Christmas Treasures (excerpt)

10   Albino!

 

 

     “When you were in your eighth year,” he continued with the narrative, his resounding tone serious, “I told your Nanny that you were developing into your own man. I said that by the time you reached the age of twelve, you would make clear your declaration to the world that here walks an honest man, one of integrity, a humble spirit, generous and kind, trustworthy, considerate, dependable. One full of Faith! And Hope! And Charity! A young man with high intelligence, sound moral judgment, good-humor, quick wit. One not afraid to face the realities of life with his own talents. And, those were not idle words. No! Sir! I meant it---and…I still do!

     “Disappoint me!? Never! Not at all! Not in the least!” He shook his head in wonderment.

     “You honored me. Made me proud, you did.” He winked at the boy, an approval of the event, with an exclamation point!

     “Disappointment comes when people expect someone to behave in a manner which brings perceived glory to the one deciding what is good and important and proper. My only expectation for anyone is that they be happy with their own behavior; no one has ever had to prove anything to me. It is enough for me to love, unconditionally; any other deception is narcissistic, self-defeating, devoid of real love. Selfishness and untruth has no place in a worthy relationship,” Bapa concluded. He spoke to Z. Tyler but seemed lost in his own thoughts, with a trace of sadness as he contemplated the very truth of what he had said.

     Then, shaking his head after a brief pause, he continued, seemingly restored with confidence.

     “That day of the deer hunt, you beat my prediction by nearly a full year! Your maturity in that decision and the manner in which you handled the whole affair, well, that entire scenario spoke volumes about who you are and what you are. Yes, Sir!

     “I don’t know what you recall about that day, but I remember every second, each instant, every nuance, subtlety, determination. Yours---and…mine. Yes, Sir! Every one. Important!”

     Z. Tyler leaned back into a more comfortable position after refilling his own and Bapa’s cups with more hot brew; this seemed to be one of those times when his grandfather had something to say and as serious as was his tone, it would behoove the young man to pay particular attention.

     Bapa took a sip of the tea, his eyes focused on the fire, as he collected his thoughts.

     He continued after swallowing.

     “I woke you at four that morning,” he laughed, peering at his grandson. “Had to come in there two more times to finally get you going; you always did enjoy sleeping in.”

     He paused. The remark was gentle teasing at the boy’s proclivity to spend a good deal of the morning under the sheets. Nanny excused this aberration as just normal behavior in a youngster; Bapa saw it as a negative. Truth be told: Nanny always exited the warm bed before Bapa did!

     Z. Tyler was hesitant to break the flow of the narrative; he nodded a smile and remained silent.  Each knew that the boy got the trait honestly; his mother enjoyed morning dreaming, too.

     “By the time we had breakfast, checked our equipment and got it loaded in the pickup, it was closing in on five a.m.; I was chomping at the bit. Deer get up early and we needed to be positioned before dawn even had a chance to hint at morning light.”

     He looked deeper into the flames, lost in a time and place better than a dozen years earlier, reliving the experience with the same emotion as when it had actually occurred.

     “The stand I put you on is just about a mile, as the crow flies, from where we sit right this instant; on that bluff outcropping above Hickory Creek Bottoms. You remember?”

     The boy nodded, now joining in the reverie of recalling that, for him, bittersweet occasion.

     “We had to hike about a half mile from where we parked. It was still plenty dark, but we just followed that old creek bed and pretty soon, I could make out that large rock I was looking for.

     “We circled around the game trail as it ran from the stream, up the hill and came within about twenty feet of that perch I wanted to station you on. By the time we reached the natural bench, dawn had peeked over the eastern horizon. I got you settled, all comfy-like, with your back against the face of that limestone cliff. I wrapped a heavy woolen blanket around you, set the kerosene lantern close enough to provide some warmth, yet carefully secluded behind a boulder big enough to keep prying deer eyes from spotting it from below. They seldom look up, but if a freaky downdraft happened to send the telltale fumes down the ridge, well, bye-bye Bucky.

     “I checked your rifle, jacked a cartridge into the chamber and double checked the safety, made sure the scope was clear and still tight after our trek through the woods in the dark. When I was satisfied that all was in proper order, I whispered while pointing out where I was going, the route I would take to hopefully drive an old mossy-horn toward your location.

     “Thinking back, now, I noticed that you didn’t seem all that excited about the prospect of bagging your first deer. Thinking that you were just tired, I reminded you of the scrapes and rubs in the area, trying to build your enthusiasm. I guess I knew something was wrong, but I wanted to see you successful and so I just chalked my misgivings up to first time jitters.”

     He took a swallow of tea, then continued when the boy said nothing.

     “When I left you on that stand, I told you to stay awake and listen and watch carefully. When you’re hunting wild game animals, on their turf, well, you ‘see’ as much with keen ears as with careful eyes. If my plan worked, we should be filling your tag with fresh venison by the time the sun came up. I reminded you not to release the safety until you had the target clearly in the scope and was ready to shoot; that you needed to make sure the background beyond the deer was clear.

