I hugged a grandmother last Wednesday morning.  No, it wasn’t either of mine.  They’re both in heaven.  And, it wasn’t the grandmas of my kids.  They weren’t in the vicinity.  Nor, was it the grandmother of my own seven grandchildren.  She’s huggable, all right, but it wasn’t her that I wrapped my arms around.

I hugged a young grandma in the presence of a lot of other folks in the foyer of a church chapel in which a tiny coffin containing her three month old grandson lay.  I hugged her as she brought tears from a reservoir that should have been dry by then.

“I don’t understand this,” she wept.  “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know,” I whispered.  “I’m no more equipped to understand this than I was three years ago.”

And, I’m not.  Three years ago next month my oldest son’s anguished voice on the other end of the line told me that his 2 year old daughter was gone.  I didn’t want to believe it then, and sometimes I can hardly believe it now. 

I was unprepared for the raw emotions that stirred to the surface the other day as I watched the young parents come to that little open casket to say good-bye one last time.  I could only guess what it would be like to lose a child.  The tears I shed reflected once again how helpless I was to relieve their obvious pain.  The hurt I felt inside was because I couldn’t take theirs away.

It was the grief of that grandmother that I identified with.  That, and her statement of bewilderment. 

The death of a child doesn’t seem to make any sense at all.  The death of an old man – yes.  The passing of a person who’s abused her health through one means or another – okay.  A soldier falling in battle defending his country – understandable.  But, the death of a child?

So I hugged her and told her what I did understand – that neither God’s character nor his purpose had changed.  That he still loved her and somehow in and through this present circumstance he would be exalted. 

I just don’t know how.  I don’t understand.  I just hope the hug and those words helped.

You wanna hear something funny?  Well, this evening I retrieved the mail, a bulky bunch bound with a rubber band.  Part of the reason there was so much bulk was that there was a rather large envelope with the following large black captalized letters on its outside:  WE’RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE TO TEST HUNTING PRODUCTS!  (And, Keep All Test Products FREE!)  RESPONSE REQUESTED  (Within 10 Days Please).

I could hardly believe my eyes, or suppress my laughter.  In fact, I didn’t suppress my laughter.  And the mirth continued to build as I opened the envelope to discover the deputy director of an organization titled North American Hunting Club addressing me as “Dear Fellow Hunter.”  He went on to tell me in this 10 x 15, 4-sided epistle that the reason I’d been nominated to be in the club was that “it’s no secret among your friends and family that you’re a dedicated hunter” and “as someone who is devoted to the sport” I was exactly the kind of person his club is always looking for!  For just $1 a month I would receive hunting gear to test and then keep, the members-only magazine and free “welcome aboard” gifts, a free hunting directory, the exclusive e-mail newsletter, and the ability to preview hunting books or DVDs before others saw them.

The real reason I found this offer so amusing was not only the impeccable timing of its reception, it was the free stuff that both accompanied the offer in the envelope and was promised if I joined.  As I dumped out the contents I found a hunting license holder (boy, I coulda used this a month ago) and two decals called “Big Buck” and “Club” to put in the window of my car.  Oh, yeah, I almost forgot the camo colored official member key-chain. 

And then there were the three gifts I’d receive after I actually sent in my reply for membership:  The “Wild Bounty Cookbook” with 100 easy to make recipes for every type of game (including whitetail deer), The Field Knife Set, and best and most ironic of all, the “Whitetail Pursuit” DVD with heart-pounding coverage of whitetail hunts, valuable whitetail hunting tips, and expert advice to help locate, hunt, and tag bucks.

Are you laughing yet, with me, I mean?  If not, try this final rib-tickler at the bottom of the last page of the letter:  “P.P.S.  And remember, your FREE Bonus Gift of Venison Seasoning will be sent in your Member Welcome Kit.”

I’m about to fall off my chair here.  How about you?

I didn’t get one.  Nope, I did not shoot a deer.  Oh I tried, once again, before the season was over.

There was snow on the ground, it was a nice enough day, and I finished at the office a little early.  Going hunting, I told the secretary, an accomplished huntress herself.  Good luck, she replied.

I’d need more than that. 

I hustled home and got into my gear.  This time the whole nine yards – the long johns, jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, insulated camo bibs, camo vest, and camo windbreaker.  Oh yes, the camo hunting gloves, the kind with the tips missing and the mitten cover that folds back.  And, the orange, yes, the orange – the vest and the knit hat.

Yeah, I did remember the rifle and the possibles bag, but when I looked for the hunting license it was nowhere to be found.  A fruitless search of the entire house and an equally fruitless 1 mile trip back to the office succeeded in making me start to sweat.  This stuff I was wearing was meant for sitting in the woods, not for racing from pillar to post!

