Grizzly Rage

I was the boy that my dad never really had. Sure, I have a younger brother, Jeremy, but it's taken me until now to realize that I am, in part, who I am because my dad allowed me to experience everything and then decide what I liked. The truth is, I wasn't in love with the hobbies; what I loved instead was the opportunity to have time. What was so valuable in that time, though, has absolutely no real value to my story, just that this story exists because the time was invested. Sometimes, I think we all get too caught up in the feeling of the exceptional experiences and forget that it's the mundane, the simple, the movies you vowed never to remember that are still a real part of your core memory bank just because it exists as the last time you'll have that thing, with that person, ever again.

I grew up in the woods. I grew up around weapons of all kinds. I grew up as the first of my generation on both sides, surrounded and loved by men. I was 3 when I got my first gun. Younger than that when I shot for the first time. I was welcomed onto the laps and under the right arms of uncles and older cousins at all the annual family functions. I grew into their competitive spirit and never wanted to be left out because my shot couldn't compete. I was 8 when I mastered the long rifle. I was 10 when I could shoot a nickel standing upright in the mouth of a BigK soda can with an old revolver I barely had the muscles to hold up with both hands. I was 12 when I took my third hunter's safety course because I was finally "officially" old enough to get my orange card. On the final day of shooting during that course, I saw my dad publicly proud of me for the first time because I nailed 8 of the 12 clay pigeons flying in my heat, and only 3 of them were supposed to be for me. I had never shot clay pigeons before.

I honestly don't remember how old I was when I started hunting with my Dad. To me, I was always there; it was a semi-annual tradition. We had two dedicated sitting spots. One for the youth hun, and one during muzzleloader season. The first one was about 250 yards into the back acres of the woods at Mamaw and Papaw's house. I had a blind and a stand setup year-round, and occasionally, Dad and I would go "scouting" when he was just tired of sitting around the same kitchen table listening to his sisters and in-laws gossip and argue about who wronged who back in the 80s. The stand which I never made it to the top of until we were a week out from selling the property, overlooked the entire portion of the old homestead. The way the green hills rolled through was picturesque. Pockets of trees, cutouts that were remnants of old slaughter barns, chicken houses, family cellars, the old home and blacksmithing workshop Papaw Logan tinkered in, each of the daughter's portion, the cemetery, and the church. Locus Grove. Keavy. My first true home.

The second location called for an annual trip to western Kentucky, but not just west Kentucky, our 600-acre farm in Leitchfield. What started as an acquaintance and co-worker to my dad turned out to be real family. I remember the drive most. Early frigid temps in soaking wet hair, hours worth of driving to end up only passing an old appliance store that also happened to have half the shop set up to sell Carhartt apparel. The long, straight, flat road with a motel and a DQ at the end. It was the same place we would venture to for an annual Christmas party when my Dad worked for Clayton Watkins Construction Company. The party was held in the company's beautiful barn, adorned with the most spectacular Christmas tree I had ever seen, towering over 20 feet tall, and was the only place until I was in my 20s ever to have hot apple cider. The house on the corner of the white picket fence and the lavender shutters was the road that led from the two-lane road down to the farm—our hunting spot.

This year would be our last year going to Leitchfield. It was also the year that my Dad would invite a man I didn't know at the time, but was a younger man he was trying to mentor. Tab was the first man I had ever had to share my Dad with. I now know this was my first encounter with someone with ADD, ADHD, and severe anxiety, and he coped in very, very unhealthy ways. But Tab had a good soul that my Dad could see; if for nothing else, Tab needed to be someone for his 2-year-old son at home. I liked Tab. He was always kind and told the silliest jokes. Years later, my Dad had to give me the hardest news he had ever told me. We sat at the kitchen table when he looked at me and said, "Whitney, I need to show you something." He slid a Lexington Herald newspaper across the table, still cluttered with dinner dishes, and there on the front page read, "Laurel County Sherriff's Arrest 16 in Mega Drug Bust..." None of that shocked me until he pointed to the man in the second row, fourth from the right. It was Tab. We never talked about him after that.

