Every year as fall rolls around and the weather cools down, it is my favorite time of year. With the leaves changing color and college football consuming my hours when not fly fishing or at work. I am always excited as fall approaches. I know that deer and elk season is coming soon. The memories of hunting with my father Richard Cheever are some of the most wonderful childhood to adult moments in my life. Now as I see my dad aging and his mind slipping I wax nostalgic every time deer season comes close. I know where my dad wants to be for two weeks in October. I want to be there with him, badly!
My dad worked and worked to support his family. Never a wealthy man, he owned an auto body shop and rebuilt mostly wrecked Corvettes. He would work late into the evening hours to keep up with his customers needs. A kind and quiet man he would give selfless service to his church and family. He was known as Dick as a young man and I have heard stories over and over about his hunting trips with his father and brothers. Like the story about the young man who accidentally shot his brother- in- law deep in the pines. My uncle took the body out on the horse and never hunted a day in his life again. He saw enough death in WWII from Utah Beach to Berlin. I heard the story of the night the mountain lion killed the doe behind camp as well as the story where my father prayed for a chance to see a deer. He had his petition to the heavens answered. The history he shared is endless and should be written down for posterity. The lessons and experiences are precious and some are just funny, truly adventures of questionable judgement in the woods.
About three days before the deer hunt began you could see a change in Richard. A quicker step, the gun inspected and stuff starting to be gathered up. He was always clean shaven until the hunt and I watched as his beard went grayer with every trip in the fall He was my hero and the best shot in the world-"Deadeye Dick". The day before we would leave to the "spot", I could not sleep and was excited. Dad would be on the phone and hunting buddies would stop by to make sure the trip was on as planned. The night before we left was always a trip to the store for food and treats. I got to get what I craved and always had plenty of junk to eat. I got the stuff my mom never bought. Hostess fruit pies and candy bars were plentiful. He bought fruit and many canned goods. I never saw a pot or pan in camp, it was a can of soup or chili on the fire. He stacked the Kippered Snacks deep in the cart. I later wondered if the deer could sense the potent smell of the fish.
If it snowed we were on hold to see about going and yet we always went. He would plow up the road rain or shine because for one two week period, deer hunting became an obsession for my dad. The old canvas tent would go up and the WWII surplus sleeping bag would come out. If we arrived in the day or the evening camp was up and we laughed and shared as the real world was far away from Dairy Fork, also known as the "spot". I learned much from being a boy scout, my dad did his best to change my conservative mind. If the fire needed to be started, he would tear out whole bushes of sagebrush. He would send us hunting for firewood and from a distance I could see the can of paint thinner being poured in the fire pit and like a magician, the flames would suddenly be eight feet high and we had a fire! We sat around the fire and again I wondered as I was older if I had a better chance of seeing deer without the flaming inferno lit by my dad.
When bed time came-there was little sleep. An occasional toot and some hardcore snoring inside the old tent. I can still smell that old tent. My dad always took his kids, and I am sure the noise and unskilled behavior we had lessened his chances of seeing deer. For that I will always be thankful. Maybe he had to take one or two of us as a deal with my mom. I am sure she enjoyed he calm in her life during the hunt.
Upon waking it was always cold in the mountains if Utah and took some warming up to start hiking up the canyons. I had my pack loaded the night before and had red and later bright orange layers to pull of as the day warmed. The line of hunters and stragglers left the truck and started up the finger like ridges of the canyon. The goal was to be on the shale as daylight came. The views were great and my dad was glassing the pines and the aspens across the canyon. He had his 270 that he built in gun smithing school leaning against a branch. I was a Mauser 8mm action form WWII with a custom barrel and walnut stock. It was the ultimate joy to watch my dad raise the rifle and scope out any suspected animal. He did not hunt for Huge bucks, he liked them but he hunted for meat, but even more for the joy of the hunt. The stories would continue on the mountain and so would the junk food and the glassing. This was his greatest joy, to have a chance to see something and to get a shot at it. Dick was good with his rifle and seldom came home without meat for the freezer. I saw the rifle raise and saw the deer stepping down out of the trees. It was a near sure thing when he fired his hand loaded bullet through the high country air. When he had a kid who had a permit and a rifle- he always would calm and coach and give the first shot to the newbie.
On Sunday, he would hunt but usually sleep later from fatigue and then hit the hills. He would move out with the conviction that the Lord still loved him and that once a year, the sabbath could be a day in the hills. Year after year he was the same man with simple patterns around the time of the hunt. He acted young and cheerful in the mountains, never angry if he did not succeed. He was complimentary of the hunter who did score and kind to help those who had trouble in the mountains. Dick was not a gadget guy, he was frugal and not a show off. He was a trickster and made us laugh with his funny stories.
I now hunt with custom rifles and range finders. I sleep warm and wake up warm, usually in a lodge. He has not been hunting for six years. I miss those days, the days of hunting with "Wild man Dick" as his boys called him. From crashing through a small creek in his truck in a blizzard to filling both of our tags because he knew I would not be angry. Oh and of course, never forget the time he killed a 3 point with his pants unbuckled, because nature called. Richard Cheever- you taught me the joy of deer hunting, you will be missed this fall. You are loved!
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