The King’s Stag
Even in the weak flashlight beam, I could see blood dripping off the bottom of Dad’s jacket – dripping off the jacket’s hem and adding dark, crimson spots to his boot tread marks in the snow. His steps were surprisingly spry and youthful like, considering the load he carried across his shoulders – a small whitetail buck.
I had gotten off work early and called Dad – “how ‘bout a quick deer hunt before it gets dark?” I knew he wouldn’t say no, but asked anyway.
A half hour later, we left his house, walked down the road, over the timber bridge and onto a woods road. Veered off that road and entered the forest. The freshly fallen snow quieted our footsteps as we traversed the edge of the steep ridge, overlooking the fast flowing little river.
With the sounds of rattling beech leaves and racing water of the rapids, as a backdrop, we made a brief plan for the evening and parted ways.
I vividly recall the dusting of new snowflakes on his shoulders and hat as he meandered off towards the top of the ridge, with borrowed rifle at the ready.
Mom and Dad immigrated from England about a year before I was born. There was no hunting, for common folk, in the home country where they grew up - the Crown owned the rights to all wildlife. Hunting was completely foreign to him.
He really enjoyed the outdoors, though, and had a large appreciation for the places and spaces his new homeland offered.
A floating fishing knife and a silver pocket knife were the only weapons Dad was interested in owning – guess his and Mom’s wartime experiences had something to do with that decision.
Yet, as I grew up and became more and more immersed in the taking of wildlife, he whole heartedly supported my passion. Dad would purchase hunting licenses, in order to be with me during my younger years. Those were the only times he hunted – never went on his own or with others.
My foot snapped a brittle branch while stalking through a tangle of small evergreens, close to the lake. Immediately, there was a thump da thump sound of running deer hooves. A small buck leaped across the shaded forest opening, tail held high.
Ten paces to the left, another small buck hesitated, a moment too long, to check out the strange, snow dusted, two legged creature. He didn’t understand the significance of the moment – he should have hit the flight button, like his brother.
His antlers were short, slightly curved spikes. Each spike tip was branched with a tiny fork and each curved spike had two small points protruding, just below the tiny forks. Fading light and forgetting to bring the flashlight, meant quick knife work was required to field dress him. The piece of nylon pull rope was also forgotten, in the haste of the afternoon. Oh well, up on the shoulders he goes.
The orange glow, of Dad’s cigarette, was like a tiny beacon in that dusky clump of cankered beech tree trunks.
“Well, well, isn’t that something. You did great” – the orange glow bobbed as he spoke. I slid the buck onto the ground and Dad knelt beside him, quietly admiring our prize, with his flashlight. That red and grey piece of plastic seemed to always operate on low battery, lol.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing the feeble light towards the ground behind him. Two sets of fresh deer tracks were imprinted on top of our earlier boot prints. “Looks like you got one of them”, he said, smiling – a smile that stayed etched on his face, the rest of the evening.
“Help me get it up on my shoulders and you take the light.” I almost said No, but knew I couldn’t make it all the way back to his house carrying the deer myself.
It seemed mere minutes and we were back on the road - probably something to do with Dad’s high energy level. Walking side by side, down that road, back to the house, I told the story of the hunt.
Dad responded with – “the King’s stag, we took the Kings stag tonight”, he chuckled and repeated the words a few more times.
Mom told me later, that after I left, Dad called his brothers, in England, to tell the yarn. Apparently, the words –
we took the King’s stag were repeated several times during the laughter filled conversation.
At the time, I was like that young buck – didn’t understand the significance of the moment. Years later, I put the pieces together and realized that evening was indeed, very significant to Dad – I’m extremely grateful to have shared that hunt with him. Hope it never leaves the memory bank.
Gary Marlborough
PS – alas, no pics from that hunt. We didn't take many pics back then. Have this one of him at the bridge.