On this July 15th, Andrew is five feet one inch tall, weighs ninety pounds, has dark thick hair and my rangy build.  He is also drawn to baseball, soccer, alpine skiing and cross country--sports that place a premium on endurance and foot speed. 

         I could have predicted my son's love of deer hunting.  He has watched me stalk, kill and clean deer since he was old enough to place his boots quietly in my tracks.  He has helped me butcher heavy hindquarters on our kitchen counter and knows meat doesn't grow in cellophane packages, but in Idaho's heavy timber and on sage covered hillsides.

         Now he appears in my office and asks, "Dad can you give me a ride to Hunter's Safety?"

         "What time?" I inquire, without looking away from my computer.

         When Andrew was an infant, I could not wait to teach him how to cast a fly rod, train a wire hair pointer or handle a shotgun. I believed that I had much to pass on to my first son about tying flies, calling ducks and hunting deer. During the first of five Hunter Safety classes, however, I watched other fathers coach their sons and wondered if, by serving as a buffer between Andrew and his instructors,  I'd rob him of the ability to make the right decisions. Intuitively, I felt I should step back and let him make his own mistakes. Not with a gun, of course, but mistakes in a controlled situation, which is exactly what occurred.           Sun Valley's Hunter Safety included two hours at High Desert Sport's indoor laser range.  In this darkened basement deer, elk and bear walked, stood and turned on the wall twenty five feet away. Graded on safety and bullet placement, after hitting an elk in the heart with the pistol's red beam, Andrew turned excitedly toward his friend Robert Fundy.  The muzzle came around and all hell broke loose.

     I don't expect to find many doves.  Cold nights had pushed the birds out of the Wood River's tributary canyons but a dozen miles out a dusty desert road we spotted a field of sunflowers surrounded by red willows and a gray line of cottonwood snags.  Six doves were sitting in the snag but scattered when we approach. Handing Andrew one low base eight, I watched a single return across the sage.  Andrew waited too long and the bird flared out of range.   The next was neither as wary nor as lucky as the first and tumbled into the sunflowers.  Star found the bird but when she tried to give it to me, Andrew stepped between us.

         "Star, it's mine, give it to me," he said, coaxing her to heel.

       Cole is part of the deception and when Andrew calls to buy the 30.30, he admits,  "I didn't know you wanted that gun! Your dad never got back to me and I sold it yesterday for fifty bucks!  Andrew, I'm sorry!"

         Disappointment and resignation flickered across his face, but there was no anger and after he hung up, he shrugged and said, "I guess we'll just have to keep looking."

          The obvious choice for a twelve year old was a .243. Light, flat shooting with a manageable recoil, the downside of the .243 was the lack of bullet weights and cost. As expensive as a 30.06, in the hands of an inexperienced hunter,  a .243 was too light for a big mule deer and out of the question for elk. 

 October 5

         Dawn of Idaho’s first day of deer season, found Andrew and I on a sheer sage covered face.  The combination of thick buck brush, high springs and heavy north facing forests offered excellent habitat and because the temperate morning air promised an unseasonably hot day, I hoped we'd see a buck.  We were following a ridge line’s forested north side when a three point stepped into a sunlit glade.  Turning toward us, he hesitated for a second then wheeled and bounded back into the thick lodgepole. As he raced through the trees, we just caught a glimpse of his rack. 

         An hour later, we watched a doe settle onto a sage covered hillside.  Glassing the blue green brush around her, I counted a dozen deer including a small spike.  On opening day, I suspected a dominant buck would also be bedded unseen in the sage. It took us half an hour to crawl on hands and knees and, when I felt we were close enough, I threw a small rock downhill. The spike stood up and turned toward the spot where the rock landed.  Less than thirty yards from the small deer, Andrew had an easy shot, but I told him to wait.

         "Why?" he whispered.

          Keeping my voice down, I told him that if he shot the spike a bigger buck would stand up.  I threw a larger rock down hill.  Six does and five fawns rise out of the sage.  There was no dominant buck and with a snort of alarm the spike bounced away.

October 7

         It was late afternoon when we spotted a heavy bodied three point brousing three hundred yards away on the edge of a forest. Keeping an intersecting ridge between us, we narrowed the distance to sixty yards.  Andrew was setting up for a shot, when I heard a door slam and turned to see an Sport Utility Vehicle parked on the sheep road behind us.  A hunter was standing in the open, glassing the surrounding hills.  When I turned back, the buck had slipped back into the forest. 

October 8

         We saw a decent buck just before  dusk and managed to close to within a hundred yards before the gathering dark ruined our chance.  That evening we hiked out in headlamps

      The moment has a momentum behind it and I watch him sink to a sitting position, watch him bring his rifle to his shoulder and hear myself whisper, "Hold just behind his shoulder son."  

         I want his first shot to anchor the deer. I did not want to see it stagger and run, or drop and struggle to rise.  For the sake of future deer hunts, I want the kill to be clean and wait for the buck to fall.  It takes two steps up hill then hesitates,  "Shoot again."  I whisper.  Again the 30.06 breaks the morning silence, but the buck simply stares at us then trots into the forest.

         Andrew had missed it.  Blame it on his high heart rate from the forced climb to the ridge or a deserved case of buck fever, he could not forgive himself.

          All the try drained out of him as he leaned against an ancient doug fir.  "Dad, why didn't you shoot it?" he finally asked me.

         I told him it was his deer to kill or miss.  I could not ruin the memory of those two shots by killing the buck.  Nor, in hindsight, do I now want him to be able to measure that spectacular head.  Over the years the buck will grow to mythic proportions and in time, Andrew will value the pain of that miss more than the joy of a killing shot.    

Epilogue

         Andrew killed his first buck a year later.   It was late afternoon on the opening day of deer season when we spotted a three point brousing across a sage filled meadow. After a fast uphill climb, he rested his rifle on his pack and squeezed off a shot.  The bullet hit behind behind the buck’s right shoulder dropping it in the blue sage.  As soon as Andrew calmed down enough to keep from cutting himself,  I coached him through the field dressing.   Then, while helping him drag it down to a road,  I wondered aloud if he was sorry he took the first deer we saw.

         In reply, he looked at me as if I was crazy.