Four Generations

Undoubtedly one of Dad’s most valuable possessions is my great grandfather’s deer rifle. Papa Bryson was rumored to have killed over 100 deer with the rifle in his lifetime and in our family the gun has taken on a somewhat mythical status. In fact in my entire life I can count the number of times I've actually gazed upon the gun on a single hand. When my grandfather was alive he kept the rifle hidden from public view and after it passed on to my father after his death, Dad has cared on the tradition of stashing the weapon away from prying eyes. Now it’s not as though the gun is particularly valuable in monetary terms, but it’s the sentimental value that makes it priceless. In case you haven’t figured it out by now, deer hunting toes the line of religion to us Bryson’s, and in our denomination, Papa Bryson’s rifle is a sacred historic artifact. It’s a relic that is so revered in my family, I never thought I’d be given the chance to fire it, must less to actually take it into the field and hunt for game.

A couple of years ago, I worked a second job, teaching part time at an advertising school here in Atlanta, in order to buy a new hunting rifle. After three long months of lecturing a bunch of future over paid creative directors, I finally earned enough cash to purchase my the weapon I had spent the better part of a year drooling over online – a Remington 700, bolt-action, 30.06 with synthetic stock and detachable magazine. I picked it up at the Bass Pro over in Lawrenceville on a balmy September Saturday afternoon and I couldn’t wait to try it out in the deer woods. Hunting season couldn't get here fast enough. Unfortunately due to my hectic work schedule that particular year, the first chance I’d get to test it on an unsuspecting whitetail wouldn't be until Thanksgiving.

The week before Turkey Day, I was in the People’s Republic of Santa Monica, editing a television commercial for one of my agencies clients. After spending a week in ground zero for liberalism and left-wing kooks in America I was about to gouge my eyes out with a wooden spoon. I was literally counting the hours until I could climb into a deer stand and breathe in some good old fresh western North Carolina mountain air. I had had about all of the LA smog and the liberal smugness that I could tolerate. My return flight touched down back in The ATL around 6PM the day before Thanksgiving, so the plan was for Danielle to pick me up at the airport with the car fully loaded and then head straight for the mountains. The night before I boarded my plane I called my lovely bride from my Ocean Boulevard hotel room to remind her to pack the new love of my life- my new Remington.

“Be sure to grab my rifle,” I said. “It’s under the bed in the guest room. It’s very important that I have Vasilli.” (I had named my rifle after Jud Law’s sniper character in the movie, Enemy at the Gates.)

“Don’t worry, Honey.” She answered in a loving tone. “It’s already taken care of.” That’s just one of the many things I adore about my wife, she’s so thoughtful and always on top of things.

Twenty four hours later my flight landed, Danielle picked my up at the MARTA station and after a welcome home kiss, the two of us were off into the night, headed for turkey, dressing, pumpkin pie and hopefully a soon to be deceased whitetail hanging upside down in the wood shed. Three hours and one pee break later we arrived at my parent house. But as we began unloading the luggage from the car, I soon discovered my wife’s mistake.

“What’s this?” I asked irritably holding up a canvas rifle case.

“Your rife,” she replied.

“No, this is a shotgun.” I fired back.
“Rifle. Shotgun. What’s the difference?” She asked innocently.

It was all I could to restrain myself from launching into a heated ballistics lecture in the middle of the driveway at ten o’clock at night. Instead I simply bite my tongue, kissed my wife on the cheek and walked inside the house.

Now if you know my farther, you know that he owns a collection of firearms and high-powered rifles that rivals that of a small African military dictatorship. Finding a substitute rifle to take into the woods behind my parent’s house to shoot an 80-pound slink doe shouldn't have been a problem. But that wasn't the issue, the issue was that I wanted I hunt with my new toy.

Dad could tell I was bummed about not having my new rifle and that not just any old rifle would do.

“Come with me, “ he said with a wry grin.

We walked downstairs into his den, or what I refer to as his Man Cave. It’s small dark room, that’s basically a finished section of the basement. It’s where he keeps his gun safe, his gun bench and his old television set where he cheers for the Braves and curses their bullpen every night during the summer months. He walked around the corner next the gun safe and knelt down and began feeling along the wood trim, as if searching for something. Suddenly he removed a section of paneling from the wall revealing secret passage. Holy Cow, I thought to myself where did that come from? I mean, I helped build this house during the summer I turned sixteen. I nailed just about every sixteen-penny nail in this house and put on just about every other shingle on the roof but I never knew that secret passage existed.

Dad reached inside and began fumbling in the darkness. For all I knew he had the Ark of the Covenant in there. Eventually he pulled out a dusty old gun case and motioned for me to follow him over to the pool table. Dad placed the case on the green felt of the table and slowly unzipped it. Inside was Papa Bryson’s legendary 32.20.