The biggest difference when we went to Leitchfield was the hikes. Up until this very moment, I never realized just how physically intensive those trips were. Once we parked at the equipment barn, we opened the first rusty red cattle gate and entered the first lot. This lot was never used as grazing and was really an acre and a half of calving barns, stock barns, dog sheds, and lots of worn dirt paths that led to the different quads of the property. If you continued straight off the open bay on the first enclosure, you would come to the first pasture. This pasture was only used for grazing in the off-season when there wasn't corn or alfalfa growing. It was in this pasture that I saw my first calf born. About another mile following the massive clearings for the power lines, you reached your first peak. At the top of this ridge, you had 2 options; the first would take you southwest to the meadow overlooking the bluff and the cliffs (this was my favorite path), or you could go southeast and venture through uneven terrain and 2 more pasture lots always full of black Angus cattle. Really, the worst part of that trail was the inability to see anything once you got to the base of the property. If nothing else, I liked a good view. In a good day, we probably hiked 5 miles each trip, and that barely scratched the surface of the property for me.

Just like we always did, after driving 3 hours straight to the property, we met with Dad's buddy who was over all farm operations, got the low-down of all the recent movements, and were about to head down our familiar path through the calving barn to the first ridge when heh stopped my Dad. "Charles, they've gone wild here... I'm telling you to shoot everyone that you can if you see them. Our stock is hurting." A thousand questions were running through my head. First, I definitely wasn't supposed to hear that because I am supposed to be as distracted and oblivious as Tab, who was already so far gone into the trail from sitting still we could barely see his half-balding head slip over the first barbed wire fence into the pasture. Second, what? It's obviously an obvious predator, obviously a bunch, and obviously out there. Then, are we still going? Are we still really just going to take that warning and trudge through the woods, waiting for our turn? Yup. Apparently, we were.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am fully aware of the dangers that lurk in the woods. I just never learned to silence any of my fears while in it. To put this plainly, I'm a giant scaredy cat. You will not catch me taking the trash out after dark. You won't catch me walking alone at night without a set of keys wedged between my ring and middle finger. Even still, if I have to work late, you can watch me park as close as I can to my final destination and hustle like I'm being timed before an attack. I don't do darkness. I don't do being alone. I don't take risks like that. Even still, I just can't get over the feeling of being hunted, watched, and stalked by a predator that I just can't catch. As I've aged, it has only gotten worse.

We set out on our usual path when Tab radioed in. He had found a clearing on a bluff and was going to hang out there for a while. Tab had found my spot. I guess when you enter onto a property so large, full of great options for taking, and with no equipment to mark your territory (this trip, we used no blinds, no stands, nothing - just us in the woods), everything is fair game. We hiked for what felt like forever, over and under barbed wire, through pastures of heifers and new cows with their littles; we ventured the long way along the most eastern ridge just to see what the land told of movement until we found an old oak at the top of the meadow overlooking the fork in the property that either took you to the bluff Tab was probably pacing heavily by now, or onto the rest of the land. There we sat, watching the bluegrass wave in the high winds coming from the east.

By the time we got situated, it was about an hour past a typical breakfast hour, and the countdown was on for lunch. You see, these hunting trips weren't what avid hunters would call "successful". We went, just to go. Dad may tag one once a year to stock the fridge, but sitting and being still wasn't what we did well; what he did do well, though, was sleep. About an hour and a half into our silence, I started to hear noises. I looked over, and Dad was peacefully sleeping, arms and legs crossed, head tilted back on the bark, mouth gaping wide open, just waiting to catch an acorn as a squirrel dropped one from above. I continued to sit there, clinching my gun, seemingly alone, and letting my mind race with unrealistic possibilities of danger. More time passed and nothing moved. Nothing appeared.

As a sixth sense, Dad finally arose from his mid-morning nap, and we took off to the truck. From all our experience in the woods, nothing moved except from 4-5:30 a.m. or 30 minutes before to dusk and 25 minutes after. It was officially close enough to lunch and far enough away from rustling that we could leave and not miss anything good, including Tab. I remember two things about the hike back to the truck: after we left the meadow, the next pasture had seen devastation. There was no real graze, only hay in rounds scattered along the dirt path that was so rutted you could lose a year-old calf in one, which is exactly what I remember seeing. At the end of the tree line that was meant to camouflage the barbed wire fence separating the last two pastures, before you got to the green swing gate, there had been evidence of an attack. A good-sized cow had been scavenged by what Dad informed me was a new pack of coyotes that had come onto the farm. A nuisance and a threat. I wasn't really prepared for that reality yet. For all the shooting and "scouting" I had done, I had never really faced death in its reality. I had never killed, and of the death I had seen it was clean, posed, expected. I have seen a lot of tragic deaths since that day; some I still can't process, some I just don't know how not to question, and some I have worked for years to accept, but this one poor cow was somehow the first.

