s face or try to once again hear a child’s voice quiver with excitement at the marvel of doing something special for the first time. I hope I live a long while.

Once in a while a man does something that, at the time, seems perfectly harmless. Then in retrospect he realizes the extent of the damage caused by that now not so innocent act.

I have fished five times in the last two weeks and have only a crappie and three trout to show for it. I fear that I committed a mortal sin when I…washed my fishing rag. Woe, woe, woe is me.

This morning while again catching nada, I looked down at the right time and saw the mother of all Kansas trout breach the surface not five scant yards in front of me in an attempt to Ginsu a minnow. I swear it snarled at me, and my pistol was in my pocket.

Please don’t send cards or, especially, offer advice. I will prevail. Eventually, I will once again render that fish rag a smelly, stiffened, barely recognizable square of red cloth that bruises my leg in the wind whilst I pilot a watercraft into the blue beyond.

I will once again adorn the pages of Facebookdom with self-serving photographs of behemoths of the deep while laying claim to their defeat. Don’t cry for me, don’t cry for me.

I went to a funeral today. It was not a normal funeral, as one would think of as normal, but rather something like I had never experienced before. This man was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He was just ten years older than I and had passed away in a nursing home. I was there because a friend had invited me to come along and basically keep him company. I obliged him and we met shortly before 9:00 AM and headed for the Ft. Scott National Cemetery. If you’ve never been there, it is quite a place to see. Row upon row of white headstones, just like on T.V., with meticulous care taken to make the grounds look just so. I had driven through the cemetery on a couple of occasions but never had a reason to be there before. When we arrived, we were met by a man who led us to the ceremony sight where eight VFW Honor Guardsmen stood at attention. We unloaded the casket, draped with a US flag, and they escorted it to the proper place under the canopy. Military rights were afforded, prayers were offered and a beautiful rendition of Taps was played. Salutes were snapped at the proper time and the flag was properly folded and placed upon the casket. I guess I haven’t told you that the people I’ve mentioned here were the only ones in attendance. This veteran had no family, no wife, no kids, no nieces or nephews. No close friends to come pay their respects. The national cemetery provided the plot and needed services upon proof of his being a veteran. The funeral home, knowing there would be no payment, provided their services anyway because it was the right thing to do. I did not know this man; I saw his name but did not recognize it and I was thinking the whole time how sad it was that this man died alone, save a few acquaintances from the nursing home. I cannot imagine being that utterly alone and facing death here on earth. I’ll admit that I shed a tear during Taps as I stood with my hand over my heart and these old soldiers saluted with shaking hands, genuinely sorry to see one of their own being buried in this lonely manner. I played no part in this event. Like I said, I was just “along for the ride” but I am ever so much more honored to have had the opportunity to witness this military sendoff of a boots-on-the-ground nature, if you will. I am also thankful that, in this country fraught with so much turmoil, there are still people willing to take time out of their busy lives to see to it that a soldier, whom nobody knew, was given the proper honor and respect when he was laid to rest. I am thankful for all the friends I have and especially for my family. Without them I would not make it through my days here on earth. But mostly I am thankful for my God, whose promise of eternal life would be enough for me had I been in this man’s situation. If you see an old soldier, be sure to tell him or her thanks. One never knows, that might be the last time they hear it

• The phone call came just after dark one evening. The voice on the other end was a familiar one saying he had a little boy that wanted to tell me something. It was the special Kansas youth Deer season and I knew what was coming. A few seconds later I heard the excited voice of my seven year old great nephew, Gryffin telling me he had just taken his very first buck. He went on telling me how big he was, how far away he was, what gun he used and then dropped the bomb. “Uncle Kelly we can’t find it”. With that his dad picked up the phone and asked if I could come and help, I told him I would be right there. I turned to my wife, Linnet and told her I needed to go help Josh and Gryffin find a Deer. Like I needed to tell her anything, I was probably grinning and jumping around like a puppy while I pulled my boots on. They live only about seven miles from us so I made the trip in no time. Pulling up in the driveway I found a smiling kid standing next to his dad who was also grinning from ear to ear. After a quick story about where they were hunting, the shotgun slug and the miss on the first shot I found out the deer was in the weeds and boy howdy did he mean weeds. They had been hunting from an elevated stand less than a mile from home when the big eight pointer made his way into the clearing. Gryffin raised his weapon, a 20 gauge slug gun and fired. The gun bucked but the deer just looked around. He tried it again and down the buck went and then into the eight foot tall horseweeds, about twenty acres of them if my memory serves. So now here we were standing where the deer had stood trying to size up the task ahead of us. Did I mention it was pitch black now? Fortunately Gryffin’s dad, Josh is a real outdoorsman and he owns a dog, not just any dog mind you but the kind of dog a real outdoorsman should own. One that retrieves ducks finds downed quail, sleeps on the bed and oh yes, she is an accomplished deer retriever too, with a few deer already under her belt, so to speak. This story is one of triumph over adversity as Gryffin’s older brother had gone to be with Jesus about six months earlier at the tender age of eight. Very few can understand what this family has been through and were still feeling. This short respite called deer hunting was just one of the things they really needed, to laugh and smile and slap each other on the back and tell stories if just for a night in order to fill that vast emptiness inside. And we did just that. The big Black Lab found the Deer in short order, in the creek and we began the task of hauling him up the creek bank and pushing over the impenetrable forest of horseweeds to walk on top of them while dragging a two-hundred plus pound eight point Whitetail Buck, what a beast. Did I mention it was still eighty-five degrees outside? We wrestled that bruiser over the weed field and into my new and as yet un-bloodied truck. Fortunately the tailgate sat as high as the top of the fence and we slid the bed mat over the barbed wire. We were sweating in tall horseweeds now. Taking that deer back to the house was one of the prouder moments in my life. I counted myself lucky to have been called to come and help. Gryffin showed his deer to his mom and younger brother and sister and then Grandma and Grandpa showed up and it started all over again and he did not forget to tell them about the weeds and how hot it was and about standing in the middle of the creek in total darkness because Uncle Kelly forgot to bring a flashlight. As any seasoned hunter knows there are duties to perform after the harvesting of a big game animal and this was no exception. I felt blessed to stand back and watch as a proud daddy showed his son the how to’s of field dressing and skinning, which he thought was gross. We wrestled the Buck to where we could weigh him and he pegged the scales at two-hundred pounds even. My lower back had picked that number hours earlier. There was much joy to be had in my just watching these things progress as it reminded me of similar times when I was a boy. My big brother Keith’s first deer and how he and Dad processed it in the back yard. My Grandpa “pappy” and his first and I believe only deer hanging in the same backyard. I thought back to my first one and then the many times my dad took us out hunting, fishing and camping. The night we put a cold hot dog in Mom’s sleeping bag and how she screamed, even though she was on to us from the get go. That trip was the only time I can remember seeing my Grandma “Pansy” . There is a point in about every circumstance where one no longer feels needed or is unable to add to the festivities. That time came for me that night and I really did not mind it at all. I got to be part of a family deer hunt and recovery and the celebration that followed. I took photographs and hugged kids, petted dogs and shooed chickens. My experience was complete and I went home happy.

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