“Tell you what,” he said. “How ‘bout you take this over to the Gillespie stand and shoot us a doe for supper in the morning.”

I couldn't believe it. Papa Bryson’s 32.20 and I was actually being allowed to hunt with it.

The next morning, I climbed out of bed around 5:30, careful not to wake Danielle who was snoring sounding, and quickly got dressed. I left the house a half hour before sun up. A faint breeze whistled through the treetops, the frost crunched under my boot soles and tucked gingerly under my arm was my Great Grandfather’s rifle.

Fifteen minutes later I was lounging in the Gillespie Stand twenty feet up an old maple tree on the far western end of the property. We called it the Gillespie Stand due to the fact the stand is strategically situated fifty yards from the Gillespie family’s property line, in order to catch deer crossing over from their land onto ours. Over the years it’s been a fairly successful spot in putting deer on the supper table.

Now, that morning, while watching the sun come up over Forge Mountain, I wasn't expecting to kill anything wall worthy. Heck, I wasn't even expecting to see a buck. My parents forty acres of mountain land isn't exactly what you’d call a big game preserve but over the years we've manage to keep a fairly healthy deer population fat and happy on the property. But like the rest of the Mills River Valley, large bucks are few and far between these days. Our land is far from King Ranch status. But on a good day when the deer are moving, you’re likely to see several good sized does and maybe a small forked horn or two. On that day, I didn't really care what came out, I just wanted to see something of shooting size, heck even a little 80-pound slink would do. It would make a nice batch of tender jerky. I really didn't care, all I wanted to do was take a deer a Papa’s rifle, since this would be to only chance I’d ever get to hunt with it.

Never in wildest dreams did I expect a beautiful wide-racked six-point buck to make an appearance that day. But that’s exactly what happened.

Around 9 AM, a couple of does came into a thicket to my right and began milling around munching on acorns. As soon as the biggest one stepped out into the open, I planned on putting another notch into Papa’s rifle’s legacy. But just as I was about to raise the rifle, I heard footsteps directly behind me. I turned my head slightly and out of the corner of my eye, through the twisted, gnarled limbs of the mountain laurel; I saw the rack of a nice buck. I couldn't believe my luck! My first and possibly only chance to hunt with Papa Bryson's 32.20 and good sized buck decides to pay a visit to my stand.

The buck was standing less than fifteen yards away and was looking directly at me. I knew if I was going to get a shot off, it was going to have to be quick. I whirled my rifle around, placed the iron open sights directly behind his front shoulder and fired.

The old rifle cracked in the still morning silence like a cheap firecracker. I was initially shocked at it's lack of volume-I forgot how small a caliber a 32.20 actually is. The buck leaped into the air and disappeared back into the brush. I had no idea if I had made a clean shot on him or not, or even if the old gun was shooting straight.

But the deer instead of disappearing over the ridge, like I expected him to, made a semi-circle around my stand. He was running pretty fast through thick cover, which prevented an immediate follow up shot. I could just catch glimpses of his body through the trees. Eventually, however, his erratic path brought him back out into the open, just fifty yards down the hill from me, we he paused as if the catch his breath. I clumsily pumped another round into the chamber and fired a second shot. The buck again leaped into the air and broke into a full sprint down the hill towards the creek. I watched him disappear into the laurels, and after several seconds, I heard the sound that every hunter loves to hear: a loud crash followed by silence.

I knew immediately that the buck was down.

One thing Dad and Paw taught me, was to give a wounded deer time to die-just because he's on the ground doesn't necessarily mean he's headed for that Big Bait Pile In The Sky. The last thing I wanted to do was chase a gut shot buck all over the county. So after several minutes of calming my nerves and listening for any additional sounds from the bottom of the hill, I climbed down from the stand. The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air. I immediately found a good blood trail from the second spot I had shot the deer and just as I had hoped, I followed it to the creek where I found his lifeless body laying curled up next to an old red oak log.

He was a beautiful 8-point buck, with wide, tall rack. His antlers were perfectly symmetrical-each tine a mirror image of it's opposite. He was most defiantly the nicest buck I'd ever taken up to that point in my life.

As I stood there in the cold morning air, my breaths coming out in white, frozen puffs, and the glorious sunshine warming my back, I prayed a silent Hunter's Prayer. I thanked God for the opportunity to kill such a magnificent animal and promised that his death would not be in vain-he would feed my family throughout the coming winter. But I also thanked God on that morning, for the chance to take a buck with my great grandfather's rifle. I imagined that somewhere up in heaven, Papa was smiling down on his great grandson-proud that four generations of hunters had taken a deer with that old rifle.

I hope to be there one day with Ridge, when he makes it five generations.