A Sacred Place

Depending on your sensitivities and your philosophy on animal life, parts of this blog may make you a tad bit queasy.  That’s because it’s about the premeditated and intentional loss of deer life.  But it’s much more than that.

It’s about a beautiful weekend in December, a father and son, a son’s friend, special extended family, and a spot on earth that is unspectacular yet sacred.  There are photos of dead deer, but these have been moved to the end so as to not be a distraction for those who would like to get in on this story without being repulsed.

Some background is required.  There is a place, in southern Ringgold County Iowa about a mile and a half from the MO stateline that is 1000 acres of hills, creeks, pasture, clay, gnarly timber, cattle, and a bit of marginally productive farm ground.  It’s had family blood on it since the 1850’s, as the legend is that there was semi-legal squatting by John Wesley Johnston and George Washington Olney on various pieces of ground that the then-infant state of Iowa just sort of ignored, until it eventually became family property.

Unspectacular, yet sacred.

Some colorful names are attached to different parcels of the farm today, so as to identify exactly which piece of ground is being talked about.

“Got 25 loads of manure hauled out to the West 80.”

“Pasture’s doin’ ok on Grandad’s 80.  Cows are still on it.”

“The best corn crop I ever had came off the bottom at the Brick House.”

“Figured that 7 inch rain last week would take the crossing on the John Henry 80, but it held.”

“Saw a real nice buck come off Idey’s 80 east of Susie’s and head into the cedars South of Neil’s.”

As I said, it’s unspectacular.  But I also said it’s sacred.  I suppose ground itself, or land, could be sacred.  If you’ve ever been there, you have experienced firsthand why Gettysburg truly is hallowed ground.  In the desert, Moses was commanded to remove his sandals, for he was standing on Holy Ground, being occupied by the very presence of God himself.

I don’t see the ground itself, on this farm in southern Iowa, as being sacred or hallowed in that way.

It’s the place that’s sacred.  Sacred because of story.  Family.  Memories.  Hard work.  People.  Holidays.  These are all true, and they make it truly sacred.  But above all else, I think the sacredness has formed out of tragedy and the pain of shared loss.

I can’t possibly take the time here to explain all that.  After all, this is about a deer hunt and a father and son, and another memory made in that Sacred Place on a crisp December morning.

All I’ll say is that my cousin Kevin has lost two brothers.  I have lost one.  My aunt and uncle have buried two sons, and my own mother and father have buried one.

Kevin and I never speak of this.  These tragedies are far too sacred for words, I think, but I also think it’s far too painful for either of us to handle, even after all these years.

Our brother’s names do come up, but it’s only when speaking of possessions or putting historical events in order, such as “Darren’s gun is out on the porch”, “Darrell was farming Ione’s ground then, wasn’t he?”, or “That was when we ran out of water because the pump quit working so we had to hold Dennis by his ankles upside down in the well, and we kept pulling him out for air ‘cause we were afraid he might blackout”.

And there’s that wall in the living room of my aunt’s farmhouse, over the piano and couch, that’s dedicated to these and others we’ve lost, time-faded framed photos from the 70’s and 80’s of young men in their prime, dressed in suit coats and ties or sweaters.  They are always with us.

My brother was killed in 1992 at the age of 26.  He's in the middle, Kevin is to his left.  My cousin Susie's husband Joe is on our far left.  A load of firewood for the woodstove at the Sacred Place.

My brother and I didn’t get along.  I wish I could say we did.  But I’d be lying.  He did teach me to hunt and fish.  He was an avid outdoorsman, and he was a stickler for conservation and keeping his guns and tackle in immaculate condition.

After he was killed, my other brother Ron got Darren’s Browning 12 gauge shotgun.  It is a beautiful gun.  There’s not a speck of rust anywhere, as rust only develops on a gun that has been abused by fingerprints and moisture, or stored in a case, never being allowed to breathe.  Darren loved to hunt, and his guns were a prized possession, worthy of great care.

I’m glad Ron has the gun and I think it means a lot to him that he does have it.  But as my son Will gets older, he’s grown into a 12 gauge.  Since my brother Ron no longer hunts, he let Will use it this year.