     “I slipped behind your stand and circled north about three hundred yards before crossing the creek. It was a warm morning for late November and some light snow from an early dusting still clung in the shadows and crevices. The temperate air was warmer than the land and so a slight fog came up with the rising sun. Tree branches and brush dripped with moisture and I walked silent as a soft wind in that stalking environment. The deer should have been returning to the heavy timber up the bluff after foraging in the adjacent alfalfa field all night.

     “When I reached the edge of the hay field, I stopped and watched and listened for about five minutes. It was light enough to see fairly good into the open alfalfa patch, but still pretty shadowy in the woods. I saw nothing. No deer. No game of any kind. I wondered if I was too late. Sometimes a change in the weather affects animal behavior; human, too.

     “If the deer had already begun their return to their bedding area that would put them somewhere between me and your stand. I decided to still hunt toward your location, gently pushing the whitetail your way. At least, that was the plan.”

     He took another sip of the tasty tea as Z. Tyler nursed his own cup, enjoying the history tory.

     “I walked out into the field as the going was easier there, rather than fighting the tangled mess of vines and saplings and weeds at the edge of the woods. Making my way to the south, I came to a spot in the underbrush where those deer had made a wide path right through. Fresh tracks in the mud told me that this was a heavily used game trail.

“Winding wisps of gray-white fog emanated corkscrews heavenward from the damp forest floor like myriad wraiths rising from the grave. It made for a downright eerie sight, sort of a surreal landscape, but also, very beautiful. I hoped that you could see it from above.”

Z. Tyler nodded his remembrance; it had been eerily beautiful, a surreal experience.

Bapa concluded, “That creek bottom was quiet as a ghostly cemetery on a haunted Halloween night. The only thing missing was a big, bright, yellow full moon.”

     The old man closed his eyes against the horror of the demon memory and gave a cold shiver.

     Z. Tyler could not help but smile at his Bapa’s theatrics; they reminded him of Anna Marie.

     “I took the trail, thinking about haunted spirit ghosts and wraithlike smoke-spooks and had gone about fifty yards when white flags shot up just ahead of me. I literally jumped at the unexpected disruption of the quiet solitude, but, they weren’t goblins lying in wait to ambush me.

     “Four does raced through the shadows, their white tails waving in the poor light of the woods, going directly toward your location; I didn’t see any sign of a buck, but chances were good that he was close by with a harem like that bevy of female deer-type temptation in the vicinity.

     “I stopped and waited a few minutes, intently watching and listening; not a sound, save the occasional muted drip of a droplet from a saturated twig dripping onto the damp forest floor, ever so subtle. Even the eruption of the does had died and precipitated no additional sounds. Hunting deer is like chasing a wraith with a butterfly net; the chances of bagging either is a little less than zero. Non-hunters think it’s as easy as walking out in the woods and picking the buck with the biggest trophy rack and hanging it on the den wall.”

     He shook his head; many people suffered a lack of any real understanding of the world.

     “Hunting isn’t a Neanderthal bloodlust boiling to the surface in some evil miscreant; it is an adventure-sport conducted in fair chase of a worthy quarry which is keen on survival, fleet of hoof, with instinct born of millions of years of living in a harsh environment, a sharp intuition, not diluted by an easy life, like man’s evil delusion. The bagging of the deer is a bittersweet dichotomy; the satisfaction in the success of outwitting and catching an illusion, in truth, an outcome mostly due to luck, and, planning, in some cases, and the negative feelings of taking a magnificent animal, ultimately, sadly ending the chase, the exhilaration, the very adventure.”

     Then, Bapa laughed at his own frustration. “I guess that pretty well sums up a hunter’s emotions when he tries to put salt on a wily deer’s tail. In the hunt, the fun is truly in the chase,” he mused. “In life, the joy is in the journey.” He paused. “Some people miss the entire event.

     “Anyway, it pays to be patient when matching wits with a wild animal on their turf; they know all the tricks and every nook and cranny in their bailiwick. To survive, they have to.

     “I almost missed the telltale hint when it came. Short on patience, as usual, I looked down for any stick or twig that might snap should I step on it and just as I lifted my foot to proceed, I caught the slightest movement off to my left. I decided that I hadn’t really seen anything, just my nerves acting up, when a flash of white winked at me in the brush. I figured that it had to be the polished tines of a buck’s rack catching the scant light which only hinted at the coming morn. That wraith was gone in an instant, and, again, I heard not a sound; like I said, they’re elusive as subtle, wispy, grey ghosts haunting a dark graveyard at the menacing stroke of black midnight.

     “He had been off to the right of the place where those does had bolted, close enough to keep a wary eye on his herd, but far enough so as to not be given away by their precarious ways.

