I published this little piece of fiction back in 2005 in my second book of hunting stories THE LUCKIEST HUNTER IS STILL ALIVE. It is pure fiction, as believe it or not, I am still alive. It is copyrighted, but I hereby give my permission to share it via any method one might wish to use.
George AKA: Muttleysgone


THE LAST DAY


The alarm sounded, waking him from a sound and dream-filled sleep. The cabin was cool, but not intolerably cold. He pulled on some clothes and began the ritual he found so familiar; building the fire in the woodstove, and then fixing some breakfast. As the coffee perked and the eggs fried, he reflected on his life as a hunter. His travels as a hunter took him to many places in this world, but he loved this mountain the most. "The ribs of the earth," his old friend Tom had called these Appalachian Mountains. At the age of eighty-seven, he remembered many hunts here, and more than a few deer taken. "I'll leave the dishes for later," he decided, putting them in the sink.
After breakfast, he set about packing his knapsack with a thermos of coffee, a few snacks, and a sandwich. Next, he stuffed his long johns and a wool sweater at the top of the pack. The climb up the mountain would make him perspire, so he wanted the warm clothes to be dry when he got to his stand. It wouldn't do to work up a sweat and then get cold.
Taking the old Browning from the gun rack above the couch, he loaded the magazine, but closed the bolt on an empty chamber. This safety precaution was done almost without thinking. "Amos trained me well," he reflected, thinking of his childhood mentor. He placed the box with the remaining cartridges in his backpack. Shouldering the pack and his rifle, he left the cabin for the long walk to his hunting stand. A light, chilly breeze caressed his cheeks as he walked. The air was cold and crisp. It would be a great morning to go hunting.
When he crossed the road in front of camp and walked a short distance up the driveway toward Carl's cabin, he noticed a few tracks in the road. "There is always something interesting to see," he thought to himself. "The mountain is like a newspaper. You just have to learn to read it." The tracks told a story about several does and fawns that passed this way, and of a coyote that crossed farther up the driveway looking for breakfast.
As he walked by the neighboring cabin, he noted that, as usual, the lights weren't on. Nobody hunted out of this cabin anymore. He wondered why, since this part of the mountain has always been one of the better places to hunt for deer and turkeys. Maybe they all were busy earning a living and had no time for hunting. Thirty-five years passed since he retired, being lucky enough to do it at the age of fifty-two, so he hardly remembered what it had been like to have to go to work. "I've actually been retired for more years than I worked for a living. Life has been good to me," he mused.
Continuing onward, he found the old logging road and took it through the oak forest above Carl's cabin. During the fall, the leaves on the trees here took on a riot of colors. "This might be one of the most beautiful places on earth," he thought. The oak trees bore a bumper crop of acorns this fall, and the deer came here to feast on them. Sometimes they turned over the leaves so that a small area seemed to have been tilled like a garden. His favorite stand was located above the last bench before the mountain got really steep and rocky near its peak. He trudged onward.
This morning's climb to the bench near the top of the mountain reminded him of having done it so many times before. The exertion tired him so much more today than in past years. "I'm getting old," he thought. "When we first bought the cabin, I could do this without breaking a sweat." Laboring onward, he came to the steep and rocky part of the mountain and stopped to rest a bit on the old oak blowdown. "Junior used to call this the foot rocks," he remembered. Junior, like most of his friends, passed away some time ago. "Not too many of us left now."
His mind took him back to a time twenty or so years ago when he brought his hunting buddy Bill's son Will to this place the day the kid took his first deer. Will was only fourteen at the time, with legs of steel, and the lungs of an athlete. While the old man struggled while climbing these rocks, Will did it effortlessly. "I used to be that way," he reflected. "All of those hunting trips out west, my guides never had to slow down for me to keep up. Where did it go?"
His breathing now under control, he worked his way slowly up the rocky slope. A stab of pain touched lightly inside his chest, and he considered stopping here. "Less than a hundred yards to go. I can make it one more time." With labored breathing and sweating profusely, he finally reached his favorite stand next to the huge boulder on the slope. "This is the place I want to be this morning." Years ago, he arranged several flat rocks in front of the boulder to make a comfortable seat.
He removed his pack and outer clothing, and then took off his boots while standing on his coat to keep his feet dry and warm. Next he pulled on his long johns, wriggled into the sweater, and then put on his pants. This done, he sat down to pull his boots back on, laced them up, and finally donned his coat. Then he settled in to wait for the deer he hoped would be here soon.