Will has gone deer hunting with us, to that Sacred Place, since he was about 8 years old.  His first 5 years I made him carry a bb gun.  He would fire it at trees or hedge apples or into a fresh gut-pile (sorry about that, just passing along factual information).  I didn’t have him carry it because I thought he was going to kill deer with it.

I had him carry it to learn how to safely and responsibly carry a gun on a weekend hunt that involved miles of walking.  Up and down deep ditches.  Through crazy-wholly brush.  Across the sometimes-thin ice of creeks.  Through deep snow and slippery mud.  If he accidentally stuck the barrel of that Red Rider into the mud of a creek bank, it was a teachable moment instead of the potentially life-threatening situation of a plugged shotgun barrel.

I wanted to see how he carried it, where he pointed it, how he handled it, if he ever unintentionally discharged it, or if he ever “forgot” he was actually carrying a firearm and began to carelessly wave it around or use it as a cane.

I also wanted to test him, to see if this whole thing was really for him.

Will at the dinner table of the Sacred Place taking a break during a past hunt.  Kevin is to his left.  My nephew Jared is to his right.

I understand people have various views on hunting.  I respect this, and though my views might obviously differ, I try not to force my views on anyone.  I didn’t want to force something on my son he wasn’t comfortable with or didn’t enjoy.

I even asked him earlier this fall, because I hadn’t really ever asked him in all the years he’d been coming along to the Sacred Place, if he enjoyed deer hunting and wanted to continue to go.  Without even a second’s hesitation he told me he absolutely loved the hunts.  His response was music to my ears, but I would never want him to pretend to enjoy something just because he thought he had to in order to gain my approval.

Two years ago Will started carrying a 20 gauge.  Last year he graduated to a 12 gauge.  I do think it’s a really cool connection for him to carry a possession of an uncle that he was never able to meet.  And it’s made possible by the Sacred Place.

We’ve never hunted together anywhere else.  Even the years when we’ve been skunked and not taken any deer, we’ve never thought of trying some other place.  The deer hunt is only special because of the Sacred Place.  I like deer hunting, but it’s the place that’s sacred, not the activity.

This year Will brought a friend along.  Matthew has almost completed Eagle Scout and has had extensive gun safety through Boy Scouts.  But he hasn’t done hunter safety.  And he’s never hunted.  Or chewed Copenhagen or Red Man (and he still hasn’t, Lynn… at least not under my supervision…).

I wouldn’t let just anyone onto the Sacred Place.  Matthew is almost family, so it’s perfectly natural that he’d come along, and he passed my verbal firearm safety test.  He could be trusted.

Anyone who sets foot on the Sacred Place is automatically inducted into the family.  You are expected to return, with or without those who initially brought you, because you have been adopted and are part of the clan.  So Matthew won’t have a choice but to return next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.  That’s just the way it works at the Sacred Place and the people who inhabit it.

Since he lives at the Sacred Place, Kevin acts as the year-round deer scout.  I’m down there a fair bit during the year to load hogs out, work calves, or to fix fence, but Kevin is key to a successful deer hunt.

I get phone calls that start out with “There’s a big buck with two does on Grandad’s 80 by the old house.  Seen him the last three mornings from the breakfast table.  Yesterday he was all the way up here by the house.  Went right through mom’s garden.  He’s as wide as a steer.”

The deer hunt at the Sacred Place isn’t an occasion for a Cabela’s catalog photo shoot.  We’re not filming an outdoors show.  There’s no fancy outfitting and it’s certainly not glamorous.  Clothes that cattle are chored in double as hunting garb, because there’s not really a distinction made between chores and hunting.

Guns are tools, deer are a crop, so the hunt is a harvest.  Deer eat corn.  Trash fences.  Tear up big bales of hay.  Deer do considerable and far-too-frequent automobile damage.  Just trying to do our part to thin the population a little.  “Shoot all the bucks you want,” my Uncle used to say.  “Just remember you have to kill six does for every buck.”

We arrived at the Sacred Place, as we do every year, the first Friday in December.  That Friday has always been a bit like the night before Christmas for me.

