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It was November 25, the third day of the West Virginia rifle season. My Uncle and I had already filled our first tag and decided to handicap ourselves a little and hunt with muzzle loaders. The morning awoke cool and crisp. The chickadees began singing as the stirring sun slowly melted the lingering fog.
I was sitting in a beautiful forest of old growth hardwoods that had been in our family for more than a century. Everyone has that special piece of real estate that their heart is drawn to and this patch of forest is mine. It is the kind of place you see in pictures where the monarch of the forest struts proudly throughout his domain. It was the perfect morning, in the perfect place; the kind of situation you dream of often but seldom experience. I sat there on an ancient oak stump, feasting on the moment, thinking of my forefathers who had hunted these woods in centuries past with handcrafted black powder rifles much like the one I was holding. If the hunt had ended here, it would have been counted as a successful day afield.
I don’t know how long I had been listening to the rustling leaves in the valley below before I snapped back into the present. I strained to locate the source as my anticipation began to build. Emerging from a small draw and stopping 85 yards away was a solitary deer; a nice wide 8 point. Our eyes locked, as I raised my old smoke pole. Time froze as if connection was being made between generation’s present and past for hunter and deer. How many times had this scene been played out before, perhaps in this very spot? Were ancestral eyes watching the drama now unfolding, perhaps reliving the excitement of their own moments of truth? I fingered the trigger, savoring every second of adrenaline that now course through my veins. I searched carefully for the precise spot to focus my aim. The 
iron sights settled just in front of his shoulder as he stood quartering toward me. I tarried there for a moment not wanting to rush to the end of a beautiful ballet. Seconds stretched into minutes until finally the roar of the muzzleloader sliced the silence, and, with a bellow of white smoke, sent its’ payload on its’ way. When the smoke cleared, there was a patch of brown on the ground where this monarch once stood, his legs in the air still running as if hoping to play this game again someday. But the end was soon. I stood there both tickled and sad as I admired this beautiful creature that God had blessed me with.
Thinking back on this wonderful moment brings fond memories that warm my heart and create a longing for yet another day afield. I hope one day my children will share these longings for special places and special hunts. I only hope that political malarkey and public misunderstanding will not rob them of the opportunity to hunt the backwoods and byways. I hope they will enjoy this hunting heritage and pass it on to their kids as well. Maybe someday their children’s children will sit on that same stump thinking of their forefathers (me) when the stirring in the leaves will draw them back to their present and take them down a path that I have previously traveled, once again binding one generation to another.
| Steve Kemper lives on a farm in Lewisburg, West Virginiawith his wife, Jeanne, and their three daughters: Nychele (9), Brie-Anne (7), and Rebekah (5). Steve has enjoyed hunting and fishing and spending time in the outdoors since he was a young boy, growing up in the hills of West Virginia. His whole family now accompanies him into the woods and shares in the joys and pleasures of spending time afield enjoying God’s Glorious Creation. Steve first started writing hunting and fishing related articles for the Christian Sportsmen’s Club of Anchorage Baptist Temple. He is attending Appalachian Bible College pursuing a Bachelors in Theology with minors in Pastoral Studies and Camp Administration. He recently had his education interrupted by a 1 year tour in Iraq with his WV National Guard Unit.He hopes to be able to combine his outdoor experience, with the education he is currently receiving in a full time ministry setting when he graduates Camp. |
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