Friends, always

The drive up to the Steve Richie Nature Preserve and the home of Connie Richie was hurried, yet long. Six hours of wonderful conversation with my hunting partner and oldest son, Matt, are all treasured, but when you just can't wait to get to where you want to be . . . well, for both of us, we couldn't get there soon enough. Couple that with the approaching storm front of Sunday afternoon, November 17, which we were about one hour ahead of all the way across the state, we knew we needed to make good time.

We arrived around 2:00 p.m. Indiana time in the midst of howling winds and the approaching storm front. So, to wait for the storm front to pass through or to head on out and see if the deer were moving? What are hunters to do? Of course, we geared up, scented down, gathered our guns and headed out to the stands which we had already identified on the trip as probably giving us the best chance.

I think we were in the stands a grand total of about twenty minutes before the first of the rains started to fall in that area. Rain to a hunter waiting for a deer means little. It was the bolt lightning striking about a half mile away, the resounding thunder rumbling the ground like a freight train and the sudden darkening of the skies which made us both scamper down from our perches on steel stands about twelve feet in the air. Hunting deer is one thing, being the target for a bolt of lightning is quite another. A hurried trip across the forty acres back to the house, shielding ourselves from horizontal rain, a fanatic wind and lightning cracking the skies open like a searing sword, we slipped onto the front porch just in time to meet Connie at the door telling us a tornado was on the ground less than twenty miles away. Whew! Timing is everything. We peeled off our camouflage coveralls, hung them up to dry and sat with Connie at the kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee and enjoyed catching up as the weather pushed through.

After the storm, it was back to the field. Oddly enough, deer are a lot smarter than hunters. They stayed bedded down. The wind was still howling, the skies were threatening, yet there we were . . . waiting and waiting and waiting. Nothing moved and darkness gathered the countryside into her loving embrace. Night.

Tomorrow, we thought.

We were on our way into the field by 6:30 a.m., each headed to our stands in the unrelenting winds which were blowing somewhere between 25 and 30 miles per hour, with gusts ranging much higher. There were moments we were holding onto the stands more than looking around. These really were very smart deer. Nothing moved all day long . . . except for Matt and I, who went in about mid-morning for a cup of coffee and a strategy session, then early in the afternoon for lunch, then back out each time.

Around 5:00 in the evening, I was getting ready to descend from my perch on a stand near the creek when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement about 75 yards from me. It was a buck who, whether out of boredom from not moving much for the last 24 hours or for the sake of hunger, was making his way toward the harvested corn field nearby. I froze waiting to see if he saw me stretching as I stood up and would go another way or missed me and would continue down the path. I got lucky, he continued down the path. Tightly packed with trees and brush I had to wait until, at the moment when the buck stepped between two trees, the winds steadied, and my nerves allowed me to focus through the scope, I pulled the trigger. He dropped immediately. A hunter can ask no more. I gave thanks to God for the gift of food soon to be on the table and a safe hunt, then I texted Matt and let him know that I had a deer down and would need his help. Darkness was, again, sliding into the world around us and we didn't have much time to get the deer before it became much harder.

Matt and I walked into the field where the deer lay. I led the way with flashlight and by my memory of how that particular area of field lay. Again, thank you, God, we walked right to the spot. Matt looked at the deer and then gave me the biggest hug - and then it all hit me . . . like a flood of emotion welling up over the past year, the moment suddenly caught my heart and wrung me out without compromise.

It was two days short of one year from the day that my friend, Steve Richie, died of complications due to pancreatic cancer. Matt and I were there that day. Steve had insisted that, even though he was recovering from a surgery to remove the pancreatic cancer tumor, we should hunt as we always had with him in all those years before. We had visited with Steve in the hospital, laughed with Connie and the staff over the inside jokes and stories which Steve, Connie, Matt and I had shared over the years, and Matt and I had hunted. In the night before we were to return to Illinois, Connie received that 'early morning call' which no spouse wants to answer. She and I drove to the hospital in the darkness of the night as Steve's condition worsened, leaving Matt to gather our things, put away gear, and drive up to the hospital later in the morning. The look on the faces of the doctors as we arrived at the hospital said it all and, though they offered a slim margin of hope, we knew the truth was not far away. Steve died that afternoon . . . as Matt and I were driving South to Illinois.

In the days since those moments, Connie made clear that neither Steve, nor she, would put up with any changes: Matt and I, and Ray and Ched if they wanted, were to continue hunting in the woods that once we had roamed together as best friends. We were to honor our friend by continuing his legacy and, to that end, Connie gave to me Steve's deer rifle and, to Matt, Steve's deer shotgun, which is what we carried into the field this year.

When Matt hugged me the story came full circle: From Steve's first deer stand which he purchased for his property, with the rifle he carried those many years, and even with the last box of ammunition he had bought for exactly that purpose, I had brought down this deer in the newly named, 'Steve Richie Nature Preserve'. I wept with the one person (besides Connie) who understood all this and gave thanks to God one more time for the gift of our friend, Steve, for surely he was standing with me there that night on the deer stand - looking through the scope - and giving thanks to God for the bounty of the land. I could hear his voice celebrating the moment with an, 'Atta boy, Don!' and could feel his arm on my shoulder, even as I hugged Matt.

Were I to name the crucial point to this story, it wouldn't be the trip, or the hunt, or the storms, or even the year before, but it would be all those things wrapped up together in the love of God and the insistent presence of good friends. This year I learned that our sons are now more than just sons. Standing there in the gathering darkness, a Light shone brightly as a father hugged his son and friendship made itself known in a whole new way. Thank you, God, for Steve and the friendship we share, still. Thank you, God, for Connie and her wise and loving friendship continuing the journey. And, thank you, God, for a son who understands without having to 'talk it out'. It was a humbling and awesome moment which I think I shall never, ever forget . . . standing in the woods, hugging our son, reminded again of how precious our days together are. Incredible. Friends, always.