I had to go back on line, necessitating a second return to the office, to download another license.  The copy cost $5, but before I got out the door the secretary made sure I made two or three more copies of that copy.  She knows me too well!

I’d loaded the rifle before I left the house, declining to put the percussion cap in place until I arrived in the field.  The snow revealed that deer were still using the highway passing beneath the tree stand I’d used a week earlier.  I climbed into position, altogether disdaining to use the harness that not only ensured my seat but hindered my movements on that other occasion.

By the time I sat down in that cedar it was already only an hour and a half till sundown.  My late arrival, plus the fact that I’d probably created quite a (human) stink with the profuse sweating caused by my mad pursuit of the license undoubtedly loudly advertized, “Only slight caution needed - inept human in area.”

I sat there for about an hour and 20 minutes, once again reviewing my life’s history and trying to formulate a plan for whatever future I might have.  Then, in the gathering gloom, from directly behind my tree came the sharp blowing sound a deer makes when it sounds an alarm.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I froze.  (Actually, I’d already become quite chilled due to the sweat drying on my body – maybe that’s why my hair was behaving in this manner.)  But all to no avail.  That stupid deer was supposed to come along the trail beneath my tree.  Sneaking up behind just wasn’t fair.  The slight breeze had apparently given me away.

When it became clear that whatever had been watching my rear was gone, I slowly climbed down and made my way to my car.  As I raised the hammer so as to extricate the cap from the nipple I was more than a little surprised that there was no cap to extricate.  Apparently, by the time I was ready to begin the hunt, I was in such a lather that I pulled the weapon out of the back seat and just plain forgot to arm it! 

You’re an idiot, I said out loud to myself.  If a deer had been dumb enough to wander into your sights, you couldn’t have killed it anyway.  In fact, a whole herd of deer could have paraded beneath you with absolute impunity.

Did you get one, she asked at the office the next day.  No, I answered, almost curtly.

But she did, the next week, standing on the ground and letting a bunch of does go by so she could down a nice 5 point buck.  Sent me a picture of it via email.

No, I’m still deerless.  And the season is over.  Oh well, maybe next year.  That slogan works for baseball fans.  Why not for a hunter?

Dutchmen are stubborn, or so it’s been said.  “The stubborn Dutch.”  I’ve heard that more than once during my tenure on this planet.  And, it’s probably true.

The hunting failures of a year ago were no deterrent.  I bought another deer license this winter.  Did this on-line, printing off the document at the office and taking it home.  Black-powder again. 

It was almost too warm to hunt.  It was so warm that I didn’t wear the camo bibs when I drove out to the killing fields a little later than I originally intended.  But, by 3:20 that afternoon I was in the stand among the cedars in a new spot not a mile from my own house.

Yes, this time I made sure the rifle was loaded – properly loaded with both powder and ball.  I put the percussion cap in place before I climbed to my perch.  And there I sat in total readiness, surveying the terrain.  Below me at the base of the tree a well-worn trail indicated that yes, there were deer, lots of them, in the vicinity.

I listened to the sounds drifting to me from west.  Someone was cutting wood with a bucksaw.  It was still enough for me to hear people a half a mile away talking to each other.  I wondered how long it would take before the noise I’d made getting into position was dismissed by Bambi’s relatives in the area.

I did a variety of things as I sat there.  I reviewed my personal history.  I thought about my recent trip across the Pacific to teach 15 prospective church-planting pastors.  I may even have contemplated what my future might hold.  I had time to kill as I waited to make a kill.

About an hour and twenty minutes passed.  The sun was sinking in the west.  Dusk was approaching.  I was just beginning to wonder if I should climb down and head for home when out of the corner of my eye at about the “3 o’clock” position I saw a doe gingerly step out from behind a large cedar.  I gradually turned my head to look.  She came across an open area, heading right for my tree.  When she was about 20 yards away, she turned broadside to me and looked around.  It was a perfect shot. 

But, I had a problem.  Now, isn’t that surprising?  My problem was that I was using a tree stand that somebody else had erected, complete with that other person’s harness – the one used to keep one from falling out of the tree.  Instead of taking time to figure out how that harness worked, I simply looped it over my head and body.  But now, as the doe held her pose, I was unable to swivel around to aim at her perfectly positioned body.

Then a second doe made an appearance.  The two of them minced around below my tree, moving this way and that, as I surreptitiously and vainly tried to bring my weapon into position.  From time to time the first and larger of the two would lift her head and look around, testing the air and moving her ears back forth.  I remained both motionless and powerless.

