The day had dawned grey and overcast, and now an hour after the first light of day it was still below freezing. The boy tried not to shiver, but the cold combined with the exitiment of his first hunt was too much.
"Wait!"
The word was barely whispered, but the boy obeyed his grandfather who was sitting just behind him in the blind they had set up in the tangle of a dead fall. The boy held the youth model 20 gauge at his shoulder as he watched the deer without moving a hair. The buck had stepped out of the woods right about where his grandfather had predicted during the scouting they had done before opening day. Now the boy was about to take his shot.
"Don't hurry it, squeeze the shot off easy." came the whisper from behind him.
The 20 gauge kicked back into his shoulder, and the buck staggered sideways and went down on his front legs. Recovering, he lept into the woods out of sight. The boy jumped up.
"He's getting away!" he cried to his grandfather, frantic that his first hunt may end with failure.
"He's not going far, pup. You got him right through the slats, that's for sure. I saw where you hit him. Now just sit down and take a minute to let him lay down."
The boy marveled at how calm his grandfather was, as he sat there on a piece of the deadfall and loaded his old briar pipe. With the touch of the battered old Zippo lighter, grey-blue aromatic smoke coiled up in the cold crisp morning air.
"He's gonna run a little ways and lay down and stiffen up. We'll find him just over in that pine thicket a ways." The old man declared with confidence.
The boy somehow managed to keep from squirming out of his skin as the old man smoked his pipe for a bit, and then they started to stalk into where the old man said. Not far into the thick stand of pine, a patch of buff brown showed on the ground.
"Is it him, grandad?" asked the boy in a whisper.
"Yep, he's right there. Be careful now, walk around where you can see if his eyes are open. Keep a round ready in case he needs to be finished."
There was no need of a second shot. The 6 point buck was dead as yesterdays newspaper. The boy opened his gun and took out the slug round from the single barrel as he'd been taught, and leaned the shotgun against a tree. He reached into his pocket and took out his new knife. Only that morning, his grandfather had surprised him by a gift of a yellow handle trapper, just like the one the old man himself carried. Opening the new blade, the boy looked at his grandfather.
"I guess I'm gonna get it a bit bloody now, huh?"
"It's time, yeah. There's an old Masaii saying that a boy isn't a man till he's bloodied his spear. Well, you've downed the game, now it's time to bloody your knife. I'll show ya how to get it done."
With that, the old man guided the boy, pointing here, telling him "Just cut back this way" or "Now cut around here," and making sure the boy learned the art of field dressing. The razor sharp trapper cut right through meat and hide and guts. It came time to reach up inside and cut the windpipe clear, and the grandfather showed his grandson how to hold his index finger along the spine of the blade to guide it in the chest cavity.
"Now pull it out boy. Pull!" his grandfather said. The boy pulled and the gut pile came out in a rush. The old man handed the boy a large ziplock bag.
"Save the liver and lights, pup. We'll have a good fry up at home. Now just wipe your blades off on that dry grass there. We'll clean it up real good later."
The boy looked at the large buck he'd brought down.
"Grandad, how are we gonna get him back to the truck? He's awful heavy to carry!"
"I'm too old to go humping that carcass through the woods, pup. Pay attention on how to make life easy on yourself."
The old man took out a folding saw and went back to the deadfall where they had hidden. Sawing off a couple of long limbs, he showed the boy how to make a travios with some cord holding the cross pieces in place. They rolled the deer onto the travios and dragged him along.
Much later, the boy cleaned up his knife at the kitchen sink. Some dishsoap and very warm water, an old toothbrush, and it was good to go again. The boy looked at the blades.
"They ain't shiney anymore grandad. They turned a kind of blue."
"That's just the acids in the blood giving your knife some charater." the grandad told him. "Years from now, you'll be able to look at your knife and remember today's hunt. You'll remember the fishing trips it's been on with you, and all the other memories that will become wrapped up in that knife. Someday it will look like my knife."
The old man took out a well used old trapper with the blades a dark blue grey in color, and the yellow handles dull looking from years of wear. The boy held up his new knife next to his grandads knife. He saw how much darker the blades were on the old mans knife.
"Yours is a lot darker than mine, grandad."
