Friday, November 22 5:56 AM. MST
The revolutions of the stove fan grow slower and slower. Momentum fading like the last drops of daylight before the hibernal solstice. Inside the tent gray in-between light hangs like gauze – not the immutable blackness of true night, but not yet the promising rays of the day's onset either. I coax myself out of the mummy bag, add a log, blow embers to flame, and flip the damper a quarter turn. Frosty breath billows in the headlamp's beam. Cold seeps through my socks like ice water. A thin breeze begins to tug at the corners of the canvas.
It's our third day in Montana chasing rutting mule deer through the sage-speckled coulees and ponderosa pines that define this part of the country. The boys left nearly two hours ago to work a new location we'd stumbled upon yesterday. But I'm back at camp, where there's at least spotty cell service, anxiously awaiting a text from my stepmom.
Today my dad has heart surgery. Today, the man who taught me to hunt nearly four decades ago is 1,400 miles away. In a hospital. Out of comfort's reach, but heavy on my mind.
I'm certainly not a Hemingway apologist, but the words from The Sun Also Rises nibble relentlessly at the edge of my subconscious.
Drawing on 13 doleful years of Baptist schooling I come up with the referenced passage from Ecclesiastes, in the King James version as I was strictly taught.
"One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh, but the earth abideth forever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again."
The words, to my non-theological ear, portend hope, soothing in their certainty that no matter what, a new day will always dawn. That nature has a rhythm. A cycle. But, despite the Solomonic assurances, as the sun rises this morning, I find myself wrestling with the mortality of the most important man in my life.
It's far too soon for this generation to pass. Despite stoic efforts, I'm unable blot the thought from my mind.
Friday, November 22, 8:03 AM. MST
The phone by my side buzzes. A text from Deb.
"I just got an update. It looks like they are able to do robotic entry through the side ribs. This can change but the first hurdle was the important one and we passed that."
"They are just starting the actual surgical repair. I'll get an update in about 3 hours."
"Thanks for your prayers"
The truth is I haven't approached a conversation with the Creator in a long, long time, but in moments like this, even the most delinquent find faith.
"He's always belonged to you more than he's belonged to me," I begin clumsily, "but I'd sure appreciate you letting me keep him around a while longer." The frayed words spill out in a barely audible whisper – two parts thought, one part sound.
The procedure is much more involved than Dad had led me to believe. They'll have to enter though his side, deflate his lung, stop his heart, connect him to bypass, cut open the chamber, repair the valve, stitch the incisions, reinflate the lung, restart his heart, and take him off bypass. This isn't a casual visit for a sore throat or skinned knee.
The message relieves my immediate anxiety and provides a temporary halt to the busy-but-not-accomplishing-anything tasks of stacking and re-stacking the firewood and sorting and resorting gear. I add fresh grounds to the percolator and light the camp stove. Bacon, eggs, and coffee prepared outdoors have always brought the same tactile comfort as the tattered flannel I'm wearing, and I finally allow my thoughts to wander back to my boys and the hunt.
We'd arrived late on Tuesday – a thin sliver of daylight left to work with – after a twenty-hour drive into a stiff headwind. A friend of Kyle's had met us at the pinned location where we'd made our camp.
The first day had been an eventful one. My younger son, Blake, and I elected to survey an area we'd hunted together in the past, stalking through familiar draws and drainages – turning up a few doe and small bucks – but nothing we wanted to put tags on quite yet. Kyle and John wandered far off to the east, about an hour away, testing a new location they had been e-scouting for months.
Around midday, Blake and I relocated a few miles north to glass tight contours that appeared promising on the topo. Bumping a few deer on our way in, we made the call to post up for the afternoon and thoroughly pick the landscape apart.
This trip marked my third mule deer outing in Montana – the first providing a hearty bowl of tag soup, and the second leading to the harvest of a small buck in the last hour of the last day.
I had no intentions of coming down to the wire again this season and had set my expectations and trigger finger accordingly. So, when a decent-by-my-standards four-by-four worked down the drainage, broadside and less than 100 yards out front, my hunt was brought to a quick conclusion.
Kyle and John returned to camp later that evening with a fistful of stories, a phone full of videos, and a truck bed full of game bags alongside the massive skull of a mature three-by-four Kyle had stalked and taken mid-day.
Not a bad way to begin our week.
We celebrated the moment with backstraps cooked rare, cocktails mixed strong, and John's (rightfully) famous Dutch oven pineapple upside down cake prepared over coals, before turning in for the night.
Friday, November 22, 11:44 PM. MST
I pour another cup of coffee, light a cigarette, and rekindle dormant coals in the fire ring outside.
A second text buzzes through.
"More good news. They are moving ahead with a repair not a replacement. That takes a little longer as it is meticulous work. He continues to tolerate the procedure well."
"I'll get an update in a couple hours. It will be the nurse if they are still working or the doctor if his part is done. After the surgeon is done it will still be 2-4 hours before I can see him."
"Grateful for the good news so far."
