All of them have lived lives as worthy as the lives of anyone I have ever met. Most of them know animals as well as anyone I have spoken to, and have as much respect for them. I would trust any man I have mentioned in this text to speak with as much wisdom about the woods as anyone in the world. I said in my fishing book that someday, in some way, the world will move on, and the river will no longer be ours. That I am sure is true. But I am glad to have been a part of this generation when it was ours.
From: For Those Who Hunt the Wounded Down
Bines had told his son this story. It was just before Willie went to bed. Bines was sitting, facing his son, with his huge hands folded near Willie’s knees. Every now and then Bines would touch those knees with his hands, and draw them away delicately.
It was a story about a deer and how it outsmarted a hunter. It was a story of the woods, of gloom and darkness, of autumn ending and winter coming on.
“This happened a long time ago,” Bines said. “There was an old deer, who had been in many battles in many ruts, and this was its ninth year. It had been cold all autumn, and the trees were naked and raw. Far off it could see smoke from the hunter’s house, rising in the sky. It had lost its strength—this old buck—and kept only one doe, who had a small fawn. The afternoons were half-dark and winter was coming on hard—and the hunter kept coming—the hunters always keep coming.”
Bines looked over at Ralphie and smiled, and Ralphie nodded.
“The big deer didn’t have no friends. He usually travelled alone. But he saw all the other deer being killed, one by one. And though he gave them other bucks advice—gave them advice—they didn’t follow it.
“So all the other deer was killed, one by one. But the hunter who tracked him—who tracked the old buck in the snow—was smart as any hunter. The buck knew this, and wanted to keep him away from the doe and her fawn if he could. He was an old deer and the doe was young. So the big buck decided to draw the hunter to himself—and each day the food was more and more scarce, and each day it was colder. And each day it led the hunter farther and farther from the cabin.
“The puddles were frozen and the trees were naked, and the sky moved all day long—”
Jerry touched the boy’s knees lightly again and smiled.
“Every day the hunter would get closer—get closer to the doe. But the buck had a plan, which it had learned from living so long. It would always show itself to the hunter at daylight and lead him on a chase throughout the whole day. The hunter could never catch up to it. At the end of every day when the hunter came to the river the buck wouldn’t be there. The buck always disappeared—and its tracks disappeared, as if it had flowed away.”
“Where?” the boy asked.
“The hunter didn’t know—didn’t know. No one did. The hunter too was tired. He was a tired man. Each day he got up earlier. And remember—each day he wanted deer meat for his family. So he was only doing what he had to. Had to do there. Each day he concentrated on the buck—each day he followed the tracks to the river. Each day he found nothing there.
“And each day his children were hungry, his wife was sick. And each day the hunter was weaker and colder. And each day the big old buck had allowed the little doe and its fawn to live another hour, another night.”
Jerry looked about the room, and the boy smiled timidly.
“The buck was old and tired but so was the hunter. The hunter had a bad hand and had wrapped it in his leg stockings. His eyes were fine and could pick out a small bird in a thick bush. He scanned the river every evening. The river was a wild river and had just made ice—a wild river there, but the ice was thin.
“One day after a heavy snowfall the hunter found himself deep in the woods—the sky had cleared, the stars was coming out—the hunter had been following the buck for many hours. It was hours I guess he had followed the buck that day.
“There wasn’t a sound when the hunter come to the river.
“The day was solid and still and he cursed to think he had lost it again. Lost that buck there again. Now the stumps were covered and everything was quiet. Afternoon was almost ended—and night was coming on—and that’s when he saw the doe. She was making her way along the riverbank, and he could just make out her brown hide by a tree. She was coming right toward him. It was almost dark. She hadn’t seen him, and she was leading her fawn toward him up an old deer trail. The fawn behind her.
“So the hunter felt he must use this chance, and he knelt and aimed and waited. Everything was still. He cocked his old rifle and was about to fire—about to shoot it, you know. But then of course everyone knows what happened.”
Bines paused and lit a cigarette. He smiled and touched the boy lightly on the knee once more.
“What happened?” Ralphie asked.
Bines drew on the cigarette and looked about.
“Everyone knows what happened,” Bines said. “It has been passed down from generation to generation to all the smart deer in the woods.”
“What happened?” Willie asked.
“The hunter aimed his rifle, and suddenly the ground moved—the ground under him—and the buck come up, from its hiding place under the snow, right under the hunter’s feet—under his feet—everyone knows that—and snorting and roaring ran onto the river. The doe turned and jumped away, and led her fawn to safety.
“And the hunter made a mistake, mistake there—hunters always do sooner or later—I mean make a mistake there. He was so angry he didn’t think straight.
“‘I got you now,’ he yelled, and he ran onto the river too.
“Now, that river could hold the buck, and it could hold the hunter. But it could not hold both together. And the buck turned and stood, waiting for him to come further out. The old buck never moved. And if he was scared he never showed it.
“And when the hunter got close the buck smiled—and the ice broke, and both of them went together—down together into the wild rapids—clinging to each other as they were swept away. And this story was passed down. It’s a passed-down story.
“Now the end is going to come—in one fashion or another,” Bines said, softly and again he turned to Ralphie and smiled. “We all know, the end will come. You either face your hunters or run from them.”
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Peter McGrath and David Savage, two men of the N.B. woods, and thanks also to my son John Thomas Richards who hunted with me last, and Anne McDermid my agent. Thanks to my brothers John and Bill, wife Peg and son Anton. I would thank also Les Druet, Bob Drisdelle and Jason and Wayne Curtis, and all the great men over the years, and great women too, who knew the value of what they said and did.
Special thanks to my editors Tim Rostron and Catherine Marjoribanks.
Facing the Hunter Page 17