Albins Trophy

I never got to see him very often, but then again he was different then the type of men I was familiar with. Uncle Albin was a soft man. Quiet and gentle in spirit, with hands like a woman. Clean and well manicured, hands that never had been used for heavy manual labor.

Albin was not my actual relative. He had married my aunt Tilly and become part of my extended family. They lived far away in the big city and raised lap dogs in place of children. Tilly had worked for a short period of time as a teacher before her rumitoid arthritis handicapped her. Albin looked after both her and Mitzi, their chiwawa breed puppy. After coming home from his office job at the car dealership, my uncle lovingly and patiently cared for his little family. Age had affected both Albins hearing and sight.

In the fall, they would come up north to our family's farm for deer hunting season. It was never a question of if my dad and older brother would be hunting every year. For us, it was a necessity. The venison meat that was harvested, along with my mothers garden vegetables, was the mainstay of our diet. Too poor to afford costly equipment, the men of the family hunted in heavily patched and well worn camouflage clothing. They did not need to waste money on ammunition target practicing, both were a crack shot. My dad was inventive enough to have carved the stock of his rifle himself one winter. The hunt was vital for our family, but that did not stop them from looking forward to it every year. A holiday season of our own.

For my sisters and myself, who were never included in the hunt, our enjoyment was second hand at best. The girls would mend the red required hunting gear and make lunches. During the summer, Butch would sometime include us when he surveyed the back fields, looking for signs of deer. I would have to run to keep up to his long hurried strides with my little legs. He would carry me over the creek that my limbs were too short to reach across. Being youngest, I was left with the job of picking any stray hair from the venison we had butchered ourselves, before my sisters would wrap and freeze the coming years meat.

While Dad looked at it as a means to feed us, it was my brother, Butch, who delighted in the sport. Quiet the outdoors man, my brother, he knew the 360 acres of farm like the back of his own hand. He knew the deer population, as well as moving times, and trails of the future possible quarry. It was his dream for the local fame and fortune of winning the area big buck contest held annually by the local merchants. Butch had internal buck fever. Every year he anticipated and planned for the next hunt even before he even registered his current deer.

The chilly mornings Albin would pull into our yard, late, in his brand new vehicle, Dad and Butch would look at each other with a sideways glance, and would always warmly and sincerely welcome him on the hunt. Our family had no all terrain vehicle's then, and Albins show room models were too shiny to scratch, so the hunters would have to walk back into their hunting spots. Albin was not in very good physical shape so Dad and Butch would carry his rifle for him before depositing him at the best possible spot before venturing father on. Albin had went to all the effort of coming on the hunt, the men figured, so they were determined he would have a deer to take back for his effort. After a cold opener with no success, when I was around eight years old, Albin confessed he had never even seen any deer to shoot on that day. This baffled Butch, who at one point had walked throught the woods loudly to scare the deer to the front of Uncle so he could bag his deer and free my father and brother to go about harvesting our own winters meat supply. The next morning they all hunted together and sat at the edge of the clearing in line, when my Dad realized Albin just couldn't see the deer walk across the meadow directly in front fireing range. Albin was staring with unfocused eyes at the deer my brother was silently begging my father to let him have a shot at. Ever the gentleman, Dad motioned my brother wait so Albin could take the first shot. Finally my father elbowed Albin and gestured toward the direction of the deer. Albin shoots vaugly in the right area and my brother then fires immediately after Albin shoots. I can remember the conversation after Butch dragged "Albins" deer back. The men were drinking coffee while warming themselves in our kitchen and enjoying the retelling of the hunt. "Honestly, at first I didn't see the deer standing there, did I ever get lucky", Albin happily recalled. "Yes, a deer like that anyone would be proud of," Dad replied with a meaningful look at Butch as he finally made it back, covered in blood and sweat from his exertion. He then flushed even a deeper shade of red when Albin asked him,"Was it a buck Butch?".

After that successful hunt of course Albin came back again. With a new rifle with a high powered scope to better see the deer that evaded his limited sight. The cost of that gun could of feed our family for the winter. The gun was high caliber enough to take down a large elephant. Albin was aslo sporting a single hearing aid. First day out, with Albin in between my brother and father, Albin brings down his own deer when cued. I ran outside to see how big this one was once Butch had him loaded into the back of his own pick up truck to register in town after Albin had sufficiently warmed up. "Wow!", I had exclaimed when seeing the dead animal, "Nice size." I could see the half dollar size bullet holes in the deer's side. "Too bad, really, it's a damn waste of meat", my Dad said with a wistfully shake of his head as lifted up a stiff leg to reveal the jellied mass of ruined coagulated flesh that had been the exit side of Albins bullet.

