Old Lease On Life
The Super Bowl of outdoor sportsmanship is tomorrow: opening day for Texas deer season.
The highways, byways and back roads this afternoon will be clogged with big trucks with big tires, hauling trailers of ATVs and whatnot into the backwoods and brush. The hunters will sit around fires, fart, tell the same hunting stories they've been telling for years, and do whatever it takes to separate themselves from their urban personas.
Sadly, neither Dad nor I will be part of that this year.
For the first time in more than 40 years, we're deer lease orphans. Dad had a falling out with some of the boys on the lease where he's been hunting off and on for decades. He decided to give up his spot. Part of the beef involved the old guys not accepting me this year as a member rather than guest. Part of it involved a beef I won't go into. And part of it, I believe, involved the fact that Dad is almost 86 years and perhaps has no business hiking around this place, a sprawling and unforgiving rocky ranch just west of San Antonio.
A year or two ago, while out walking alone and miles from camp, he stumbled and fell into a massive cactus patch. He had trouble getting up. Had he been unable to, it might have been hours and hours before anyone found him. Not good.
As it was, it turned into a humor festival for his fellow hunters back at camp, where part of the evening was spent plucking prickles out of Dad's noggin.
I'd hoped he had another season or two left there, but that was not to be.
Hunting there had little to do with killing. It was about deer-camp camaraderie. Bringing home the meat was icing. Last year, a wicked 150-yard shot from my open-sites rifle downed an eight-point buck, only my third deer. I have its skull hanging on a backyard fence.
In addition to missing not having a hunting experience with Dad this year, I'm going to miss this deer lease, a scrubby, undeveloped patch of Texas Hill Country.
For more than 40 years, the hunters here have joked about getting water and electricity, infrastructure whose development is pushed back from one year to the next. They sleep in shacks and campers that must be cleared of wasps, mice, rats and occasionally ring-tailed cats.
Then there is the toilet, if you could call it that at all. Basically, it's a piece of plywood with a hole in the middle and supported by four wooden posts. They put it out in the open to ensure that lack of privacy is underscored.
The country here is a bit more rugged. Roads and trails are a little rockier. The brush is a little thicker. The cacti are a little thornier. The rattlesnakes are a little bigger. The farts are a little louder. The campfire stories are more outrageous.
Tomorrow is opening day, and even if Dad were still a member, I wouldn't be allowed to go. No guests on opening weekend. Period. This was his weekend to be with the old guys.
But that's perhaps all gone now. The Last Great Hunt might be behind him, and I was there for it in early January, when I killed that eight-point, popping him in the neck at twilight.
Yeah, I'm going to miss going out there with Dad, but there is comfort in knowing that I won't spend this weekend worrying about whether he is lying out there all alone in the brush, mired in a rattlesnake-infested cactus patch.
The highways, byways and back roads this afternoon will be clogged with big trucks with big tires, hauling trailers of ATVs and whatnot into the backwoods and brush. The hunters will sit around fires, fart, tell the same hunting stories they've been telling for years, and do whatever it takes to separate themselves from their urban personas.
Sadly, neither Dad nor I will be part of that this year.
For the first time in more than 40 years, we're deer lease orphans. Dad had a falling out with some of the boys on the lease where he's been hunting off and on for decades. He decided to give up his spot. Part of the beef involved the old guys not accepting me this year as a member rather than guest. Part of it involved a beef I won't go into. And part of it, I believe, involved the fact that Dad is almost 86 years and perhaps has no business hiking around this place, a sprawling and unforgiving rocky ranch just west of San Antonio.
A year or two ago, while out walking alone and miles from camp, he stumbled and fell into a massive cactus patch. He had trouble getting up. Had he been unable to, it might have been hours and hours before anyone found him. Not good.
As it was, it turned into a humor festival for his fellow hunters back at camp, where part of the evening was spent plucking prickles out of Dad's noggin.
I'd hoped he had another season or two left there, but that was not to be.
Hunting there had little to do with killing. It was about deer-camp camaraderie. Bringing home the meat was icing. Last year, a wicked 150-yard shot from my open-sites rifle downed an eight-point buck, only my third deer. I have its skull hanging on a backyard fence.
In addition to missing not having a hunting experience with Dad this year, I'm going to miss this deer lease, a scrubby, undeveloped patch of Texas Hill Country.
For more than 40 years, the hunters here have joked about getting water and electricity, infrastructure whose development is pushed back from one year to the next. They sleep in shacks and campers that must be cleared of wasps, mice, rats and occasionally ring-tailed cats.
Then there is the toilet, if you could call it that at all. Basically, it's a piece of plywood with a hole in the middle and supported by four wooden posts. They put it out in the open to ensure that lack of privacy is underscored.
The country here is a bit more rugged. Roads and trails are a little rockier. The brush is a little thicker. The cacti are a little thornier. The rattlesnakes are a little bigger. The farts are a little louder. The campfire stories are more outrageous.
Tomorrow is opening day, and even if Dad were still a member, I wouldn't be allowed to go. No guests on opening weekend. Period. This was his weekend to be with the old guys.
But that's perhaps all gone now. The Last Great Hunt might be behind him, and I was there for it in early January, when I killed that eight-point, popping him in the neck at twilight.
Yeah, I'm going to miss going out there with Dad, but there is comfort in knowing that I won't spend this weekend worrying about whether he is lying out there all alone in the brush, mired in a rattlesnake-infested cactus patch.
posted by Brian Pearson at 9:27 AM
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