Back to the truck we hiked, never really stopping. We eventually returned to the hotel with a chicken finger basket with gravy and a chocolate extreme blizzard. The motel was old, lavished with dark green, red, and gold checkered carpet. The room had two beds, a rollie chair, a TV with a working remote. Dad perched in the chair next to the window as I sprawled into the bed on my belly to picnic with my ice cream until it was time to leave again. Dad turned on the Lifetime version of the History channel, finished his lunch, and was caught looking for holes in the back of his eyelids before I realized what I was actually watching. Grizzly Rage. Out of all the channels, shows, and movies this random click of the remote could land on, I get transported into this epic saga of teenage morons in the woods with a killer grizzly bear on the loose! Are you kidding me? Nope. Of course not. Now, any other normal and sane individual would have dropped the spoon into her ice cream, walked over to their father, grabbed the remote from their hand, and changed the channel. Not me. I suffered through an eternally long, incredibly scary (to me) movie for what felt like 4 whole hours as my Dad slept peacefully through a certifying movie full of dangerous wildlife encounters that only ended in bloodbaths. Don't believe me, watch it.

The movie ended, and almost on cue with the credits, Charles Robert arises from the dead. Rested and determined to get something out of this trip other than ice cream, back to the farm we go. Do I want to go back to the farm? No. Do I trust what lurks in the woods at said farm? No. Do I hope that Tab is taken out first by the rogue bear? I am now 1000% convinced that it took out my precious cow earlier rather than a pack of coyotes. Absolutely.

Back under the oak tree we perch, but this time, for whatever reason, my Dad is now on high alert. Does he think watching will make the deer come? Does he sense my unsettledness and not know why? Is he finally rested? My thoughts continue to rush as I attempt to calm myself by swaying to the bluegrass in the meadow ahead, and then the shots ring. Six shots coming from right where Tab is supposed to be sitting, or at least where we left him sitting earlier. The first two were rapid, uncontrolled, and quick. The next 3 were shaky but methodical. Time lapsed long enough that Dad had his hand on the radio about to walkie over for a status update when the final round sounded, but this time, silence followed, and then worry. Six shots were excessive. We waited, and then Dad made the call to connect. Tab was fine; he saw something move and swore it was a buck, but wasn't actually sure. Got trigger finger, emptied, and reloaded before he caught himself and couldn't see the target anymore. He was going looking at the base of the cliff on the underside, and he would let us know if he got lucky.

Anger filled my body at those words. Not only was he in my spot, but after six shots rang like that, there was no way I stood a chance to see anything in my silent, peaceful meadow now. Unless that just happens to be running from my current uncontrollable creature in the woods, Tab. Another 45 minutes passed, which would have been the perfect amount of time to make it to the place where I was sure the deer had been spotted and tracked to a kill site if any of your shots had been successful. I was in my own nightmare, carefully checking my surroundings as the sun began to set and my meadow grew dimmer. The lesser the light, the higher the probability I die from a wild animal attack, then I felt it. My immediate reaction to feeling a firm knuckle on my leg was to get ready to make a scene and fight for my life. What it actually was was a silent nudge to get me to see what was now frolicking through my meadow. Two doe's, beautiful and tall. There they were. I just watched them, smiling. I was gazing at them still when I got my second hard knuckle to the thigh. I was supposed to shoot them.

I was always taught that life is precious. The reason why I was determined to shoot well was so that one day, I could shoot clean. Instantaneous, painless, meaningful. Just like I did before every great shot, I closed my eyes, took one deep breath in, held it, and split my lips enough for my breath to escape as I opened my eyes and pulled the trigger. Then I closed my eyes again. The line was clear, but I didn't want to see what happened after. I felt Dad stand up before I opened my eyes again; the meadow was empty. The radio went off; it was a call from the farmhouse asking what the verdict was after all the shots were fired. At this point, about 30 minutes before we lost all sense of light, and Dad was convinced that I had dropped at least one in the middle of the field. He was coming with the old farm truck, if nothing else, to give us light and hopefully help us clear the woods before the fear of the return of the pack.