We'd been up well before the sun on Thursday, dressing and packing by the dim lantern. For this outing we'd decided to hunt together – me, Kyle, Blake, and John. With our tags already filled, Kyle and I were simply along as extra sets of eyes and spare shoulders for packs we'd hoped would hang heavy. Dusty truck lights blazed the back road that meandered in front of us like a river on its way to the sea – delivering us to our location just as the bruised sky began to glow.
Our morning efforts had proven unproductive, despite the hard-earned miles on our boot bottoms. But, by mid-afternoon we had worked our way well into the backcountry near a promising old burn. With a couple hours of daylight remaining, we spotted a good buck working does on a ridge-top some thousand yards off.
From our perch Kyle and I watched as Blake and John stealthily made their stalk, and fretted as precious daylight trickled away, minute by minute.
Down the drainage, around the first rise, then to the bottom. Up the other side. Moving slow. Straight below the deer now, but unable to see them.
Through the glass we saw it all unfold. The buck moving in and out of sight, pushing does, and fighting off a solid challenger. John and Blake easing up and around the back, until their orange vests eventually disappeared from view.
We had waited in anticipation for the shot we were sure would come but were only met with the pressing pulses of the wind and the occasional call of a jay.
As the sun dropped behind them, we finally spotted Blake and John cresting the hilltop, and they waved us on. It was an hour after dark when we finally met back at the truck. There'd been an opportunity at 100 yards, they shared, but with the steep angle and brushy cover, Blake had elected to pass. A decision I would have had difficulty making, but one I respected.
Friday, November 22, 2:01 PM. MST
I'm boning out meat at the camp table when the third text comes.
"Surgery is almost done. He is off the bypass machine and his heart is beating on its own. They are monitoring things a bit and will come out maybe in the next hour to talk with us (Dave and Terry are here with our friend Mike)."
"Hopefully I'll get see him by 5:00"
My mind at ease, I pass the remainder of the afternoon boning the last of the meat, gathering and splitting firewood, and entertaining myself with miscellaneous camp chores and light reading.
The boys, including Matt, who joined us last night, are finally back from their hunts, and we take dinner by the light of the campfire while they recount their day's adventures, and I update them on Grandpa. They have no game to show for their efforts but count plenty of encounters and the siren's lure that comes from exploring the previously unknown to draw them back.
Friday, November 22, 8:52 PM. MST
One last update from Deb pings through.
"He is awake and the breathing tube is out. Not talking, barely had eyes open but I got a grin. We both agreed he should rest and I'll see him tomorrow."
"I suspect things will continue to go well so probably in a room tomorrow. I'll text you and let you know."
"I am praising God for
1) able to do the robotic surgery
2) able to do a repair and not replacement
3) his heart started back up just fine"
Relieved, I turn in for the night, extinguish the lantern, and drift into a deep and contented sleep that has successfully alluded me to this point.
Saturday, November 23, 5:51 AM. MST
We've decided to leave a day earlier than originally planned so we can check in on Dad; this will be our last hunt of the trip. Tomorrow morning we'll pack up and begin the long drive home.
John and Matt have motored off to a remote area we haven't explored yet while Kyle, Blake, and I agree to give the drainage where we had stalked the big buck two days earlier another shot. I'm alone with my boys, a moment we haven't shared since our hunt together last year in Colorado.
As day breaks we quietly enter the basin through the tangles of a dry creek bed, up to the south-facing slope, then ease slowly west into the wind while covering the charred terrain with our binos; hoping to relocate the wide buck and his doe group.
We move cautiously, taking our time and minding our steps, but trek all the way through without so much as a sighting. So, we push farther, eventually coming to a deep, wrinkled draw, where we stop and glass. The wind is full in our faces now, and it doesn't take long to spot our first deer. A doe cautiously working her way up the hillside in our direction, with a smaller buck trailing behind, and a bigger buck pushing them both.
We relocate to get a better angle and find the doe and smaller buck again but lose sight of the wide four bringing up the rear. Somehow he's melted into the folds of the landscape and, like an apparition, disappeared from sight.
We wait it out for a couple hours, catching passing glimpses of a few more deer, and finishing meager lunches in our hide. Miraculously, I have cell service and type a quick message to Dad for an update. He's tired but seems in good spirits. I fill him in on our week so far – he's excited to hear all of the stories when we get home.
The shadows are growing long now, and the action has slowed to a stop. There's been no sign of Blake's buck, so, we reluctantly pack up and reverse course – back the two and a half miles we came, glassing as we go.
Saturday, November 23, 4:53 PM. MST
As our hunt draws to its inevitable close, we scramble over to a high overlook just as the sun paints its final brushstrokes on the western sky – yellows, oranges, pinks, and purples. We pause and sit together in silence until the last of the light fades behind the distant hills. Each lost in our own thoughts, satisfied with the ending, and quietly content with the company.
In that moment I'm filled with a deep and overwhelming gratitude for this time with my boys, and for a father who passed his passion for places like these on to me. To each of us. I'm grateful for the harvest, the public land that made it possible, and for the health that still allows me to take part in it.
Mostly I'm grateful knowing that nature has a rhythm. A cycle. And that tomorrow, God willing, this setting sun will rise on us all once again.
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