"Well, it's got about 25 years head start on you. Lots of memories in that knife pup. It's been with me salmon fishing in Alaska, elk hunting in Colorado, and about everywhere I've been. It's like an old friend. But you take care of that knife, and we go fishing this spring, and it's gonna get good looking. You'll get a nice dark color on those blades, boy. And when you do, they'll be a bit more protected, because the patina is like the blue on your shotgun. That color is protection for the blade. And you want your knife protected, since it's gonna be an old friend."
The boy looked at his grandfather.
"Can a knife be a friend, grandad?"
"Why you bet it can, bub. This old knife of mine has been more places and helped me do more things than most people. I wouldn't even think of going off on one of my trips without it! And it's got a whole lot of memories in it."
"Why do you like the yellow handles so much grandad?"
"Well, in case you drop it in the woods, or lay it down, the yella handles make it easy to spot. I've always carried a yella handle knife. When your dad was your age, I gave him his first knife, and it was a yella handle as well. So you not only have a knife just like mine, but just like your dad's too! You're the third generation in a row to have a yella handle trapper."
That night after dinner, the boy touched up the blades on the now used trapper, under his grandads guidance. The old man showed him how to carefully hone the blades on a smooth stone in small circles, working from the kick to the tip. The old man watched carefully, telling the boy not to take less than a minute to do one side of the blade, before flipping it over to the other side. Soon the knife was sharper than it had been out of the box that morning. A little stropping on the back of a belt, and it was like a razor. The old man gave his grandson a slip of newsprint, and the boy sliced through it with hardly a whisper of sound.
Then the old man showed his grandson how to oil the knife without getting too much oil in the joints. The boy watched as the old man tore out a single match from a matchbook. Taking the torn end, he dropped one drop of oil on the torn paper end. Then he carefully mopped the oil damp end of the match on the exposed blade tang of the opened blades. He worked the blades open and closed a few times, and then he was done.
"That's it?" asked the boy.
"Yep, that's it. You don't want to over do the oil thing. A tiny bit goes a long way, and too much and it collects dirt."
That night the boy fell into an exausted sleep from his eventful day. He dreamed of going with his grandfather, fishing cold rivers for giant salmon, or hunting the Rocky Mountains for trophy elk.
With a yellow handle trapper in his pocket.
"Wait!"
The word was barely whispered, but the boy obeyed his grandfather who was sitting just behind him in the blind they had set up in the tangle of a dead fall. The boy held the youth model 20 gauge at his shoulder as he watched the deer without moving a hair. The buck had stepped out of the woods right about where his grandfather had predicted during the scouting they had done before opening day. Now the boy was about to take his shot.
"Don't hurry it, squeeze the shot off easy." came the whisper from behind him.
The 20 gauge kicked back into his shoulder, and the buck staggered sideways and went down on his front legs. Recovering, he lept into the woods out of sight. The boy jumped up.
"He's getting away!" he cried to his grandfather, frantic that his first hunt may end with failure.
"He's not going far, pup. You got him right through the slats, that's for sure. I saw where you hit him. Now just sit down and take a minute to let him lay down."
The boy marveled at how calm his grandfather was, as he sat there on a piece of the deadfall and loaded his old briar pipe. With the touch of the battered old Zippo lighter, grey-blue aromatic smoke coiled up in the cold crisp morning air.
"He's gonna run a little ways and lay down and stiffen up. We'll find him just over in that pine thicket a ways." The old man declared with confidence.
The boy somehow managed to keep from squirming out of his skin as the old man smoked his pipe for a bit, and then they started to stalk into where the old man said. Not far into the thick stand of pine, a patch of buff brown showed on the ground.
"Is it him, grandad?" asked the boy in a whisper.
"Yep, he's right there. Be careful now, walk around where you can see if his eyes are open. Keep a round ready in case he needs to be finished."
There was no need of a second shot. The 6 point buck was dead as yesterdays newspaper. The boy opened his gun and took out the slug round from the single barrel as he'd been taught, and leaned the shotgun against a tree. He reached into his pocket and took out his new knife. Only that morning, his grandfather had surprised him by a gift of a yellow handle trapper, just like the one the old man himself carried. Opening the new blade, the boy looked at his grandfather.
"I guess I'm gonna get it a bit bloody now, huh?"
