Jacob

Author’s Note…The following story was written what seems like many, many years ago. It is still one of my favorite pieces, if I do say so myself, and holds a special place in my heart. Not only is it about a subject near and dear to my heart, but it was also the story that opened my eyes to the joys of outdoor writing. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have these past 26 years.

I walk down the hall to Jacob’s room, thinking I will have to wake him up. As I walk into the room, not only is he up, but he is already dressed. His curly blond hair is barely visible under the camouflage hat he wears. I am struck with a mixture of happiness and sorrow at seeing him prepare for his first bowhunt. Happy he is anxious to hunt with bow and arrow, but sad because he is growing up to fast. It seems like just yesterday that his mother and I brought him home from the hospital as a baby.

“How long have you been up, Jake?” I ask him.

“For an hour or so.” he answers with a large smile. “It was weird Dad, I hardly slept at all last night!”

 I laugh at his enthusiasm. We walk quietly out to the kitchen, careful not to wake his mother and sister. Jacob makes himself a quick bowl of cereal as I pour a steaming cup of much needed coffee. Before I can drink the first cup, Jacob is putting his bowl in the sink and pulling on his boots.

“Ready, yet?” he asks me, standing at the door impatiently.

I chuckle to myself, swallowing my last bit of coffee, and put my own boots on. We walk out to the garage, turning off the kitchen light as we go.

“Load your gear.” I instruct him.

“I loaded our stuff this morning, while you were still sleeping.” he replies.

I once again smile to myself, remembering the excitement of my first hunt.  I start the truck and we’re on our way.

The first fifteen minutes of the forty-five minute consists of Jacob asking a million questions. I try to answer them all, but he riddles them off faster than I can reply. We then discuss our upcoming Missouri turkey hunt, with Jacob’s Grandpa Olson and Uncle Josh, that will take place in two weeks. Suddenly, there is silence as Jacob’s head starts nodding, and then he is asleep.

“Just like his Grandpa Troutman.” I quietly say with a smile, as I turn off the radio.

Half an hour later, we pull into the field and Jacob’s blue eyes open as the truck comes to a stop. A smile comes across his face as he realizes where we are. We quickly step out of the truck and unload our bows. I string my longbow as Jacob puts on his leather back quiver. I think of the hours spent in the garage as Jacob and I made that quiver. Hours spent as teacher and student, but most important, as father and son.

I toss my daypack over my shoulder and start down the lane, Jacob walking beside me, his strung recurve over his shoulder. Many a summer afternoon was spent in the backyard, watching Jake shoot his new recurve. Maybe I had been too pushy, insisting on lots of practice. No, practice was too important. Besides, Jacob made it easy, always anxious to shoot his bow. After he had completed the hunter safety class this past spring, and I was satisfied with his shooting accuracy on 3-D targets, I gave him the okay to hunt this coming fall. For the rest of the summer his excitement was non-stop, practicing every chance he could with that bow until he was a better shot than most adults I know. His mother had told him to take a break from shooting for a few days, but he refused saying “I can’t mom, I want the deer to die quickly when I shoot one opening day.”  His mom just smiled and left him alone the rest of the summer.

“You’ve created a monster” she told me.  I simply smiled, but on the inside, I was beaming with pride.  I was almost as anxious for Jacob’s first opening day hunt as he was.

Although summer is gone, and the chill of autumn is in the early morning air, his excitement continues. Even now, as we approach his treestand in the darkness, he is wearing that beaming smile that looks so much like his mother’s.

I tie Jacob’s bow and quiver to the drawstring that hangs from his treestand, as he climbs up. As soon as his safety harness is secured, he pulls up the bow and homemade arrows.

“Do you remember what we talked about?” I whisper, looking up at him and just loud enough for his young ears to hear.

“Yep,” he says softly, “no shots past that rock and pick a spot on the deer. If I connect, watch where the deer runs, wait half an hour or more, and then come get you.”

I nod my approval. Then I turn to go my own way as Jacob nocks an arrow.

“I’ll be in the stand at the edge of the swamp. See you in a couple of hours.” I tell him.

As I walk to my stand, the silence of the dark woods is overwhelming. Although I try my best to be quiet, every step I take seems to echo through the trees. I draw nearer to the edge of “Coyote Swamp”, as we call it, and turn left onto the deer trail that runs past my stand. A small animal dashes through the frost laden weeds as I approach the base of my ladder. After getting settled in, there is still a good half hour before legal shooting hours.

 I spend the next thirty minutes trying to imagine what is going through Jacob’s mind as he sits quietly in the darkness. Once again, a smile comes to my face.

