The View From My Blind
We’ve all got our favorite stand locations. Whether it be in a tree stand high up in a white oak on a hardwood ridge, or a ground blind in the brushy edge of a forgotten field, or anything in between; we gravitate toward our own honey holes each season.
I’ve known many stands over the years, both in the timber and on those field edges. Each has brought many memories. My favorite stand site however is an old ground blind on a place in Southwest Missouri where my dad grew up. The old home place has a holler (or hollow if you’re fancy) which we call Sawmill Holler because of an old sawmill that my grandpa’s family operated. It’s also the place where my greatest hunts and memories have ever taken place. There is a small blind out on a little hardwood flat in the timber up that holler that I’ve hunted for many years. It overlooks a network of well-worn game trails that provide time and time again.
From here I can see the log that my Uncle Steve fell off of while hunting one afternoon. Me, my brother Chadd, and my dad, Ronnie have hunted here for years and Uncle Steve would hunt there with us too when he can. Steve is a bear of a man who makes anyone who stands near him feel a wee bit smaller. Nicknamed “Moose” by those who know and love him, the only thing bigger than his physical stature is his heart. One of the finest men I’ve ever known, Steve lives for the hunt.
One day in particular he was standing up on this log to get a better look over a brushy area and talking to us on his two-way radio. It’s been misty all morning and as Steve stands on the log with his rifle slung over one shoulder, and his huge frame balanced ever so carefully on the small log talking on the radio. Suddenly his feet lost purchase on the wet moss coating the log, and there was a huge crash as a giant orange blur went one way and a beautiful new rifle went another. Throughout the hollers rang a cacophony of laughs as my dad, brother, and me heard the crash and then Steve saying over the radio that he had fallen and couldn’t find his rifle. He found it after he got up and it was fine. That is one of my favorite memories, as it was one of the last hunts I ever got to share with Steve. He passed away unexpectedly the next May at 39 years of age.
From here I can see the exact spot that I was standing when I heard the report of the rifle from my son Lane as he shot his first deer. Lane had hunted for a few years but had not been successful as of yet. As a young man, cursed with the same ADHD that has plagued his ol’ dad all his life, sitting still and quiet in the deer woods is a monumental challenge. Lane is a kid consumed by hunting and the outdoors. From the time he could first tag along with me on hunts, he was hooked. He would roam the hills and hollers around our house as he was growing up, with his pellet gun, then a 20 gauge shotgun he got for Christmas, hunting squirrels and rabbits whenever season was open. Deer hunting is his favorite though and he spends quite a bit of time getting ready for opening day of rifle season each year.
On this day he was sitting up on a hill watching an old pond when a doe walked out to get a drink. He lifted his gun and the shot was true. I’ve never seen a prouder or happier person than Lane that day. He finally got the monkey off his back. It was one of my proudest moments as a father. I was sitting in this blind two years later when Lane’s brother and sister both shot their first deer in this same place on the same day.
I remember sitting here in this blind on a cold November morning wondering why the deer weren’t moving when a flicker of movement caught the corner of my eye. Over the hilltop I could just see a set of snow white antlers bobbing up and down as a buck walked along just over the crest of the hill. I could not see the deer for the longest time, but I saw that beautiful 9 point rack just bobbing along. My heart began hammering in my chest and I had to remind myself to breathe. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was more than likely only a few seconds, this beautiful buck stepped over the top of the ridge. He had an odd gait about him, but he was beautiful. His neck was swollen, and he was scarred up from many a battle. I lifted my Marlin 30-30 and lined my scope up right behind his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The next few seconds were a blur, but I can tell you that it was those few seconds before I remembered to exhale. There just 50 yards away lay the 2nd biggest buck I had killed at that time. I was so excited that I hollered out loud. A few seconds later my radio beeped, and I heard Dad’s voice come out of it. “Did ya get him big boy?”. Apparently excited Heathe yells pretty loud. Turns out that odd gait was due to a huge honeylocust thorn stuck in his front right foot. Also, when I took this deer to the taxidermist, he discovered that he was starting to grow a third antler in the center of his head right between the other two. It was still small enough to be hid by the thatch of fur between his two antlers.
This old stand has been such a part of my life that I can’t imagine life without it. It’s a part of me. It’s definitely played a big part in who I am today. The memories that are made when we are afield should not be tossed aside and forgotten. We hunt to kill. This is the basis of our sport. Whether you hunt for trophies or meat, killing is the end result a successful hunt, but it’s not the most important thing. Long after that meat is eaten, or those antlers are dusty relics, what we are left with are memories, family, and friendship… these are the things that matter and the things that make us who we are. This fall I’ll be back in that old blind, Lord willing, and I’ll hopefully get to make more memories with those I love. I hope that you do the same.
-Heathe Pendergraft, Fall Obsession Field Staff