Then the first doe walked away from me for a short distance, and as she did so I eased the hammer into the firing position.  It made a slight “clicking” noise, a noise that, of course, she heard.  She turned around and came back, looking right at me and holding her ears forward.  Fortunately I was not “backlit,” and though she seemed to sense there was something up there, she couldn’t quite detect what it was.

After this bit of investigation, she and her friend ambled off behind my tree.  The breeze, what little there was of it, was blowing from me to their new position, and I thought they’d disappear to the north. 

But they came back, again walking around the base of the tree, maintaining safety in the one direction inaccessible to me in my imprisoned condition.  I’ve got to get out of this harness,  I thought.  But with them patroling the area, that was impossible.

They headed off to the south, behind the tree from which they’d orignally appeared.  Well, I thought, that’s that.  I wonder if any others will come my way.  And , then they reappeared before ambling to the southwest behind yet another cedar about 55 yards away. 

Now, I thought, I’m getting out of this harness.  And, as quietly as I could, I wriggled around until it slid over my head with a sort of soft, scraping sound.  I’d no sooner settled back into position in the stand when that first doe trotted back into view, head high and ears forward, aiming at my tree.  In fact, she stopped below me and looked squarely into my eyes.  But the angle was bad, and I was afraid I’d scare her off if I moved. 

So I didn’t.  But she did – to behind that tree immediately in front of me.  As she did so, I slowly raised the gun.  She stopped on the other side of that tree, broadside and visible.  I had a shot.

I squeezed the trigger and the hammer released.  The cap exploded with exactly the same result I’d had two years earlier.  What the…, I muttered as I slightly raised the weapon and as the doe shifted her position.  It was then, with a mighty roar, that the rifle went off - harmlessly.  And the two lucky deer bounded away into the gathering gloom.

It was what is called a “hang-fire.”  That weapon hadn’t been fired since it had been cleaned a year ago.  My friend Jeff told me later that I should have fired several caps to make sure there was no moisture in the barrel.  Very probably the powder had absorbed a bit of moisture, or gun oil, or both, and had failed to ignite properly because of that.  

A “real” hunter, a successful one, would have known to do that.  That doe all but begged me to shoot her, and I couldn’t.  Maybe I am destined to be a vegetarian.  The fact that I’d seen two beautiful creatures and had been able to “study” their habits as well as spend quality time with myself only slightly ameliorated the situation.

There are just three days left in the season. 

I’m beginning to think that taking a deer in my first black-powder season was purely a matter of luck.  In fact, my experiences in the two subsequent seasons have all but proven the message on the back of the T-shirt my friend Jeff wore to a recent men’s breakfast at our church.

“Old Indian word for ‘vegetarian,’” I read as I stared at his broad back.  At the bottom of the shirt was the punch line, “Poor Hunter!”

Yeah, that’s probably true.  To top it off, a week ago Jeff sent me via E-mail the video of a buck that had entangled his rack in a rope swing on somebody’s farm.  The hapless deer ran madly in an effort to escape only to swing helplessly in the air as he literally reached the end of his rope.  He then raced in the opposite direction with equal fervor, with the same result.  Back and forth, back and forth.  It made for a good video.

But what Jeff sent along in the body of his E-mail as the qualifier wasn’t amusing.    “Maybe we can find out where this one is.  You might be able to sneak up and shoot him.”  Very funny, Jeff, very funny.

He may have a righteous reason for what I think is his good-natured ribbing.  Let me explain.

Last year I again applied for license to kill – deer, that is.  Again, for the black-powder season.  Only this time I’d located two places within a mile of my home in which to hunt.  The one had a draw running up through it, a draw from which I had actually seen about 13 deer emerging late one afternoon.  Small cedar trees dotted the landscape.

One afternoon I hiked halfway up that draw and took my stand, literally, behind and slightly in a cedar that was along side of what appeared to be a deer highway.  I suppose that by the time I situated myself I’d erected a sign there that contained this message, “Caution – human crossing.”  My dark silhouette would have been in the center of the sign.

The breeze was blowing every so slightly from the northwest.  The trail was just east of me, actually within a few feet of my tree.  I figured by the time an animal made its way far enough down that trail to smell me I’d have already seen, and, I hoped, shot it.  My stance would also enable me to keep watch across the open area to the northwest in which I’d seen those animals a few days earlier. 

I stood stock still, watching and listening, every once in a while swiveling my head around to stare up the trail to the north.  I’d been there longer than an hour when there was a “thumping” sound behind me.  The noise was definitely not one that fit with the rest of what I’d heard to that point. 

