A Hunting Story

Sometime during this last year my sister gave my dad a Storyworth subscription and over the year, he has been answering questions for us and telling us a number of great stories about himself (and his family).  Now, my dad is a storyteller to begin with so I've heard a lot of his tales over the years, but I think the specific questions have brought up memories that were probably long forgotten.  So I've learned a lot of new stuff about my dad this year.  I thought in honor of Father's Day I would share one of his stories that just made me laugh-- but also helped me know both my dad and my grandpa better.  Here it is, in his own words:

The only hunting I remember my dad doing was an annual mule deer hunt. He loved to be in the mountains and enjoyed the thrill of the chase but in reality the deer that we harvested supplemented our diet. However, my mother detested venison and she had no problem letting everyone know. She complained about the smell when she was cooking and she said that deer meat was much too “gamey” in its taste. I think she would have rather gone hungry that eat the venison my dad brought home but she was a part of the generation where the mantra was simply, “if it is edible, you eat it.”

I am convinced that adding to the pantry was not the principal reason my dad loved to hunt deer. I think the most important part to him was being with his brothers and brothers-in-law. My father had 9 brothers and 5 sisters and our lives were intertwined in many ways. He was in the middle of the pack and so he was close to both those who were older and younger. The deer hunting trips usually consisted of several of my uncles and many cousins. I can tell you that deer camp was loud and very lively.

The annual trips where I accompanied dad were to a mountain area called White Rock. White Rock mountain was located on the border of Utah and Nevada about 150 miles north of Las Vegas. We would either drive up through Pioche, Nevada or through St. George, Utah. We left the end of paved roads at Modena, which was a small town with a long abandoned train stop on the Union Pacific route between Salt Lake City and Las Vegas. We then headed straight north on a dirt road that took us through Hamblin Valley. The valley was high desert land with lots of sage brush and range for cattle grazing.

I was 11 years old when I went on my first hunting trip with dad. It was just he and I and we drove an old 1952 Chevy sedan. We left after my dad got home from work which meant that by the time we got to Modena it was dark. Driving in the dark on dirt roads always requires caution but doing it in an old sedan that was not the best off-road vehicle made it even riskier. Sufficeth to say that we drove through the washes very slow and my dad did a masterful job of maneuvering around large rocks and high points in the road. Our old Chevy did not have much clearance and we had to avoid hitting something that could damage the oil pan. Poking holes in oil pans was of major concern when I was a young man as the cars had little or no protection against obstacles and the cars typically sat low. Losing oil meant the car was undriveable and this could be disastrous when you were out in the wilds of Nevada/Utah.

We finally arrived in camp which was located in an area that was simply referred to as the meadow. It was a fairly large grassy area (about the size of a football field) that was fed by natural springs. Pinion pines surrounded the meadow and everyone camped inside the tree line. Most of the others had arrived earlier in the week so the camp was well organized. A large group kitchen was set up along the edge of the meadow with gas stoves, a large fire pit, and make-shift tables for food prep. A crude outhouse was located well away and downwind. A large stack of fire wood was cut and stacked near the fire pit. Dad and I found a spot to set up our sleeping area. We did not have a tent or sleeping bags but we had large “camp” quilts which we laid on the ground and rolled up our pants for a pillow.

Everyone had eaten dinner by the time we arrived but there was plenty of left over stew, warm dutch oven baked bread, and lots of butter, jams, jellies, and honey. Uncle Glen was the appointed camp cook and he did not disappoint. He could cook anything in dutch ovens. It was common to have hot apple pie or cinnamon rolls. I remember one year he fixed pineapple-upside-down cake. it was awesome! Of course, when you are a hungry 11 year old, just about anything tastes good but there really is nothing better than hot food along with the smell of pines and sage brush, and the warmth of a camp fire. I was in heaven.

One thing I remember about deer camp is that there were two water jugs. One was for my dad, uncles, and other adult men and the other for the kids. Both had water, but the adult jug had supplements of which I and the other younger cousins were not permitted to partake. I am sure they were mainly protein mixes or other nutritious additives. You think?

