My father was always a man of little words, a trait still true today. I could be in the front passenger seat in his truck for an hour and he wouldn’t say more than a few words. Every now and then, however, we would just be sitting there and out of the blue, he would tell us a story about his childhood, growing up poor in Mexico or his challenging experiences coming to the United States. There were many trials and challenges that my “Old-Man” went through in his younger days, but he always told these stories with a glint of pride in his eyes. In his stories, he always managed to highlight the good, despite the tribulations of being dirt-poor.

His life was an adventure, it made him strong and humble and I loved to see him reenact scenes punching and kicking at the air and pausing to laugh at his own crazy stories! The best stories were about him and growing up en el rancho. One particular story always left me in stitches! The story involved the beloved family donkey (that my dad used to race… I guess donkey racing was a big thing back in Michoacan!) and my 8-year old father biting its ear so hard that it bucked and kicked his grandpa, breaking his ribs (that did not end well for my dad)!

Another story involved a neighborhood kid who got constipated by eating too many “tunas” (prickly-pear cactus fruit) and a live turkey used as a remedy. But that’s a story for another time!

In Mexico, at least when my Old-Man was a kid, hunting was not something that most people did for leisure, especially not in the poor regions where he grew up. Where he lived, you hunted for food. Pure and simple. Unregulated and probably a little illegal. He and his brother (my tio) would use an old smooth bore rifle, muzzle-loaded with bearings they found on the floor or nails and even rocks. They would wait until some “blackbirds” landed in the cornfields and just blast away. This would supplement and change up the monotonous meals at home, which consisted of molcajete salsa, tortillas and sometimes beans.

I can only wonder what it was like for him when he first learned of the notion of hunting in the United States.

I was about 5 or 6 when my dad first took me out with him deer-hunting. He had already been hunting here a few years and had taken a few bucks in the California D11 zone. I remember how hard it was keeping up with him and trying my hardest not to be noisy, which seemed next to impossible as I trudged through gravel, trampled on leaves and popped countless acorns underfoot.

My Old-Man didn’t talk much when we hunted. He almost never really taught with words. That was sometimes a challenge. Did something wrong? You would get a glare. Sometimes you would get yelled at… in Spanish. But mostly he was always quiet, even when we headed back to the truck for lunch. No stories. Just silence. I watched him and wondered. Was he thinking back to those days in the cornfield with his muzzleloader? Or was he just reveling in the now? It took years trailing behind him, but I learned to enjoy the silence myself.

As an adult, I always felt lucky to have the dad I had. Sure he was rough around the edges, didn’t always communicate well and he gave a good whooping to us here and there. But I am thankful because some others don’t have it as good. I learned from his silence and I learned by watching him. I am thankful because his father before him was not a hunter at all. Hunting was something that my Old-Man did for his family out of necessity, and when he moved here, there was really no need to do so. But he did it and he passed it on to me.

On one of our last hunts out hunting Gambel’s Quail, from a distance, I watched him kick up a covey… two-shots… and takes a double with his Remington Peerless! I smiled to myself and for a split second, I was taken back to following along my Old-Man’s footsteps, trying not to spook deer. Now here we are chasing after some Arizona Copper-Tops and I am about to out-shoot the “master”!

WHIIIIIIIIIR! My heart jumps! Three Gambel’s rocket out from under a cholla I walked by with a flash of grey! I am rattled! I was just standing there!

I pull it together and mount the Lefever Nitro and take aim at the lead bird. BOOM! I shoot just over the first bird! I curse under my breath. The shot causes two of the birds to startle and they quickly drop to the ground running like Olympic sprinters! I take aim with my last barrel and I connect with the third bird. A puff of feathers and the handsome male Gambel’s Quail hits the ground with no running.

“I got one”, I say loud enough so he can hear that I didn’t totally miff my shots. I raise my quarry high above my head so he can see I am not lying. He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts his hand up high and reveals his “double” was actually a “triple”. His first shot took down two birds, with his follow up shot taking down a third bird. I guess I am still learning through his silence!

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I am not sure if I ever would have taken up hunting if it were not for my dad. It’s hard to say. What I can say is that I learned to value what I have from my father. He taught me things in a unique way. I learned through his life stories. I learned by following in his steps through the woods. I even learned through his silence. He introduced me to hunting. He gave me what I now call a passion and if it were not for him, I very likely would not be here writing these words today. As dads, papas, pops, father figures and even as mentors, we have a special and unique role to play in the next generation of hunters… blood or not. Like our fathers before us.

Happy Father’s Day.

God Bless & Happy Hunting,

-J.R.

 

 

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