Again, the sound came to my ears.  There was some sort of animal back there.  I slowly drew the hammer back to the “shooting” position and even more slowly turned to look right into the eyes of two young does not more than 4 yards away.  But before I could even think about raising my rifle, they turned and flashed back up the trail to the north.

I thought my heart would pound right out of my chest.  To be that close to such beautiful wild creatures before they sensed my presence – wow!  The sound I’d heard was produced by them stamping their tiny hooves on the ground in an attempt to make this “out of place” thing they saw move. 

They were successful.  I was not.

Nor was I the next time I hid in a cedar tree along another portion of that trail.  Oh, I saw deer, after standing like a statue for almost two hours.  But they sensed my presence again and refused to accommodate me by wandering within range.

Too bad being close to a deer in the wild doesn’t count for something with “real” hunters.  But, being close doesn’t put meat on the table, and “poor hunter” may very well be an old Indian word for “vegetarian.” 

I decided to try to kill a deer again this winter.  Why?  Because they taste good.  And, because there is something built into me, probably from my hunter-gatherer type father and his forbears, that calls for me to hunt.  Though my own father, who went to Heaven five years ago, had hunted deer since he was a boy in the hills of Pennsylvania, he’d never taken me.  I don’t know why.  Maybe I was never interested.  I just never went.

But, three years ago my friend Jeff persuaded me to hunt with him during the muzzle-loader season.  That’s in December here in the Cornhusker State.   I had the use of my son Andy’s black-powder rifle.  He even gave me a bunch of patches and balls, along with about everything else I needed to make this work.

Jeff and I sited in our guns on a fine fall day up at his place.  It was a gas shooting that plains replica with the percussion caps, ramrod, and smokey haze after the explosion.  I was set to go. 

But my heart wasn’t.  And the surgery I had in early December that year healed my “pump” but killed my hunting hopes.

Jeff was persistent, and a year later we prepared again to bag a whitetail with black-powder weapons.  I hadn’t shot that rifle for 11 months the first morning we went out.  And, as it turned out, I wasn’t prepared to shoot it then.

We met near a wooded draw in which there were two tree stands.  In the cold, predawn darkness Jeff told me to go ahead and load my rifle.  I had several speed-loaders with the properly measured powder in each, or so I thought.  I popped the cap on one of these and poured its contents down the barrel.  By feel I inserted the Minniball and rammed it home.  I put the percussion cap on the nipple.  I was ready.

But over two hours of sitting 15 feet above the ground, straining to see what never showed up produced nothing but rosy cheeks and a big appetite.  We ate a huge breakfast at a small cafe in the nearby small town and returned, each to his own home.  Before we parted I asked Jeff if it would be okay to leave the gun loaded if I removed the cap from the nipple.  Yes, he said. 

A week later, I think it was, I met Jeff at his favorite hunting spot, about an hour’s drive from my place.  It seemed I left home in the middle of the night.  It was still dark when I climbed up the tree and took my “stand.” 

It was exactly zero degrees, and before long the tips of my toes were beginning to understand this fact.  Lord, I prayed, I’d at least like to see a deer this morning.  I don’t care if I don’t kill one.  I just want to see one.  

He answered my request.  To the letter.

I’d been on my perch for a little over two hours when even my untrained ears picked up a sound that seemed foreign to the woods.  It was a “crunchy” sort of sound, like something was hopping through the crusted snow that lay in patches on the forest floor.

Something was hopping along through those woods.  In fact, it was two somethings.  I ascertained this by slowly swiveling my head to the right.  There, about “three o’clock” from my stand were two does.  I watched as they came to a stop about 45 yards away, standing broadside to me.

I couldn’t have buck fever, given the gender of my prey, but I was plenty excited as I slowly raised the rifle and took a bead on the larger of the two deer.  I pulled the trigger and the hammer pounded the cap against the nipple with sharp cracking sound.   

That was it.  No roar, no smoke screen from the exploding powder, and no kick from the gun.  Nothing.  The deer didn’t move, seeming to be unfazed by the sound my big cap gun made.  I fumbled for another percussion cap with numb fingers.  The does still didn’t move. 

They did when I finally raised the gun again to point it in their direction.  Oh, they didn’t move quickly.  They appeared to be totally unalarmed as they ambled off into oblivion.

Moments later, as was prearranged, the little walkie-talkie in my possibles bag cracked to life.  It was Jeff, coming through the woods from his stand where he’d seen nothing.  At least, where he’d seen no deer.

