Poper
Member
Actually, I initially posted this in the Hunting Forum. I think it is as much a General topic, if not more so. If the MODs think otherwise, they may kill this thread. I have no objection.
Dec. 11 last year my father passed away. His health had slowly failed over the last 20 years due to emphysema, asthma and diabetes. However, it was an Abdominal Aortic Aneurism that ended his life. Actually, a quite merciful death as he always was worried he might die as his father had, slowly suffocating as his lungs filled with fluid because of the emphysema.
Dad started taking me duck hunting with him when I was 11 years old. I couldn't legally hunt, but I guess I made a good bird dog.
When I was old enough to hunt, he bought me a used Stevens single shot 20 gauge that kicked like the proverbial Missouri Mule and would leave me black and blue from the top of my shoulder to the nipple on my boy-thin chest. Got my very first duck and my very first pheasant with that bruiser! Two seasons later he gave the Stevens to my younger brother and bought me a spankin' new Sears 'n Roebuck 12 gauge pump! It fit better. Didn't beat me up near so bad and I killed a lot more birds with it, too. Dad taught me to hunt birds, clean 'em and how to cook 'em, too. I learned deer hunting, and big game hunting in general, on my own and never had the opportunity to hunt deer with Dad.
Dad and his brothers bought a patch of ground about 1970 for deer hunting and leased some more from the US Forrest Service. They would pitch a tent and rough it. Then one year during their annual trip, a blizzard blew in during their second night and the temperature dropped to 20 below. That did it. The older brothers decided a cabin had to be built. So they did; all the next summer, and a fall tradition was begun about the time I left for the Air Force. Six years later I was in college with a wife and two little kids of my own when I got my first invitation to join Dad on the fall deer hunt, but it would be another six years before conditions would allow me to to so. By then, Dad couldn't walk up out of the steep canyon where the cabin stood, up to the hunting areas. I hunted with my brother, though, and we became quite close over those years.
So, this year my brother and I met at the cabin for a lonely hunt, just the two of us. He didn't have a tag, but I did, so I shot a little button buck and Bro helped me drag him back to the cabin. We had a cup of coffee and a quick sandwich. Then Bro picked up a small lidded ceramic jar and I a large concrete brick and we hiked up out of the canyon to "The Big Meadow". Near the highest point of the meadow is an old abandoned farmer's disc. Probably 1920's vintage. Here I cut into the sod close to the disc with my Buck Folding Hunter and set Dad's brick semi-flush with the earth. It said quite simply "Jim". Bro reached into his hunting jacket and pulled out a bottle of Crown Royal wrapped in a familiar purple cloth bag with gold colored drawstring. Dad had been a drinker, and CR was his liquor of preference. Bro broke the seal and said while he tipped it up, "Here's to you, Dad!". He handed the bottle to me and as I was taking a drink, he emptied Dad's ashes into the Wyoming wind. "There you go, Pop! We'll come visit you every fall." We each took another long drink. Then we put the bottle back in the bag and hung it on the rust-frozen release handle of the old disc before we walked back down to the cabin.
When we were about half way back, a thought occured to me and I asked, "You think the wind will break it banging it against the disk?"
"Maybe," my brother answered. "If so, then I guess Dad might want a drink, too."
Two weeks later the rest of the usual hunting camp showed up. The bottle was still there, unbroken. Each guy went up alone and had a drink and spent some time with Jim. When the bottle went empty, someone drove into town for another and hung it on the disc.
We'll have a drink with him next year, too. And the year after that, and the year after that, and.....
Poper
Dec. 11 last year my father passed away. His health had slowly failed over the last 20 years due to emphysema, asthma and diabetes. However, it was an Abdominal Aortic Aneurism that ended his life. Actually, a quite merciful death as he always was worried he might die as his father had, slowly suffocating as his lungs filled with fluid because of the emphysema.
Dad started taking me duck hunting with him when I was 11 years old. I couldn't legally hunt, but I guess I made a good bird dog.
When I was old enough to hunt, he bought me a used Stevens single shot 20 gauge that kicked like the proverbial Missouri Mule and would leave me black and blue from the top of my shoulder to the nipple on my boy-thin chest. Got my very first duck and my very first pheasant with that bruiser! Two seasons later he gave the Stevens to my younger brother and bought me a spankin' new Sears 'n Roebuck 12 gauge pump! It fit better. Didn't beat me up near so bad and I killed a lot more birds with it, too. Dad taught me to hunt birds, clean 'em and how to cook 'em, too. I learned deer hunting, and big game hunting in general, on my own and never had the opportunity to hunt deer with Dad.
Dad and his brothers bought a patch of ground about 1970 for deer hunting and leased some more from the US Forrest Service. They would pitch a tent and rough it. Then one year during their annual trip, a blizzard blew in during their second night and the temperature dropped to 20 below. That did it. The older brothers decided a cabin had to be built. So they did; all the next summer, and a fall tradition was begun about the time I left for the Air Force. Six years later I was in college with a wife and two little kids of my own when I got my first invitation to join Dad on the fall deer hunt, but it would be another six years before conditions would allow me to to so. By then, Dad couldn't walk up out of the steep canyon where the cabin stood, up to the hunting areas. I hunted with my brother, though, and we became quite close over those years.
So, this year my brother and I met at the cabin for a lonely hunt, just the two of us. He didn't have a tag, but I did, so I shot a little button buck and Bro helped me drag him back to the cabin. We had a cup of coffee and a quick sandwich. Then Bro picked up a small lidded ceramic jar and I a large concrete brick and we hiked up out of the canyon to "The Big Meadow". Near the highest point of the meadow is an old abandoned farmer's disc. Probably 1920's vintage. Here I cut into the sod close to the disc with my Buck Folding Hunter and set Dad's brick semi-flush with the earth. It said quite simply "Jim". Bro reached into his hunting jacket and pulled out a bottle of Crown Royal wrapped in a familiar purple cloth bag with gold colored drawstring. Dad had been a drinker, and CR was his liquor of preference. Bro broke the seal and said while he tipped it up, "Here's to you, Dad!". He handed the bottle to me and as I was taking a drink, he emptied Dad's ashes into the Wyoming wind. "There you go, Pop! We'll come visit you every fall." We each took another long drink. Then we put the bottle back in the bag and hung it on the rust-frozen release handle of the old disc before we walked back down to the cabin.
When we were about half way back, a thought occured to me and I asked, "You think the wind will break it banging it against the disk?"
"Maybe," my brother answered. "If so, then I guess Dad might want a drink, too."
Two weeks later the rest of the usual hunting camp showed up. The bottle was still there, unbroken. Each guy went up alone and had a drink and spent some time with Jim. When the bottle went empty, someone drove into town for another and hung it on the disc.
We'll have a drink with him next year, too. And the year after that, and the year after that, and.....
Poper
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