A Family Tradition

John Denver clearly identified the heart and soul of West Virginians when he penned the words “Country roads take me home to the place I belong, West Virginia....”. I feel the ethos of this song course through my veins each autumn as I make the trek back to the place of my family roots. I do not live in West Virginia but I am fortunate to be able to hunt on my dad’s home place. This farm is located at the midpoint between the county seats of Calhoun and Wirt Counties in a small community name Creston. This town has a current population of 322. There are no traffic lights, grocery stores, or cell towers there.

It is a place that time hasn’t changed. The few cars that navigate the barely wide enough roadway always wave as they pass by. Sometimes they will stop for conversation in the middle of the roadway.

The annual West Virginia buck firearm season takes place the week of Thanksgiving. This event is the Super Bowl of events for those who live there or make the migration back there. Blaze orange becomes the fashion focus whether you hunt or not. The world seems to stand still as men women and children migrate to the woods to wait for a trophy to arrive.

There are always rumors that circulate each year about a “big horned monster” that got away. The truth is that the top bucks in this region don’t live long enough or have access to large tracts of soy or corn to support large headgear. Deer in this area are forced to survive on browse, intermittent patches of hay fields, and the offerings of bait feeders.

A few years ago, I stopped at a checking station to officially check in a doe that I had killed. A biologist asked if he could age it. After examining the animal's teeth, this official immediately yelled for his partner to take a look at it. Why the excitement? The deer was the oldest this gentleman had aged. It was estimated to be 4 1/2 years old. A toddler in the eyes of those who promote the benefits of quality deer management by letting young deer walk, but an ancient relic in those woods.

Although I have been able to harvest a few respectable multiple point bucks here, most bucks have small bowl-shaped racks. I have also seen many older bucks with spikes that sometimes reach 12 inches or more in length.

The hunting methods have changed through the years. Shotguns launching “punkin balls” were replaced by the lever action 30-30. These have since been replaced by more modern bolt and AR style weapons. The methods have changed too. Deer used to be scarce in these parts. There are tales of men finding and following the tracks of a single deer for hours until they intercepted and shot it. Today it is possible to see over a dozen deer (mainly does) in a single morning without the need to move around.

About 8 years ago my dad, uncle and I constructed an elevated “shooting house” blind in “the old peach orchard”. This orchard came and went long before I was a sparkle in my parents' eyes, but it is a point of referencr for those who once labored to glean its produce. A new-automated corn dispenser resides about 20 yards from this stand to “hedge our hunting bets”.

The 2019-gun season opener began in typical fashion. My dad pulled up in front of my house with his side by side in tow. It was cold and way too early to be out of bed. An early start was necessary in order to drive the necessary 50 plus miles over high-speed interstate, bumpy state roads and the narrow two-lane road to the final destination. Coffee drinking and spirited conversation made the trip seem unusually quick.

We drove across the small wood planked bridge as the headlights shined on the old farmhouse. A thick frost glistened and the stars glowed without the competition of street lights and other city dwelling luminaries. I quickly gathered my gun and necessities bag and began the trek from the "holler" to the top of the ridge where my stand was located.

The air was so "nippy" that the well-aged farm dog "Gus" didn't bark or venture out of box. I hiked to the midpoint of the destination and paused to catch my breath. I watched as the headlights of my dad's UTV disappeared as he drove to another family owned property to begin his hunt.

This was the point in which I would usually watch my aunt make her way to the chicken house to gather eggs by flashlight, but a coop raiding red fox had wiped her flock out a few months ago. The landscape was dark and quiet. Once I was sure that my lungs could carry me the rest of the way I made my way up the spine of a ridge until my eyes began to make out the silhouette of my home away from home.

The wooden elevated box blind had become one of the few true happy places in my life. I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door. Once inside I opened the Plexiglas windows and waited for the dawn break.

In those predawn moments a flood of memories washed over me. I began to reminisce of my now deceased uncle who had helped us put the blind together one hot steamy August day. I relived the moments of my daughter and youngest son's first deer harvest. More importantly I thought about the conversations that had taken place in the 5x5 wooden box as I watched my three kids morph into adults. We solved the world's problems and ate junk food snacks until the deer decided to visit. Most times the appearance of deer was an interruption of my real intent of being there with them. Pure uninterrupted time.

I relived all the deer that I had harvested in that spot. I thought about the anguish of missing the heavy 10 point on opening day a few years ago. I reimagined the elation that I had when my bullet connected with it just two days later.

As the sun began to make its presence known, the squirrels appeared and began their assault on the deer feeder. The doves gathered to reap the kernels that the squirrels wrestled from the feeder's spinner plate. Life was good.

Time slipped by as my thoughts were interrupted by the familiar cracking of a fallen limb nearly three hours after I entered the blind. I looked and there was a typical scrubby multiple point buck ambling up the path that I had taken in my predawn trek. I watched as he stopped to rub his forehead on saplings and made his way to the downhill side of the feeder.

As I admired the animal, I slowly lifted my Savage 30-06 and edged the barrel out the front window of the blind. The buck paused slightly as he moved from sapling to sapling within 20 yards of my hiding place. I moved the crosshairs of the Bushnell scope to the spot of intended impact and slowly increased the pressure of my finger on the trigger. The force of the 150 grain Sierra bullet caused the buck to crumble in its tracks. The cycle had been repeated.

Anyone who hunts knows that the trigger pull means the real work begins. I field dressed and began the slow drag back to a small hanging shed located behind my aunt's house.

Once I reached the bottom of the ridge, I peeled the unneeded layers of clothing off and walked to my aunt's back door. I knocked and heard the familiar sound of my eighty something year old widowed aunt walk to the door. I was met with smiles, hugs and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. "I heard you shoot and thought you might like to have some coffee when you got here" she said. I was home again.

Some believe that hunting is all about the killing. I thought that too in my younger years. Time has brought new perspective to me. There is nothing like forming a tradition where you get to spend time with people who mean the most to you and relive the moments that have brought the greatest joys. No doubt some get the same ooze of emotion aboard a cruise line or in some exotic region for the world.

There is always a lump in my throat when I see the reflection of the of the farmhouse in the mirrors of my dad's pickup truck at the end of the season. I can only hope that I will have one more season of good hunting fortune in those West Virginia hills and one more season of coffee and conversations in that old farmhouse.

When life in the concrete jungle gets stressful I hum the country roads ballad and let my mind escape to the West Virginian Hills and the memories of days passed.

- written by Rick Headley