"It's time, yeah. There's an old Masaii saying that a boy isn't a man till he's bloodied his spear. Well, you've downed the game, now it's time to bloody your knife. I'll show ya how to get it done."
With that, the old man guided the boy, pointing here, telling him "Just cut back this way" or "Now cut around here," and making sure the boy learned the art of field dressing. The razor sharp trapper cut right through meat and hide and guts. It came time to reach up inside and cut the windpipe clear, and the grandfather showed his grandson how to hold his index finger along the spine of the blade to guide it in the chest cavity.
"Now pull it out boy. Pull!" his grandfather said. The boy pulled and the gut pile came out in a rush. The old man handed the boy a large ziplock bag.
"Save the liver and lights, pup. We'll have a good fry up at home. Now just wipe your blades off on that dry grass there. We'll clean it up real good later."
The boy looked at the large buck he'd brought down.
"Grandad, how are we gonna get him back to the truck? He's awful heavy to carry!"
"I'm too old to go humping that carcass through the woods, pup. Pay attention on how to make life easy on yourself."
The old man took out a folding saw and went back to the deadfall where they had hidden. Sawing off a couple of long limbs, he showed the boy how to make a travios with some cord holding the cross pieces in place. They rolled the deer onto the travios and dragged him along.
Much later, the boy cleaned up his knife at the kitchen sink. Some dishsoap and very warm water, an old toothbrush, and it was good to go again. The boy looked at the blades.
"They ain't shiney anymore grandad. They turned a kind of blue."
"That's just the acids in the blood giving your knife some charater." the grandad told him. "Years from now, you'll be able to look at your knife and remember today's hunt. You'll remember the fishing trips it's been on with you, and all the other memories that will become wrapped up in that knife. Someday it will look like my knife."
The old man took out a well used old trapper with the blades a dark blue grey in color, and the yellow handles dull looking from years of wear. The boy held up his new knife next to his grandads knife. He saw how much darker the blades were on the old mans knife.
"Yours is a lot darker than mine, grandad."
"Well, it's got about 25 years head start on you. Lots of memories in that knife pup. It's been with me salmon fishing in Alaska, elk hunting in Colorado, and about everywhere I've been. It's like an old friend. But you take care of that knife, and we go fishing this spring, and it's gonna get good looking. You'll get a nice dark color on those blades, boy. And when you do, they'll be a bit more protected, because the patina is like the blue on your shotgun. That color is protection for the blade. And you want your knife protected, since it's gonna be an old friend."
The boy looked at his grandfather.
"Can a knife be a friend, grandad?"
"Why you bet it can, bub. This old knife of mine has been more places and helped me do more things than most people. I wouldn't even think of going off on one of my trips without it! And it's got a whole lot of memories in it."
"Why do you like the yellow handles so much grandad?"
"Well, in case you drop it in the woods, or lay it down, the yella handles make it easy to spot. I've always carried a yella handle knife. When your dad was your age, I gave him his first knife, and it was a yella handle as well. So you not only have a knife just like mine, but just like your dad's too! You're the third generation in a row to have a yella handle trapper."
That night after dinner, the boy touched up the blades on the now used trapper, under his grandads guidance. The old man showed him how to carefully hone the blades on a smooth stone in small circles, working from the kick to the tip. The old man watched carefully, telling the boy not to take less than a minute to do one side of the blade, before flipping it over to the other side. Soon the knife was sharper than it had been out of the box that morning. A little stropping on the back of a belt, and it was like a razor. The old man gave his grandson a slip of newsprint, and the boy sliced through it with hardly a whisper of sound.
Then the old man showed his grandson how to oil the knife without getting too much oil in the joints. The boy watched as the old man tore out a single match from a matchbook. Taking the torn end, he dropped one drop of oil on the torn paper end. Then he carefully mopped the oil damp end of the match on the exposed blade tang of the opened blades. He worked the blades open and closed a few times, and then he was done.
"That's it?" asked the boy.
"Yep, that's it. You don't want to over do the oil thing. A tiny bit goes a long way, and too much and it collects dirt."
That night the boy fell into an exausted sleep from his eventful day. He dreamed of going with his grandfather, fishing cold rivers for giant salmon, or hunting the Rocky Mountains for trophy elk.
With a yellow handle trapper in his pocket.
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