Dad tried to radio Tab, but it was silence. We paced the open field about 250 yards from where I sat under the oak until darkness consumed almost all of our hope to find anything. One trip around the meadow, the truck stopped about 30 yards from the centermost point of the horizon, flashed its lights, and beckoned us to come. There he was, my first deer, one shot, straight to the heart. I knelt down to his side, peered at the two tiny bumps on his head where future antlers would have been, and let tears silently stream for him and for me. I don't really know what I felt. Could I describe to you any combination of emotions, or just that I was overwhelmed? It wasn't until I heard howls from far too close and a rustle in the wood line directly behind me that I was snapped back into the present moment. Dad had already started dressing when he heard the same noise from behind me I did. With his hand on his pistol, he was ready, and I was stone cold. Unable to move, ready to be eaten alive just like those moron teenagers in Grizzly Rage, still waiting. The sound got louder, and we could see underbrush move, but it wasn't from the pack. It was Tab.

Turns out Tab had nipped the ear (or so he said) of a buck earlier in the day when his shots rang. He had found a light blood trail that he followed until he gave up. Unfamiliar with the woods and which direction he even tracked, he had been wandering alone, with a dead radio, along the bluff, almost at dark, unaware of where he was. That is until my shot rang. When in distress, he just continued to walk on the same path as the shot he heard, without his orange jacket that he misplaced in the underbrush midway through the day when he went exploring... As my brain went into overload, we heard it again, howling and getting closer. More than before, and getting antsy for us to leave so they could enjoy what we left. That was the plan. My plan was to take what we had and get out. Go back to the barn, dress to dry, let it hang until tomorrow, celebrate with another round of ice cream, and be done. That wasn't their plan.

We were on the cattle side of the fence, back onto the land that I felt more at peace with. The truck changed gears. Parked. Lights turned off. Howls stopped—eerie silence. I was confused. It was supposed to be over. I had my prize. We made it through all the naps and hikes and snacks and close calls with my imagination spiraling in the woods. Why stop? Why get out? Why walk back to the fence? Like in a scene from the movie, a sudden shriek from the meadow jolted me out of my skin and out of my seat on the top of the bed of the truck. The shots fired. Rounds in such numbers I couldn't even begin to count, but it was controlled. They were coming from the men I trusted. It still sounds like what I imagine: any great war starts and ends with the final rounds ringing out for the world to hear its echo. The silence again.

I don't remember driving back to the barn or hanging my little button buck until I saw him the next morning under new light after sunrise, or Tab being anything but jolly just because he had gotten to go. I had that deer mounted, and it hung beside my Dad's buck in the garage until I moved into my first home. In all honesty, I wished it had just stayed on his wall. What I am reminded most of from that trip wasn't that I shot my first and last deer. It wasn't that it was the last official hunting trip we made. It was the movie I watched, Grizzly Rage. What I wish I could tell you was that I had the best times of my life on these trips with my Dad. Do not get me wrong; I would give almost anything to sit shotgun as we drove across my home state of Kentucky, just to turn at the house with the lavender shutters and hike that property one more time. I loved that place. I can still see the sunset on top of the first ridge; I can still see the exposed rock when I look up from the base of the cliff to the bluff above. I can still feel how proud of me he was. But that still doesn't compare to the unsettlement of peace I felt in my soul.

What does it say when your game takes a drastic turn from deer to small game? Something you can hunt mid-day on a well-worn trail? What does it say about you when you can't watch a movie not rated above PG-13 unless vetted by someone you trust to make sure you can sleep afterward? What does it mean to willingly miss a perfect shot just to let things live? I've struggled with all of these questions. I struggled with letting my fear diminish memories that I have that, at face value, are core memories people relate to, long for, and cherish. I struggle with being soft as if it somehow makes me weak to those I want to believe I am strong. What is amazing to me is I don't see it as a weakness anymore. Protection of my peace, my spirit, and my wholeness shouldn't be something I feel like I need to hide.

I am compassionate. I have a sensitive soul. I struggle with death. I am a scared human being. What I also am is seen. Allowed to be all of those things and not be what I always thought was weak. I am full of life, love, and memories that are both joyous and haunting. I am, like you, full of moments that we need to embrace can be both.