I’ve smiled a lot this morning. This is what hunting is all about, I think to myself. I then lay my longbow across my lap and prepare to watch the sunrise. It’s vast array of colors, spilling upon the autumn leaves, is a sight that I have always treasured. It’s almost as glorious as witnessing the birth of your baby. Almost, but not quite.

Shortly after the sun comes up, I am still in awe of its beauty. Suddenly, I am brought out of my stupor by the sound of something walking through the brush. Slowly turning my head to my left, I catch movement. There! A mature doe is walking right down the trail that passes my stand.  If she continues in this direction, she will be perfectly broadside, ten feet from the base of the tree that I sit in. My heart is beating faster than the wings of a flushed pheasant, even though I have hunted the whitetail deer for quite a number of years now. I think I will always feel this way when I am this close to a deer, no matter how much experience I acquire.

The doe does indeed continue in my direction, and although everything seems to be going perfect, a problem has arisen. Following the mature whitetail is another deer. However, this one is not very old. Obviously, a fawn born this past spring. The young animal seems far too innocent to play this game of hunter and prey as it leaps into the air playfully before nibbling on a piece of tall grass. What a few minutes ago was viewed as steaks on the table, is now safe from my arrow. Sure, some would say that a yearling will survive without its mother, but it is only opening day and there is plenty of time to fill the freezer. Besides, something about seeing a mother and child together always grabs my heart. For now, I am content to just observe nature unseen from my perch.

I watch the doe and her offspring walk by. They stop just long enough for the doe to test the air, and then walk on never knowing of my presence. I observe them follow the main trail through the woods until they pause to sample some tasty morsel from the forest floor. Then the doe veers from the main trail. Instead she has chosen to follow a much less traveled path, one that leads up the ridge, towards the corn field.

Once again, I am snapped out of my trance. This time by a thought. If the doe continues up that trail, she will pass right under Jacob’s stand. “Will he shoot?” I wonder. I am curious to see how this will play out. I wonder if Jacob will take the large doe, the yearling or if he will let them both walk.  For a very brief second, I consider spooking them, so he’s not tempted to take the shot.  However, the thought quickly escapes me as I don’t want to deny him his first deer or the experience. The two deer continue until the trees and brush hide them from my view. I anxiously await the outcome.

The next hour or so is uneventful, except for the normal watching of the birds and squirrels. The squirrels are in season, but for now I am content to watch them play and search for food. Then I see Jacob coming through the woods. He is wearing a smile bigger than I have ever seen on the boy.

“Dad! Did you see that doe?” he yells loudly, bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Her and that fawn walked right under my stand! It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Was she close enough for a shot?” I ask curiously as I lower my gear to the ground, and then climb down myself.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t shoot her with that fawn.” he replies. “It looked awfully small dad. It sure was cute though. I was shaking the whole time!  I thought for sure that old doe would hear my knees knocking.”

I laugh out loud, as I know the feeling well, and give my son a big hug.

I pick my daypack up from ground, reach inside for one of the apples I had packed, and slide the pack over my shoulder again.  I cut the apple in half with my knife, and hand Jacob his share. He eats it enthusiastically, the events of this morning replaying in his mind over and over.

The sun is bright and the temperature starting to climb as we walk out of the swamp. A redtail hawk flies over, Jacob noticing it even before I do. His love and notice of the outdoors has begun. Once again, he begins asking me more questions than I can answer. While he talks, I mentally thank God for the outdoors and this boy I share it with.

As we walk down the tractor lane through the bean field, on our way back to the truck, the talk quiets down. We are both still smiling, though; him at this experience with bow in hand and I at him.

“Too bad your Grandpa Troutman and Uncle Jeff had to work today, huh.” I tell him.

“Yeah, but I’m kinda glad it was just us this morning, Dad.”

Once again a smile comes over my face. I am proud of my son. Yep, I think to myself, this is what hunting is all about.

Author’s note: On January 30, 1996, our son Jacob was stillborn. So were all my hopes and dreams of taking him hunting some day. Since then, Jacob’s little sister, Katie, was born and will forever be reminded she has a guardian angel looking over her from Heaven.

The above story is, of course, fictional. However, it is exactly the way I envision Jacob’s first hunt would have been. It has, in a way, become a memory for me.

Experiences, like the one mentioned in the story, happen in America’s many forests and fields every fall. This story is dedicated to every man and woman who has ever taken a child hunting.

To them, l would like to say “Thanks.”

Jameson C. Olson © 1996