After that, the next season Butch could not stomach sitting still waiting for the chance of a deer coming to them, as he waited with Albin and Dad. He was out before the older men to drive the deer into Albins sights and get that prelude to his own real hunting out of his way. My brother was behind a few deer parading them like a row of ducks in Albins line of fire. Leading the group of animals is a huge trophy sized buck, the kind generations of hunting stories are made of. Albin fires a single shot that brings the monster deer down. It was an extremely elated uncle that told me this story as I poured him his coffee. Albin tells me that unfortunately Butch was too far way for his own shot to be as effective.

It was with mixed emotions that I slipped on my boots to run out to see this legendary deer that would be taken into town. I knew Butch would be disappointed that Albin had not entered the big buck contest so it was with some trepidation that I peeked over the trucks side to see this years bounty. As I stood on tip toe and peered over the trucks side I braced myself for the mass amount of blood I was sure to encounter. There wasn't much. Shocked, I asked unbelieving, "Butch, were is the bullet holes?" "One shot, little one, right here", Butch answered taping the front of the deers chest before turning to go into the house to bring the now warmed Albin into town to register his buck. I was still puzzling the lack of blood and the much smaller hole than had previously had caused Albins deers death when my dad came back from cleaning the gutting knives. "Dad! How come half of this deer isn't blown to smithereens? How did Albin shoot him from the front?" Dad paused thoughtfully before answering. My father would never lie, so I totally believed him when he answered, "Sometimes, Babe, when shot at....a deer will just change the direction they are running and fatally run straight into the bullet." Trying to fathom his explanation I asked,"Did he turn into Albins bullet or was he turning back towards Bu- ", I am figuring out outloud before dad interrupts me as my brother and uncle approach. "Thats right, one bullet straight in the heart"* my dad says loudly. "Run inside now, see if we need to pick up some more freezer paper for when Butch and I get our own now", he dismissed me.

My brother continued to hunt every year after that. He still lives on a part of the old farm. He never did bag another deer of that proportion. His own sons have grown and do not relish the hunt by any means like their father.

Four years back, partly due to diabetic complications, my brother suffered a severe stroke. Butch has lost is ability to speak, our hunting story's are no more. He also the control of his right side, making hunting, his passion, near impossible. Near. But not quite.

He now has a pistol of a high enough caliber that he hunts with his left hand. It's not big enough to bring down an elephant. But with my brothers aim, he could if he wanted. He walks with a cane and his gun straped across his chest.Two years ago he bagged a sizeable deer with it. No record winner but good eating.

Last year, K1, passed his fire arms safety test. I packed up our city vehicle and we braved the subzero weather for a hunt. I carried my son's rifle as the cerebral palsy that affected his leg muscles makes it difficult for him to traverse the deep snow. I have hunted in the past, since growing up, I just do not make the time for it as I should. I have even helped build stands on the farm since my youth that I have taken my own deer from.

I thought I was doing my brother a favor by giving him someone to hunt with. We all sat on the edge of the field that Butch signaled as our designated lucky spot using hand gestures. Nether Butch or K1 were physically able to climb a tree stand. I helped them both across the creek. As I sat shaking with cold, listening to my son trying not to fidget, I was the one stealing sideways glances at my hunting companions. K1, so excited at being included could not concentrate and sit still. Butch on the other hand, was the only one who was not shaking. It might have been because his stroke left him with out nerve endings to feel the cold invading his extremities. But I know instead it was because he did not want us to miss the opportunity to know what elation he had felt bagging Albins trophy.

We were not able to go up north for hunting season this year unfortunately. I will however call my brother with a cup of coffee and talk hunting. I'm finely going to tell him I know who really shot those deer. I'd give every trophy I ever and will ever win to hear him talk back.


*When hunting, the best target where you have the highest chances of dropping a deer is from the side. To the back top of his front leg is his heart. You can also drop one from the front and reach the heart, but your chances are less and at a full run near nil unless you are a heck of a shot.