I had a misfire, I said.  I pulled down on a doe, squeezed the trigger, and nothing happened.  Well, I’m about there, he said.  (I could now see him tramping through the crusted snow.  Actually, I could hear him better than I could see him.)  Come on down, he said, and we’ll take a look.

We fired several more caps without result before Jeff found a tiny screwdriver among his possibles with which to take out a tiny screw at the base of the barrel below the nipple.  Do you have some more powder, he asked. Sure, I said.  And I pulled some speed-loaders from my bag.

I opened the first, and there was nothing inside.  I opened the second.  Same story.  I think I know what the problem is, Jeff said. 

Those speed-loaders had all been emptied a year earlier when we’d sighted in our guns.  But, at my kitchen counter I’d loaded them again for this hunt.  As we stood there in the cold at the base of the tree, I recalled aloud how I’d looked at the three green loaders and had seen what looked like the dark outline of a full load through the plastic.  Hence, I didn’t pop the lids, but took for granted the loaders were full.  What I actually saw, apparently, was the residue of past loads.  What I’d inserted into my possibles bag were three empty speed-loaders. 

As it dawned on me, and on Jeff, that I’d actually sat in the tree the first day we hunted with a useless weapon in my hands, that I’d actually asked if I could leave that weapon “loaded” until we went out again and had carefully taken the percussion cap off the nipple to avoid an accidental discharge, and that I’d actually had a misfire from my present perch all because I’d poured absolutely nothing down the barrel before I’d rammed home the minnieball, we broke into loud peals of laughter.  The woods rang with our merriment.

When he settled back down, Jeff worked a few grains of powder into the hole behind the powerless Minniball and replaced the tiny screw.  I aimed the rifle at a tree close out in front of us and pulled the trigger.  The normally mighty roar of the gun was replaced by a muffled grunt, and the ball lodged in the target.

We laughed again as we ate breakfast in yet another small town.  And then it was time for a nap before the evening hunt.  Jeff must have been wondering just what he’d taken on by insisting that I hunt with him.  I think I heard him chuckle between snores as he slept .

We left the pickup about 2:30 and walked west toward the wooded draws a quarter of a mile away.  Our plan was to occupy some ground blinds, hoping to see prey as it made its way out of the woods to the cornfields to the south.  After we crossed the barbed wire fence and headed down toward some cedar trees, Jeff said, Keep your eyes out – something might be moving here. 

He said this sorta under his breath.  But he’d no sooner said it than I thought I saw a flash of brown below us in the cedars.  I think I saw one, Jeff said – this time using his full whisper mode.  About that time a young buck bounded into sight, ran sprightly across a couple of small ravines, and came to a stop under a couple of trees about 60 yards away.

Do I have a shot, I asked Jeff.  If you want it, he said.  I again raised my rifle, this time with the assurance that it was fully loaded, and drew a bead on that little buck.  There was nothing to rest my arms upon – I was shooting from a standing position.

I pulled the trigger, the cap exploded, and the gun went off with the desired roar.  Through the smokey haze I saw that deer drop like he’d been hit over the head with a sledgehammer by a very large man.  And he stayed down.

I looked at Jeff in disbelief.  His countenance radiated excitement and approval.  I actually don’t know what we did next, except that we scrambled across those ravines and found a 4 point buck that had been shot right through the neck.  No, I wasn’t aiming for that part.  But who cares.  I’d bagged my first deer!  

So, I think I’ll try for another this year.  Why, because that one tasted so good.  And because there must be something built into me, probably from my hunter-gatherer type father and his forbears, that calls for me to hunt.

However, as you shall see upon subsequent visits to this site, having that ”something” built into a person doesn’t necessary guarantee success each season .   

That’s right.  My lovely bride agreed, and she and I will be traveling back to that country on the other side of the world, the one I visited in October.  We will leave our home here in Nebraska on the last Friday in February for a 15 day trek.  We will be accompanying 5 other couples for visits to various locations where students will be graduated and where pastors will gather for fellowship and refreshment.

We’re quite excited.  I guess maybe I’m really excited because I will be able to show her much of what I experienced there, in addition to introducing my students to her. 

 And, yes, I intend to keep you updated as often as possible on this site regarding our comings and goings.

By the way, I did create a book using the previous blog posts about my first trip.  I actually illustrated it with photos I took along the way.  It should be back from the publisher, Blurb.com, in a couple of weeks.  If you want a copy of this 90 page book, just let me know in a post!

 Say, just for laughs, I’m going to tell you about three very funny hunting adventures I’ve had while trying to bag a deer with a black powder, muzzle-loading rifle.

Come back in a day or two and I should have those up.