By Tank Hoover

The goldenrod is in full bloom, swaying in the gentle breezes of fall, scattering its pollen. Something lightly prompts my senses, calling out, awakening me from daily frivolities. Far-off whispers. Just as the shortening days and long stretching shadows trigger a buck to breed, a whisper calls out…tugging at me.

Twenty years ago the unimaginable happens. It begins on a high note, ending in a low moan of disbelief and anguish.

This year was different. Our yearly hunt in WVA was going to be extra special, Uncle Jerry would have three of his nephews in tow, and I was one of them. We arrive at the cabin on Saturday. Football, food and family frolicking follow, giving us all a chance to relax, catch up and tease each other. It’s great.

Sunday we scout our chosen spots after a leisurely breakfast, followed by more food, football and family antics that night. Everyone is in a great mood with the anticipation of opening day buck season.

Just two short months earlier we have a huge surprise-pig roast at Grandma’s celebrating Jerry’s 50th birthday. Jerry isn’t happy, hating all the hoopla, and being the center of attention isn’t his style. He has the time of his life, as everyone loves Jerry. His friends and family show it, giving lots of gag gifts, hugs and razing. My cousins, Jerry and me sneak a few moments to go over logistics for the upcoming hunt during the party. Everyone is excited.

Jerry is my first “older” buddy. Every summer I spend a week at Grandma’s house on the family dairy farm. Jerry is 16 years older than me but takes me under his wing. He teaches me how to shoot, hunt, how to “tastefully” tease and how to work hard on the farm. He’s the best hunter I’ve ever known. I learn a lot from him and still do. Older now, at the time of the hunt, we’re more friends than uncle/nephew, as are my cousins. Huntin’ buddies, I’d say.

Opening day starts at 0400 for a rushed breakfast and we drive to our spot. Everyone hikes to his stand, getting there well before daylight. We hunt dark-to-dark, the way Jerry has taught us. It’s a long day, but worth it. WVA allows one to buy a “bonus,” or extra buck tag, and we all purchase one. I believe three of the four of us tag out that day. Tuesday, another deer is taken.

Wednesday, we sleep-in till 0600 and plan on doing deer drives most of the day. It’s a bluebird day, perfect. During a quick break, eating a sandwich, Jerry says, “This is what life is all about. Hunting with family, a beautiful day, I feel great.”

Twenty minutes later, during the last drive, my cousin, who was below and staggered behind Jerry says, “Here they come.”

Jerry acknowledges him, and shoots at a large 9-point buck, missing it. My cousin shoots and takes off in pursuit. He runs past me, as I’m lower than him, working my way around the point of the ridge we’re driving, affectionately known as “shit house ridge” as an old outhouse sits on it. We eventually catch up with the mortally wounded buck, gut it, and drag it down to a creek, to clean it. Where was Jerry? We wait 20 minutes. We fire a few shots in the air. No response. We backtrack.

Jerry is laying face down. He went down at the shot, dead, of an apparent heart attack.

Sometimes life’s event kicks one square in the teeth and this was one of them.

The “rumble” of the zipper as it zips up your favorite uncle in a body bag is a memory I wish I could erase, but can’t. Seeing his neatly trimmed, bearded face slowly disappear beneath the closing zipper, knowing you will never see him alive again, haunts me to this day. Even in death, Jerry teaches us all a lesson. Do what you want now. There are no promises for tomorrow.

It’s been 20 years since that fateful day, and yet, the whispers in the wind still beckon and call so I can experience the spirit of the best hunter I ever knew. Physically, it gets harder for all of us to hunt the mountains of WVA. Yet we still answer the call. Maybe for different reasons, but mainly I think because this is where Jerry’s spirit still roams these ridges, exploring, hunting, soaking up nature, bonding with family. We never really talk about it, we all just assume we will all be there. Younger family members join us now, as we pass on stories, tales, and tidbits Jerry passed to us. This is how the spirit of a loved one is nourished — is kept alive. We admit to feeling more connected during our WVA hunt. The hunt becomes bigger than the taking of a deer. It’s more, much more than that.

When the whispers in the wind call, I always feel connected to Jerry’s spirit. After all, we share that same breeze together in those familiar hills….

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