At Home On The Hill

By Denny L. Vasquez

The old man couldn’t remember the last time it had been this cold on opening morning, at least not this far south. “I should have brought my big coat”, he thought as the icy rain softly landed on his shoulders, “the one momma brought for me that first year James came hunting with me.” Smiling inwardly, he remembered how she told him that she wanted us to look alike when she came in from the store with the bag in her hands, just like a father and son going hunting together should. At seven years old James had grown out of last year’s jacket while dad had worn his so long and so often that the rich camouflage colors had faded until the coat had a stone washed beige look to it.

The old man stopped in his tracks. Hanging his head he looked at the tops of his worn boats, sadly remembering what had finally become of that old coat. Looking up he slowly shook his head thinking; here I go again, forgetting not only where I am, but when I am! That old coat has been in the trash almost ten years now, I put it there myself the year after momma died.

With a tear in his eye he recalled how he had come up here on the hill to hunt on a frigid winter morning, all by himself, what with the kids being grown and having families of their own and all. Then while trying to cross from the house pasture to the hill pasture he hadn’t bent low enough and had hung the old coat on the middle strand of the barbwire fence. It was only when heard the brittle old cloth tear that he realized what had happened. He went on to finish his hunt, but when he got back home he had carefully placed the old coat in the trash. After all, momma wasn’t here anymore to make the needed repairs.

That afternoon his daughter, Elizabeth, had come over with her brood to visit. Upon seeing the old coat laying in the trash, she had asked him what had happened to it. When he had told her, she promptly scolded him about going up to the hill alone. Your too old she had told him, what if that had been you leg that ripped instead of your coat? Could you have made back here to the house by yourself? He remembered, shrugging his shoulders and winking at his youngest grandson who was nineteen at the time.

It was the crows calling to each other in the treetops that brought him back to the present. Shaking his head to clear the clutter, he started up the trail once again.

About ten minutes later he started up the well-worn trail at the base of the hill. It was as though his feet moved by their own initiative. They had traveled this path over the rocks so many times that they no longer needed his brain to tell them the way.

After only climbing about twenty-five yards his breathing began to get harder and the old man stopped to rest, thinking that it seemed like just yesterday that he was able to run up this hill without stopping. Looking over to his left he saw what was left of Beth’s freaky fork. Slowly he made his way over to the old pine stump thinking, “I’ll just sit here a moment and catch my breath.”

Looking around at the fallen limbs, he chuckled to himself, remembering the look of surprise in Elizabeth’s eyes when the lighting had hit the young pine tree. They had been out squirrel hunting that day, back when there were still trees on this part of the hill, before he had sold the timber to help his grandson build his house.

“Come on dad hurry up or we’re gonna get wet” she had yelled back to him as they climbed the hill. “Don’t worry honey; a little water never hurt anybody,” was his laughing reply. Elizabeth had turned in the trail and stomped her foot, “but you know how mad mom will get when she finds out,” as she smiled in agreement. At nine years old, Elizabeth was turning out to be more of a tomboy than a cheerleader. He recalled the rewarding experience that they had shared huddled under the tall oak tree watching how the woods reacted to the rainstorm. He had almost been lulled into a light slumber when the lightning had hit the young pine tree forty yards down hill from them. Whew what a rush that had been!

Looking up toward the top of the hill he thought, “the trip to the top gets farther and farther each year.” After slowly looking back at his worn boots he stood and started on his way to the crest of the hill once again.

It was about fifty yards or so further on the trail that he came to “James’” rock. The eight foot tall almost square slab of limestone jutted out of the soft soil of the hillside like a child’s lost building block.

Leaning against the side of the block he felt the coolness of the rock as it soaked through his clothes. Looking over toward the small ravine that slashed across the hill’s western face he recalled how he had left a thirteen-year-old James here on an opening morning similar to this one. That day had been bitterly cold like this one but James had assured him that, “I’m ready to hunt on my own now dad. I’ll just sit here on this old’ rock and watch for that six-point buck we have been seeing.” He remembered how he had pretended to leave the boy all on his own heading up the trail toward the top of the hill. Then had doubled back around the side of the hill until he had found a hidden spot from which he could safely observe the boy, just in case he was needed.

He had watched as James slowly laid out flat on top the block of limestone and pointed his rifle toward the ravine. A few minutes later he heard the report of James old Savage rifle in .308 Winchester. It had been his Christmas gift that past Christmas. As he continued to watch James, unloaded his rifle and then had climbed down off of the rock and headed toward the ravine. A short while later James had come back into view, dragging a nice heavy horned buck that later had proven to be a respectable eleven point hill country buck. A good one for a boy’s first buck.

Looking up at the sky he thought, “well I best be getting on, looks like its gonna rain a little and I need to at least make it up to the old Indian cave before it sits in.”

Thirty minutes later the light drizzle found him leaning against a young pine tree that bordered “rabbit” meadow. This little meadow had watched over each of his grandkids learning to shoot their first .22 that he had given them at ten years of age. After proving that they knew how to aim and shoot their new prized possessions safely, he had taken each of them on their first hunting trip after rabbits here to what they began calling rabbit meadow.

The wind came up and tickled the nape of his neck as he leaned against the tree reminiscing. He recalled how even little Shirley, who claimed to disdain anything to do with hunting had shouted out in joy when she realized that she had actually shot her first rabbit. He also recalled how she had cried when she bent over to pick up that little brown ball of fur. “When you quit crying or feeling sad when you have taken the life of another of God’s creatures, it will be time to quit hunting,” he had told her. It was here that he had begun teaching them to respect and love nature and all of God’s creatures.

With the wind whistling through the treetops he continued up the trail until he came to the old Indian cave with it’s smoke darkened ceiling. This had been his and his father’s favorite camping spot when he was a boy. They had spent countless hours studying the old drawings on the walls of the cave or digging in the soft dirt of the cave’s floor looking for old artifacts.

It was here that he had found the remnants of the crudely carved bead necklace and abalone shell fragment carved in the shape of a hawk. He had carefully excavated around each bead and the bird image until he had uncovered all that he could find. Then he had wrapped the pieces of the necklace in his neckerchief and started for home. Once there he had restrung them on a piece of leather and had slowly hung them around his neck, imagining that he was an Indian warrior and this was his spirit helpers totem.

Sitting down and hanging his legs over the lip of the ledge at the cave’s entrance he fingered the old necklace that still hung around his neck as he smiled and remembered all of the good times that he and his family had experienced around the hill over the years. He was remembering all that the hill had taught them about the animal world and life in general as he leaned back against the cave wall and dozed off to sleep.

That is how his son who had climbed the hill looking for the old man the next morning found him. With a tear in his eye, he sat down next to his father and leaned back against the cave wall. “You always did like it best up here dad. It seems that you were always happiest roaming over this old hill. I’m glad you were able to make it up here one last time.” Reaching out he patted the hand holding the hawk and smiled as he remembered hearing the story about how the necklace had been found. Then he stood and radioed to those down the hill that he had found dad, at home on the hill.