I remember as a teenager staying up half the night with Kevin the night before the pheasant or deer opener, watching Johnny Carson and playing that hand-held green Mattel Electronic Football game, dreaming of rooster pheasants and trophy bucks, chewing copious amounts of tobacco and drinking countless cans of Coca-Cola (but that was a long, long time ago, and I promise that neither of your sons have been partakers of tobacco, or late-night consumers of Coca-Cola, at least under my supervision, Kris and Lynn…).

Will and I gathering gear, ready to head out to the Sacred Place for a past hunt.  It's like the night before Christmas.

Aunt Rose always has supper for us.  This time it was roast, cheesy potatoes, green beans, and apple pie and ice cream.  She is used to cooking for a threshing crew.

Then we debate for hours on where to start first in the morning.

How cold will it get tonight?  What’s tomorrow’s high?  Which way will the wind be blowing in the morning?  Is it supposed to shift during the day?  Will it be sunny or cloudy?  How many boxes of slugs do you have?  You got a sharp knife?  Is there snow on the ground? Are there cows on the Little Bottom? What time’s sunrise?  You been seeing them in the CRP or out in the bean field?  When will Lyle’s party be pushing that section across from the John Henry 80?

It was decided we’d start at the Brick House.  That’s 160 acres, the only piece of ground owned by the family that’s not contiguous, located about 3 miles west of the rest of the farm.  Our goal was to be in the timber by 6.  That’s AM, and that’s still pitch black night.  That meant breakfast at 5 AM.

My Aunt Rose milked cows every morning and every evening for 20 years, so she was always up by 4:30.  She lives for mouths to feed and beds to make.  Not that she necessarily loves the work, but nothing brings her more fulfillment than a houseful of people who have nourishing food to eat and comfortable beds to sleep in.

After pancakes and more bacon than we should’ve eaten, we headed for the Brick House.  Kevin took Will west down the dirt road to come in on the south edge of the property.  I took Matthew to the east side, then we walked in.

Will and Kevin were going on stand about a quarter mile apart, both blocking the half-mile long creek and timber that is the west border of the farm.  Matthew and I would be sitting on the edge of a terrace overlooking that timber.  Matthew had a view of both Will and Kevin.  I moved further north down the terrace from Matthew, to the next ridge.  I wouldn’t be able to see anyone else from where I was.

Where we were each placed.  Matthew could see both Will and Kevin.  I was up on another ridge and couldn't see anyone.   Matthew and I had the high ground.

Opening morning can’t possibly be explained to anyone who has never experienced it.  There’s this excitement leading up to the weekend that starts building during the week.  Then generously mixed into Friday night’s lengthy strategic planning session are tales of previous hunts that have been told and re-told dozens of times.

Opening morning truly does compare to Christmas morning, as we’ve been waiting for this morning since the close of the previous year’s season.  It’s finally here, full of possibility and wonder.

Sometimes there’s snow.  Five years ago we hunted in a torrential downpour.  That was the year I shot the legendary one-antlered 8-point buck on Steve Smith’s 80 just as we were getting out of the truck.  In 2014 it was below zero – not just below freezing, but below zero – on opening morning.  He got so cold on stand that year that Kevin actually started a fire in a grove of cedars “to save my toes”, as he put it.

This year the weather was chilly to start, but clear, and it warmed up fast.  No wind to speak of.  It was perfect.

It’s quiet in southern Ringgold County on a December morning, and with no light pollution at all, the sky is immense, the stars flickering in the deep expanse.  Exhaled breath hangs in the air.

As sunrise approaches, coyotes start waking up.  Either that, or they’re getting in their last yowling before calling it a night.  Matthew and I were treated to a symphony.  A pack of coyotes sound haunting in the darkness.

On opening morning, as the sky begins to brighten ever-so-slightly in the east, muffled shots here and there can be heard.  Sometimes there’s a single shot, other times there might be a dozen at once.  This sends jets of adrenaline into the bloodstream and quickens the pulse.  Someone is finding deer, so it’s only a matter of time before we get shots, too.