It was late for my dad and I and after the long drive we were very tired. The opening morning of the hunt was just a few hours away so we went to bed. My poor dad did not sleep well with my sharing the quilts. The next day, he said sleeping with me was like sleeping with a rattle snake—he said I never stopped moving. That has not changed much—just ask Jean. Of course, I am not sure about the rattlesnake analogy—I do not know if they are restless or not but … One thing that is interesting, during the night we had some light rain. Anticipating this, my dad had laid our quilts in the middle of several pinion pines and the trees provided enough shelter to keep up dry. Who needs a tent?

We arose very early. We had to hike up into the White Rock mountain and the country was very steep. I did not have fancy hiking boots and I remember slipping and sliding on the loose shale that was also slick from moisture. It was very difficult keeping up with my dad but I did not dare to complain. I did not want to do or say anything that might jeopardize future invites to go hunting. We finally reached the area where we would hunt. It was still dark but as we looked out across Hamblin Valley, we could see the first faint line of light on the horizon mixed with clouds and distant rain showers.

It was cold so we moved to a single large Ponderosa pine tree under which we could huddle. My dad sensed my discomfort and built a very small fire. We sat together under the boughs of the grand old tree and watched the world across the valley start to come to life as we warmed our hands.

Once it was light enough to hunt, we struck out for a mountain saddle. I was walking directly behind him. He suddenly stopped and whispered “get down!” I looked ahead and three large bucks were walking single file directly towards us. My father raised his old Winchester 25-35 and let a bullet fly. I saw the lead deer fall down. He then levered another bullet into the chamber and shot again. I watched the next buck drop. The third buck had turned around at the sound of the first shot and was running back up the mountain. I heard my dad swear and then I saw that the first deer was only grazed by the bullet and was running off to our left. There were enough small junipers and scrub to shield him from another shot. However, the second buck was down and not moving.

We slowly approached the downed animal. My dad tried to act cool but I could tell he was excited. Even to my untrained eye, I could tell that the rack was very large. My dad’s hands were shaking as he handed his rifle to me and he examined the buck. He turned to me and said that it was the biggest deer he had ever shot. He added that it might be the biggest deer he had ever seen. He was grinning ear to ear.

We field dressed the animal—OK, in all honesty, I mostly watched. While we were working on our buck, my Uncle Glen, who had seen my dad shoot, brought up his quarter horse to haul the deer back to camp. However, the buck was simply too large for the smallish horse. It could not carry the load. We then proceeded to drag it down the mountain. It was slow going and my dad slipped and fell several times in the process. As we were working, we heard a vehicle and about a quarter mile below us was an old jeep. Dad told me run down and get their attention before they turned around and left. I ran as fast as I could and found two hunters standing next to the vehicle. I told them that my dad was wondering if they could haul our buck off the mountain. They both went up and met my dad and helped drag the animal the rest of the way.

We loaded up our deer and I remember sitting in the back cargo as we drove on the trail. I was so proud. We passed several hunters who all expressed amazement at the size of the buck. My dad acted like it was no big deal but I could tell he was excited to have the attention. I remember that he offered to pay the jeep men, but they refused money. The said it was a privilege to bring such a magnificent animal back to our camp.

Deer camp was deserted when we arrived. Everyone was still hunting. I could not wait for everyone to return so we could show off our trophy. I was not disappointed. All my uncles and cousins were jealous of the monster buck my dad and I had downed.

The campfire that night was so much fun. We had our trophy. Now, I sat and listened to the stories from my dad and my uncles. These were men who had grown up without electricity, used horses for their main mode of transportation, and fought in WWII. They were part of the greatest generation. I will share some of the stories in future updates.

Dad and I headed home the next day. The hunt was over and dad had to get back to work. There was no paid vacation or leave for truck drivers in those days. For me, I can still picture the Hamblin Valley with its changing morning colors. I can still smell the wet sage and pine. I can still feel the warmth of the small fire my dad built. It was a rite of passage for me to be with my father on a hunt—I was not 11 years old but a young man doing man things. I will never forget it.