My childhood was marked by the transformation of my parents and our move to the riverbank. My wife, Missy, and I watched the movie Mud last year. It stars Matthew McConaughey as a fugitive living in a broken-down boat on an island in the Arkansas delta. He enlists two young boys to help him renovate the boat so he can use it to skip town. As we were watching the movie, Missy confessed to me that she’d never considered that some people actually choose to live a simple life, like my family did along the Ouachita River. It didn’t help when I confessed to her that if someone had offered me a million-dollar house in the city when I was a kid, I would have turned it down. Once we moved to the banks of the Ouachita River, I wouldn’t have traded my childhood for anything.
3
FIRST HUNT
INHERITING PHIL’S PASSION FOR THE CHASE
The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; for he founded it upon the seas and established it upon the waters.
—PSALM 24:1–2
About a year after we moved to the banks of the Ouachita River, my dad took me on my first duck hunt. I was about eight years old, and it turned out to be a monumental moment in my life. That morning, my dad woke me from a dead sleep with words he would eventually utter hundreds of times in the future: “Hey, Jase, you ready? You ready? Jase, you ready?” He told me later that he kept asking me if I was ready until he finally received a big grin from me. One thing I have learned about myself is that I’m always ready to hunt or fish no matter the circumstance.
On the morning of my first hunt, I remember trying to stay awake as we drove on and on for what seemed to be forever. We stopped at an old convenience store, and it seemed strange to see so much human activity that early in the morning. Like I said earlier, I’m not a morning person unless I’m going hunting. I’d never been awake at four o’clock in the morning until my very first hunt. It was so dark, and I felt sick to my stomach. Maybe it was my nerves, or just the fact that I wasn’t used to being up so early, but I learned later that many members of the Robertson family are notoriously susceptible to motion sickness in a variety of settings.
As we continued to drive to the duck blind, my dad cracked the window of his truck and gave me stern directions: “If you gotta throw up, stick your head out the window, and I’ll give it some gas.” By the time we made it to the Arkansas state line, I was lying in the fetal position in the bed of his truck. I felt terrible. I could see mud flying up on both sides of the truck. I remember thinking that if I had to lean over the side of his truck to throw up, I was going to get very muddy. The conversation I overheard between my dad and his hunting buddies didn’t make me feel much better, either.
Al Bolen, one of my dad’s best friends, told him, “I can’t believe you’re going to let Jase shoot that Magnum Twelve. It’s going to stomp him into the ground!”
“Well, he is good for a limit anyway,” my dad said.
I had no idea what my dad was talking about, but later I would come to understand that duck limits are calculated on an individual basis. The more hunters you have in the blind, the more ducks you’re allowed to kill. My dad had definitely changed, but he was still having difficulty communicating his newly found faith to his old buddies. I think he really wanted to take me hunting, but he was still trying to convey the toughness his old drinking buddies expected from him. To be honest, I was so happy to be going hunting with my dad, I didn’t care if I was only going for the limit. I was much more concerned about what Mr. Al said about the shotgun stomping me into the ground.
The next thing I knew I was being ordered into a boat, and then we motored through pitch-black darkness. It baffled me that no one was shining a light to see where we were headed, and nobody seemed uncomfortable with the darkness. I didn’t know at the time that the best way to enter a swamp when you are scouting or hunting is to do so stealthily. A true hunter uses his memory, his instincts, and the silhouettes of the swamp for navigation in the dark. After several minutes, we arrived at a very big tree. It was the biggest cypress tree I’d ever seen! I was shocked when Mr. Al shined a light up the hollowed-out trunk of the tree and said, “All right, Jase, up you go.” The ladder that rose up the tree seemed to be endless. It was still dark, so I couldn’t see the top, which was probably a good thing. My dad seemed to sense my anxiety about climbing the ladder, so he told me, “Don’t look down.” I started up the tree and quickly realized I would have to get on my tiptoes to reach every board. My dad was right on my heels and offered me encouragement along the way.
