In the dream, I was hunting with Brady. He was in good spirits, enjoying Vermont’s finest autumn weather and the chance to hunt deer in a landscape so different from his familiar Rocky Mountains.
On waking, I remembered: Brady – my friend Ryan’s father – had died nearly three months earlier, tragically pulled under by a riptide while swimming. His memorial service had been held in Colorado the day before I dreamed of him. I had been thinking of Ryan and his family, still reeling from the sudden loss.
A week later, as I was tidying up my workbench, the knife caught my eye. Ryan had given it to me nine months earlier. It was one of several his father had recently made – the blade a simple drop-point, the maple handle richly figured and honey gold. I felt honored to have it, especially now that its maker was gone.
Come autumn, I tucked Brady’s knife into my pack, inviting him to the woods. I doubted he had ever hunted Northeast whitetails.
The last morning of Vermont’s early antlerless muzzleloader season, a young buck emerged from dense woods 30-plus yards away, slender antlers guaranteeing his safety. He paused, walked uphill toward me, and stopped. From less than 15 feet, he stared. My heart pounded. Uncertain, he bobbed his head, trying to make sense of my lumpish form there on the ground between two trees. I watched his eyes, his whiskers, the frosty plume of his breath. Finally, he spooked and whirled away, stopped to look back once more, then bounded off and vanished.
It was in the woods that he had wept most in recent weeks, the waves of loss crashing over him. His father had been his hunting mentor and frequent companion.
Most of an hour later, I was still basking in the close encounter when I heard another whitetail coming, hooves crunching dry leaves. The animal was walking along the far edge of the semi-open patch of woods in front of me, just this side of thick conifers. Between trees, I caught a clear glimpse: No antlers, no fawns.
In two decades of hunting, I have mainly tagged bucks. But I’m glad to put a doe in the freezer, especially if it helps balance the deer population with habitat. And, though I believe what biologists say about orphaned fawns having high survival rates by autumn, I prefer to take solitary does like this one.
As the doe reached a gap in the trees, I whistled. Fifty-plus yards away, she paused and looked my way. Muzzleloader firmly braced, I squeezed the trigger. She leapt away.
After reloading, I approached the spot and found a heavy blood trail. Cautiously, I followed into thicker woods, listening for movement. Seventy yards later, I found her. She had careened into a small balsam fir, leaving a tuft of hair snagged on a branch stub, then crashed to earth. The 195-grain copper bullet had done its job quickly.
Shaky, as I always am after taking a life, I drew Brady’s knife from my pack, then texted Ryan who lives nearby with his wife and three kids. Before long, he was there.
“She’s beautiful,” he said, reaching out to touch the doe.
Then, quietly, he spoke of his dad. He described the sharpness of a grief I could imagine all too well, having lost my own father in an accident many years ago. And he spoke of hunting. It was in the woods that he had wept most in recent weeks, the waves of loss crashing over him. His father had been his hunting mentor and frequent companion.
After talking a while, we embraced. Then, picking up drag ropes, we began the homeward haul.
Tucking Brady’s knife into my pack at the start of the season, I had made a silent agreement with the man I had dreamed of: together, we would put north woods venison in Ryan’s freezer. Between work, three kids, and a long list of tasks to complete at home before winter set in, my friend wasn’t getting to the woods much. If with me in the flesh, I was sure Brady would be hunting for his son’s family. Instead, he was with me in a dreamtime memory and a handcrafted blade.
Ever since taking my first whitetail, I have cherished the opportunity to share venison with friends and family, giving to others what land and deer have given to me. This was different. I wasn’t giving Ryan a few pounds of meat. In honor of his father and our friendship, I was offering him a deer.
A few days into the New Year, my wife and I joined Ryan and his family for dinner at their place. He prepared steaks: a simple recipe, venison sauteed with salt and pepper. As we all settled in around the table, Ryan and I looked each other in the eye, needing no words. Then we feasted. Knowing death and loss, we savored life and love.