When it happens, it always shocks me at how surprising it is.  Although I’m there to hunt, which means seeing and shooting deer, for a brief moment after seeing a deer in range I’m like “Wow.  What are you doing here?”

Especially when our morning plan works to perfection and I’m in a stare down with a deer a mere 20 yards away.  Which is what happened this year.

I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve shot a lot of deer, but my heart literally skipped a beat.  If you haven’t been there, you’re wondering what I’m talking about.  If you have been there, you didn’t need me to tell you about it.

A personally successful hunt is deeply satisfying.  But hearing shots that you know are coming from others in your party closely rivals this satisfaction, because it’s impossible to know if they’re also having luck.  Are they just throwing lead around, or are they hitting deer?  Is Kevin shooting at a coyote again?

The excitement was heightened this year, not knowing if it was my son taking the shots…

After the sun was fully up and no shots had been fired for some time, I heard the unmistakable voice of my son from over a quarter mile away.  I couldn’t see him, but Kevin had walked up to where he was and I could hear the two of them talking.  Will was excited, animated, plenty charged up.

Will: “I got one!  Over on the other side of the pond.”

Kevin: “I got one on the ground down by the river.  Did you see those three come north past you?”

Will: “Yeah, I think that’s one of them I shot.  They turned and started heading back to you.  I dropped the one.”

Will’s first deer.  It will be talked about Friday night after Friday night, before the Saturday opener, as we plan the following morning’s strategy.  Add it to the list of memories of the Sacred Place.

I picture that conversation going something like this:

Me: “We could start at the Brick House.”

Kevin: “I don’t know.  We never have luck hunting it in the morning.  We should save it for the afternoon drive.”

Me: “Don’t you remember Will’s first deer, those three you pushed up from the river on Doug’s?  He shot that doe by the pond.  You shot that one at the river, and I shot the buck off the horseshoe terrace.  That was Matthew’s first hunt.”

Kevin: “Oh yeah.  Well. Maybe we should start at the Brick House.  Put Matthew in the same spot.  He’ll get a shot this year for sure.  Yeah, sounds like a good plan to me.  That’s what we’ll do.”

One of Will's first deer hunts, faithfully toting his bb gun.  Deep snow at the Sacred Place on opening morning.

I went over to get Matthew.  Even though he hadn’t gotten a shot this year, he too was plenty charged up.  “I was in a perfect spot to watch the whole thing unfold.  It was like I was watching a movie.  I saw three of them come out in front of where Kevin was, then move toward Will.  I saw the one go down by the pond after he shot.  Then they ran back toward Kevin and I heard more shooting from over there.  It was awesome.”

I love my son.  I’m proud of my son.  My love and my pride have nothing to do with his marksmanship skills or his hunting ability.  My approval isn’t earned by what he does or doesn’t do.

I love him and I’m proud of him because he’s my son, and I really do delight in hanging out with him and observing his life and seeing him come alive in those moments of pure excitement and joy.  He has an amazing heart.

That also goes for my three girls, Kris, Kelli, and Lizzy.  They know they are honored and cherished by me.  Go ahead, ask them.  And Kris has her own Sacred Places, places made up of Ontario farm ground and homes, just as special, or I’d dare say even more special, than the Sacred Place of which I speak.

But this blog isn’t about them.  It’s about a special December morning with my son that I’ll never forget.

Raise your glasses with me for a toast to many more memories in that unspectacular, yet Sacred Place.  While we're at it, let's toast all our Sacred Places.

Below are photos of dead deer.  It's not showing off.  It's showing the harvest.  But still, they are deer and they are dead, so consider yourself warned...

Will's first deer.  At the Brick House.  December 2017.

Couldn't let my son show me up.  My buck, December 2017.

Kevin's big buck.  A hunt of the past.

Will and my legendary 8-point 1-antlered-buck from a past hunt, shot on Steve Smith's 80 opening morning just after stepping out of the truck, during a torrential downpour.  Will's pointing out the gut pile.  This was after he already shot into it with his bb gun.  He's wearing a garbage bag with neck and arm holes cut into it.