When I arrived at my destination, I was bewildered that men could build such a tree house. The duck blind was built into the middle of the tree, probably thirty feet off the ground. After a quick but very stern lesson in shotgun safety from my dad, the sounds of night began morphing into the quietness of dawn. The sun was starting to rise, revealing the open water of Moss Lake. My dad had discovered the tree with his brothers Tommy and Jimmy Frank, so it was one of his favorite hunting spots. My dad loaded my gun, and then I listened as he and his buddies quietly talked about the weather and ducks. After my nerves finally calmed, I was startled again when my dad and Mr. Al cranked down on their duck calls. All of a sudden, I heard my dad say, “Cut ’em!” Boom! Boom! Boom! Once I heard their guns fire and saw feathers flying in the sky, I raised the big Magnum 12 and pulled the trigger. The next thing I knew, I was staring up at a soft orange sky. I quickly realized I was lying on my back!
“What are you doing down there?” my dad asked me.
He took the shotgun from my hands.
“You have to lean into it when you shoot, boy!” he said.
“Did I get ’em?” I asked.
I didn’t want to tell my dad that I couldn’t see over the shooting porch, much less that the shotgun he gave me was taller and heavier than me. I scraped up a few boards and made a step so I could see over the porch. A few minutes later, I heard my dad say, “Shoot him, Jase!” I looked down and saw a pintail drake backpedaling over a raft team of motionless ducks on the water. My dad had failed to inform me about the concept of decoys! The question that immediately came to my mind was Why are all those ducks just sitting there? I started blasting my shotgun.
“Whoa, whoa!” my dad yelled. “Don’t shoot the decoys, boy!”
Fortunately, somebody else had nicked the duck I was supposed to shoot, so it was still sitting there. As my dad and his buddies were reloading their guns, I started shooting again and finally connected. Technically, I had struck for the first time, although my shooting efficiency was a bit ragged. Over the next couple of hours, my dad and his buddies offered their advice on how to be a good shot, which actually sounded more like individual campaign speeches on who was the best marksman. Of course, I didn’t have the courage to tell them the reason I’d missed so badly was because I actually believed the painted pieces of plastic were live ducks! I only cared that my first hunt was the most fun I’d ever had in my life, even though my ears were ringing and I had excruciating pain in my right shoulder.
Somewhere during my first duck hunt, I found adventure and saw pure excitement in my dad. As we ventured back to our house that day, I was growing more and more eager to explore the outdoors. I felt a sense of peace after the struggles and heartache that led us to the riverbank. Hunting and fishing would become woven into me from that day forward, but it wasn’t so much about the activity as whom I was sharing the pursuit with. Hunting and fishing would become passions for me, but more important, they were something I wanted to share with my dad, brothers, and friends. I also learned another valuable lesson that day, one that I would share with many other people over the years. For some reason, many hunters believe shooting a duck on the water is unsportsmanlike conduct. I’ve never viewed hunting as a sport, but more of a chase that provides us with a food source. I also believe hunting is God’s plan for humans to manage the animal kingdom. The only two things I know ducks are good for are viewing and eating. It doesn’t bother me if people don’t choose t
o eat them. I’ve always said people are free to watch them, eat them, or watch me eat them! This is a fact: ducks taste the same regardless of whether you shoot them when they’re flying or sitting! The difficult challenge in duck hunting is tricking a wild duck into flying or swimming into shooting range, because humans aren’t the only predators pursuing them. The pursuit is what I love the most about hunting. The actual shooting is the easy part, especially if you get them close enough. The choice of whether to shoot ducks that are sitting, swimming, or flying is a choice that is earned, and I enjoy the decision whatever it may be. Hunting also revealed to me the differences between humans and animals. We use weapons to kill our prey and then season them when we cook and eat them. Even though animals hunt one another, they function only by instinct and are void of seasoning and recipes. I’m not a big fan of zoos because they tend to manipulate animals’ natural instincts. I’d rather see them running free in their natural environments. I don’t necessarily think having a zoo is wrong or inhumane, because humans are in charge, but I don’t like to stare at caged animals and surely don’t like to pay an entrance fee to do it! I’ll go to the woods for free. Some people might be surprised by this admission, but I’ve never mounted a fish or animal to hang on my wall. I’ve never mounted any animal as a trophy. I don’t believe it’s wrong, and plenty of my friends do it, but I don’t like having a dead animal staring at me when it looks like it’s still alive! I enjoy the pursuit of a hunt. My family has pets and I like animals, but once a year I enjoy proving that humans are at the top of the food chain. Fortunately, there are many such opportunities in Louisiana and our seasoning is extra spicy!
