My breath created a momentary distracting fog in front of my face as I peered through the dense brush surrounding my position. This perch had become my home over the last few days, my lifted hideaway from which I had scouted, watched, and carefully chosen the shot I knew would set a precedent for future treks. My chosen target now approached the area I had the clearest sightline into, right to the spot I wanted him to go. I matched the reticle of my scope to the perfect crest at the base of his neck, took one last chilling breath, and silently flipped off the safety catch… I had never done this before…

Eleven years old and up to this point I had only watched, or listened to my grandfather tell story after story about the hunt, and the thrills that come with the satisfying culmination of a long, hard trip.

“There is no feeling like being in the brush alone, waiting for that big ol’ buck to come along,” he would say, always peaking my interest, in the way only a grandparent could.

“I’m ready to go with you this time,” I responded with the grand enthusiasm of a child wanting to emulate the man I looked up to, long before I would be physically or mentally able to do so.

“Not yet, but maybe next year,” he would always respond with a grin and a laugh.

Although I wasn’t going with him each year, he endeavored to teach me what he knew about the hunt, about the cold of the woods before the sun rises, about the animals I would one day go after. He taught me how to properly clean an animal so to keep as much of the meat as possible, something that as a child I was not really looking forward too, and a task that would be right in the forefront of my mind on my first trip with him.

“You ready?” was all he asked me when he decided it was time for us to go together.

Of course I was ready, I already had my bag packed and was just waiting for him to ask.

The chirping of crickets and the crackle of the gravel under our feet were the only sounds to be heard that morning as we prepared to leave. All around us was pitch black, the type of cold darkness that just seems endless. As I looked around the outside of the truck, and into the surrounding trees, I wondered what would be out there waiting for me later. I hoped I would find exactly what I was looking for.

The trip began on a fun and relaxed note as the tape player in granddad’s old half-ton started playing classic Waylon Jennings through the speakers. He made sure to make a quick pit stop before we really got onto the road, figuring I needed some doughnuts and hot chocolate to start my trip off the right way. Grandpa kind of chuckled and told me not to tell my mother when he snagged a couple of treats for himself. We made our way past the city limit sign, and from there we went out past the end of paved roads. The anticipation and excitement brewed inside me while I waited anxiously for us to reach our destination.

The rest of the world was silent and still as we pulled up to and opened the gate of the lease he had used for the last thirty years. Once on the other side of the gate, we quietly rolled down to the tin roof shack we would sleep in for the duration of our stay. As the sun started to make its first appearance of the day, we unpacked our winter gear and prepared for the long, likely slow next twenty-four hours. He liked to treat the hunting trips on his lease as a multiple stage, purpose driven stalk, where the process was more important and exciting than actually taking a shot. The first day we checked the feeders, looking for activity, and searched for tracks along the trails he had seen deer on in the past. For an energetic young man on his first hunting trip, working through the steps of the seemingly long and arduous process my grandfather was trying to instill in me was tormenting. I wanted to get to it, I wanted to show I was ready; I wanted to do what I had been waiting so long for. Thankfully I did work through my over-excitement to learn a few lessons in practicing patience, mainly because I didn’t have any choice other than to be more patient than I wanted to be.

After a full day of looking things over, making sure our mags were loaded and barrels were clean, we walked out to what seemed the most active, best location for me to set up and get a buck I would be proud of. We wouldn’t be making any shots that first evening; we were partaking in the scouting step of the overall hunting process, sitting still in our blind, or in my case a tree stand, and watching our target area to see what walks through. My patience was indeed tested on this evening when roughly an hour into my wait, a perfectly suitable eight-point buck came into my clearing. This was something I could be proud of, a very acceptable first deer for a young aspiring hunter. What they call “buck fever” started to come over me, and I became antsy, anxious, and in awe of the story I could tell my friends back home about how on the first day of my first ever hunting trip, I took an awesome eight-point, and I would of course have it mounted for everyone to see as proof of my accomplishment. As my mind conjured up the glory that would come with taking such a fine deer, I remembered that was not the reason I was out there on the stand this evening. These actions were taught to me as a process, and I was still in the early stages of that procession; I decided to wait and let the buck go. I was calm again, and had a feeling my newly found patience would be rewarded.

The next two days were a blur of going through the steps of my grandfather’s training, and even longer days. I began to regret my decision as nothing bigger than a spike came through my clearing during that time. I could just imagine my entire hunting career would be marred by the one that got away on my first trip; maybe I jinxed myself by not taking the opportunity that would have been so easy to take. I might have traded anything right then just to be able to see that deer again.

I woke up angry the next morning. I started off angry at the eight-point for taunting me and never coming back, mad at all of the other deer for not coming to what I considered the perfect feeder for them, mad the lease wasn’t treating me as well as it had treated my grandfather. Then I realized just how foolish I was being, and got mad at myself for not staying the course, for not following the process. I had my breakfast and made the way to my personal tree-stand. I told myself today would be the day if I just went about my business with the correct attitude.

Light was just beginning to touch the remaining leaves of the trees that bordered my clearing when I saw three does walking around. This had to be the beginning of a great day for me. I watched the does and searched the edges of the clearing, looking for any sign of movement, and after forty-five minutes of nothing, he finally came. He was a deep dark brown, tall, and broad-shouldered, twelve-point buck; the dream deer for any hunter, and he was in my clearing. I thought of everything I had been taught, and then told myself this was the one I would need to clean.

My grandfather had spoken to me many times in the previous few years of the importance of taking hunting seriously if I was going to partake in the action. This included being aware and conscious of the people on a trip with me, as well as being a responsible hunter, and a stern command of gun safety to leave no stone unturned, as only a grandpa could give. Hunting responsibly was a very important point to speak on for him; he spoke to me of not simply putting an animal down for the sport of it, or for lack of patience, and to never let a taken deer go to waste. Another part of the personal responsibility I would have to deal with would be the cleaning, or field dressing of a deer when I took one. If I wanted to follow in the footsteps of my family members, and enjoy a family tradition, there would be a consequence to those desires, I would have to do something I didn’t truly want to do.

Then it just came to me as I looked at this deer; none of these events were separated. I wanted to hunt. I wanted to take this deer. Everything else, cleaning it, going through the entire process, it all came along with the decision. If I wanted the trophy, I had to do the things necessary to get to that outcome, and then deal with whatever consequences my decision led to. In that moment I knew I wanted that deer, and in turn I wanted to do the work that led to and was followed by taking the animal. Being at peace with the choice, I flipped the safety off.

…I remembered all these things, remembered my training, held my breath steady, and knew the moment had come. In the long pause between heartbeats, I squeezed back the trigger.

My CO’s taught me how to process events on the battlefield, but without the training of my grandfather, I would never have made it home…thanks grandpa.