     “Easing forward, I made little noise in my wool gear while the damp conditions helped a lot, too. But, compared to the natural silence of the game, I must have sounded like a bulldozer.”

     He laughed at the mental sight that confession conjured; Z. Tyler chuckled, too.

     “That buck kept moving steadily toward Hickory Creek and it looked like he’d come right up that game trail near your station. I got on his trail and walked right in his hoof prints. Several times, I saw a white flash, but he was always just far enough ahead of me to prevent a shot. Of course, he was your deer and I had no intention of bagging him; still, they are plenty wily.”

     Bapa shook his head to add emphasis along with a silent salute to their craftiness.

     “Those flighty does should have already come past your position by then, but, when I didn’t hear a report from your rifle, I figured that they might have taken another avenue; I never did catch sight of hide nor hair of them. That old buck and me were making a game of our tag match.

     “”When I got about thirty yards from the creek, I heard him splash through the water off to my left and I knew he had to be coming up the hill on that deer trail right beside your position. I hoped you were still awake---and…ready.

     “A big blow down just to my right afforded a bird’s eye view of that deer path and your stand. I scurried up to the top of the wide trunk and sure enough, there sat you with the rifle up and your eye on the target through the scope. Then, he came into view, not twenty yards away from you, slowly trudging up the hill. I grabbed my binoculars for a better view. The edge of the sun just topped the horizon and its glow lighted that buck in all his glory, like a silver steed silhouetted statuesquely, captured by a sculptor and cast in a blazing aluminum profile.

     “I have only seen four or five white deer in all my life and have never tagged one. I think that they are more wily than even the smartest “normal” whitetail, and they are extremely rare.

     “Those snippets of white that I had glimpsed during our tag match through the woods were not flashes of polished ivory buck antler like I had surmised; they had been patches of his hide.    

     “An albino!” He paused, seeing the regal trophy buck in his memory.

     “I waited for you to fire as he came abreast of your position. Glassing from the deer to you and back again, I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t shoot; he was moving steadily and had passed your position. In a few seconds, he’d be over the ridge and safe from harm. I considered yelling but thought that would probably scare you more than the buck.

     “There was an open shooting lane between my location on the blow down and the trail the albino was on, a narrow alley free of trees and brush, right to the top of the ridge. If you didn’t shoot, I’d have a second or two to take him before he disappeared over the crest. I silently slipped the safety to ‘off’, and, waited.

     “Putting the glasses back on you for one last look, I saw you lower the rifle.

     “My mind screamed ‘Shoot!’ as I reluctantly surrendered to the fact that you were passing on this magnificent trophy; a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

     “I released the binoculars and got the crosshairs on the white buck’s shoulder about three strides before he reached the ridge. Then, I slid the safety ‘on’ and lowered my weapon, too, taking up the binoculars, intending to watch the buck as he slid over the crest of the hill.”

     He shook his head at the memory of the unbelievable incident, still vivid in his imagination.

     “And, then, just when you think you’ve seen it all, that beautiful albino buck, looking like noble royalty, stopped dead still, turned directly toward me, as though he saw me perfectly, and, maybe he did, their eyesight is eight times more powerful than a human’s; he gave a sideways shake of his head, that exquisite ivory rack glistening in the now risen golden sun, tipped his black nose upwards and slowly pranced over the hilltop with a shake of his white flag tail, as if to say, ‘Adios! Hunter! This is my day. Better luck next time.’

“With a shake of my own disbelieving head, I laughed out loud, touched the brim of my cap with a fingertip in salute to that magnificent creature and said, ‘Well done!’ He was a true trophy and a most awesome, worthy challenge.

“I stood there, then, for several minutes, savoring the memory of that spectacular sight and mentally reflecting on what I had allowed to occur and, also, on what you had done, or, not done, as the case may be. Such a beautiful creation of nature, the likes of which I, and you, will probably never see again in this lifetime, a single opportunity to take a natural anomaly by out smarting it, maneuvering it to just the right place at the right time. But, the pleasure of hunting is not the harvest of the animal; that unpleasant part is truly anti-climactic in the scheme of things. We got to see him, one of nature’s most beautiful presentations, up close and personal. That you chose to let him escape speaks to your character, your will, your understanding as a true man.”

Bapa shook his head as he hesitated in his narrative of the tale from a dozen years earlier.

“I don’t know many people who could have made that correct decision and carried it out.

     “When I finally recovered from that entire ordeal, I walked on up to your location. You wouldn’t even look at me. I sat down beside you and put my arm around you; I could tell that you had been crying. I felt sorry for your little boy grief; proud of your manly decision.

     “We sat there in silence for a few moments. You finally wiped your eyes and said that you just couldn’t shoot such a beautiful animal. You apologized for letting me down because of all the hard work I had put in so that you could bag a trophy buck.”