I found the same excitement in hunting frogs and deer for the first time. The first time I went frog-hunting, I was dumbfounded that someone could have that much fun without doing something immoral or illegal. I was the ice chest man on my first hunt, which basically meant every time my dad caught a frog I would quickly open the lid and then shut it before the frog jumped out. I realized the best part was being the catcher. I don’t want to brag, but I became one of the greatest frog catchers on the planet. The training was pretty simple—keep the light in their eyes, and when they jump, you jump. The more frogs I ate, the more I sacrificed equipment and my body to obtain as many as the law allowed. I don’t classify frogs as “the other white meat”; they’re “the only white meat,” and then there’s everything else.
I remember the first big buck deer I shot. Phil and I were heading home from a morning duck hunt with a couple of buddies. We were navigating a small creek in our fishing boat, and my dad told me to be on the lookout for deer. We came around a bend in the creek, and my dad shut the motor off and chaotically admonished me to get my gun. He tossed me a buckshot shell, and as I was loading my gun, I looked up on the bank and there was a deer just standing there. Phil was trying to whisper as he said, “Shoot him, Jase! You better hurry.” I raised my gun and took the shot. The deer ran toward us in the creek. He went under the water out of sight, and I was waving the gun around exclaiming, “Give me another shell.” In a calm voice, my dad said, “Hey, Jase, deer are not like beavers. He is not coming up for air. You got him, son.” I started stripping off my clothes to go after the deer. But then my dad informed me the water was thirteen feet deep in the channel of the creek, so the deer wasn’t going anywhere.
We went home and made a thirteen-foot-long pole with a giant catfish hook on the end of it. We marched back up the creek and in less than five minutes hooked the deer and brought it into the boat with us. He was a magnificent eight-point buck. We ate the backstraps later that day and processed the rest of the deer. We delivered the rest of the meat to a couple of elderly widows we helped take care of from our church. I kept the deer’s horns for a while, but I concluded that I didn’t need something to commemorate my first deer hunt. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.
As I reflect on the experiences of my first hunts, I’m struck by the fact that they coincided with our new church membership. Maybe some of the godly seeds were being planted in me, but I knew for sure that the backdrop of hunting and fishing was providing me with evidence of a God-created planet. Although the Bible became a blueprint for my life, I didn’t realize God existed by reading the pages of a book or listening to a preacher in a church building. Sitting in a church building doesn’t make you a Christian, just like sitting in a duck blind doesn’t make you a duck hunter. My first thoughts of God came in the outdoors. The more I explored the woods, swamps, and wildlife that lived around our house, the more I concluded that the design of the great outdoors and the rest of our world demanded a Designer. Later in life, I stumbled across Romans 1:20 in the Bible: “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.”
In all my years in the wild, I’ve never met Mother Nature or Mr. Photosynthesis. Humans tend to try to make sense of things and are always searching for scientific reasons to explain the world’s riddles. But if you do not believe in a Creator, your options are limited in trying to explain the functions of Earth, let alone the universe. Who built this place? Where did I come from? Where did you come from? As Hebrews 3:4 says, “For every house is built by someone, but God is the builder of everything.” The Hebrews writer was actually comparing Moses and Jesus, but he delivered principles that I have come to believe are fundamental to life’s questions. To me it would be silly to claim someone’s physical home might not have been built just because you didn’t see it being built. We know someone built our homes, neighborhoods, and skyscrapers because of their design, even though they may have been constructed before we were even born.
Hebrews 3:3 tells us: “Jesus has been found worthy of greater honor than Moses, just as the builder of a house has greater honor than the house itself.” And Hebrews 3:6 explains: “But Christ is faithful as a son over God’s house. And we are his house, if we hold on to our courage and the hope of which we boast.” It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I put these pieces together, but even before then I saw evidence of God in the outdoors, as well as the transformation of my parents and the people they were associating with. My parents were now living as God’s house, and not just on Sunday mornings.
When I was fourteen, I surrendered in baptism and Christ moved in. In John 14:23 Jesus says: “If anyone loves me, he will obey my teaching. My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” The good news I heard was that Jesus Christ, God’s son, came to this earth as God in flesh; lived a flawless life representing God as perfect, holy, loving, and good; and then died on a cross for the sins of the world. He was buried, only to triumph over death by being bodily resurrected. He stayed forty days, offering much convincing proof that he was alive, only to leave the earth and ascend to the right hand of God, where He functions as mediator for those who trust Him as he awaits His return to take “His house” to the Father, that is, the Creator and Designer. Christ represents us as our advocate in heaven—despite our flaws—and we represent Him on earth. Our relationship with God is based on the One we belong to and the life we live as a result of belonging to our Creator. Our past is forgiven and remembered no more. God uses flawed sons and daughters to make the all-perfect Christ known, and if He can use me, He can use anyone.
Every time I walk through a swamp or the woods, or climb into a boat on the Ouachita River, I see evidence of God all around me. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all the proof I need to know I’m living in His house.
4
BROTHERS IN ARMS
FIGHTING WITH THE BOYS
A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
—PROVERBS 17:17
I think one of the reasons my family survived its difficult times and is so close today is because we are always laughing at one another’s faults and mistakes, and despite whatever injustices are done, we have a good time doing it. We aren’t
afraid to poke fun at one another and no one ever takes it personal for long. My brothers and I are highly competitive and world-class trash-talkers, and if you ever walk in while we are playing cards or dominoes—just like our games with Granny and Pa—you probably would think someone is fixing to die.
Our neighbor, who was about my parents’ age, came over to our house once looking for my mom. She found my brothers and me playing the card game hearts. She offered to be the fourth. But about midway through the second hand, we looked up and she had tears streaming down her face. She threw her cards in the middle of the table, declared she didn’t want to play anymore, and left the house. We were a bit miffed about it and didn’t realize until later that our trash talking had led to her emotional exit. Another time, I brought a girl from high school down to my parents’ house for supper and cards because she told me she was quite the spades player. Halfway through the game, she was crying hysterically. Her sister later stood nose to nose with me and gave me quite the tongue-lashing. I came to realize that our banter was a bit extreme to people outside of our family. Maybe that is one of the reasons I married a woman who couldn’t care less about winning or losing any game.
Our location on the riverbank and our lack of money limited our participation in school sports programs. We followed every season of basketball, baseball, and football with daily epic battles in our yard. The goal of our daily sports games was to win and, more important, dish out the most punishing physical pain possible. In football, the key strategy to keeping your head attached to your body was running out of bounds. We didn’t play with pads, so if you came across the middle, you were going down hard to the ground. We weren’t worried about getting in trouble when we crushed one another because my dad viewed it as part of the game. He played football at Louisiana Tech and was invited to try out for the Washington Redskins. He was assured that he could beat out the rookie they had drafted—Joe Theismann—but Phil declined. However, Phil believed football was a game that turned boys into men, so he encouraged our backyard antics. It always seemed kind of weird that if I slapped my brother in our room, I would be whipped, but if someone snapped both bones in my arm because I went across the middle in a football game, hey, it was no problem.
Good Call: Reflections on Faith, Family, and Fowl Page 4