A few minutes passed, and the disruption of his intrusion into this quiet place was history. A squirrel came out to look for acorns and was followed by another. Soon there were half a dozen of the furry acrobats plying their trade. Their antics kept him amused until suddenly they began their alarm barking, indicating that some predator was close at hand.
A grey fox trotted into view and passed twenty yards from his stand. He let it go, serenaded in its passage by the squirrels. They would not let up until the fox was long gone. The squirrels warn other prey animals with their antics, and he hoped the deer would not avoid this area because of the commotion. Finally the woods settled down again, and he resumed his watch.
The hours passed, and as they did, he reflected upon his life. A year ago, his wife of many years passed away. He still missed her. It was like a part of him had been cut out, perhaps his heart. She was the only one who could put up with him. He shivered a bit from the cold and thought, "At least she is in a better place where she never gets cold anymore." Somehow that comforted him. "I'll be joining you soon, sweetheart. We don't live forever."
He took out his thermos and poured himself a half cup of coffee. Drinking it slowly, his mind conjured up an image of another day when he poured coffee in just such a situation. On that day he had not slept well the night before, so he put his backpack down and used it for a pillow in order take a short nap. Perhaps he dozed an hour or more, but when he awakened, it startled him to see the sun high in the sky. He poured a cup of coffee, just as now, and was sipping it when the buck appeared. Slowly putting his coffee down, he had picked up the old Browning and brought it to his shoulder, ending the life of a six-point. "That was a great day to be hunting," he mused. On this day, however, no six-point appeared while he enjoyed his coffee.
It was almost noon when he heard the snap of a twig behind him. His experience as a hunter made him alert, but he didn't turn around quickly to see what had made the sound as an inexperienced hunter might have done. Instead, he slowly and carefully turned his head. "Buck! Big one!" The sight made his heart race a bit and his palms got sweaty. This was a really big and obviously mature buck on a mission to find a doe to breed. It worked its way through the rocks above and behind him at a slow, stiff-legged trot so characteristic of a lord of the woods such as it felt itself to be. As the buck passed behind a tree, the hunter turned and raised his rifle in a practiced and familiar motion, centering the crosshairs on the sweet spot behind the shoulder as the deer emerged into the open.
The crack of the rifle startled the buck. It felt the impact on its chest and then jumped and kicked up its heels. It broke into a run, but collapsed a few yards from where it started. The hunter sat still and watched as the buck died. A pang of sorrow for the ending of such a splendid animal's life passed quickly, and he gathered his gear to walk over and collect his prize.
When he arrived at the buck, he paused for a moment to admire it before taking out his hunting knife to remove the entrails. He put his hand on the buck's chest in a gesture of respect to a fine animal. "Nice ten-point," he thought. The buck sported a perfect rack; one of the largest he had ever taken. He worked deliberately to remove the entrails, attached his tag to the ear of the buck, and then placed the two front legs around the neck, tying them in place with the feet between the horns. "A deer drags easier if you do it this way," he thought to himself. "Amos taught me how to do this over seventy years ago." The thought of Amos made him melancholy. Amos, his mentor when he was a boy of twelve, seemed more like a father to him than his own father had been.
He tied the end of the drag rope around a short stick to be used as a handle. Shouldering his pack and his rifle, he began the drag downhill toward the cabin, made a little easier because of the snow. Shortly, he reached the logging road and continued onward toward his cabin. At one point close to Carl's cabin, he had a short uphill drag of perhaps ten yards when it hit him like a hammer. Chest pains! "Oh! Where is my nitro?" His hand clawed at his jacket zipper in an attempt to get to the pill vial in his shirt pocket, but it was in vain. A mist came over his eyes and his final thought was of his wife. "Sweetie, I'm coming to join----" And then, all was blackness as he fell backward and landed face up next to his buck.

A few hours later, another hunter and his son were making their way to an evening stand when they came on the scene. "Dad, Look at this! I think this guy's dead!" the boy shouted. There in the leaves lay the old hunter. He seemed by the expression on his face to be at peace.
The father knelt down beside the old hunter and put his finger to the man's throat, checking for a pulse, but none was found. The father turned to his son, shook his head, and then said, "I guess it was his time, son. He probably died doing what he loved to do. What a buck he got! I didn’t know such a large buck could be found on this mountain."

Author's note: The original title of this story was EPITAPH. After some consideration, I changed it to THE LAST DAY. My wife didn't like it much when she first read it, but of course, that may have been because she didn't want to think of herself as deceased. As have many, I have contemplated how I would wish to die, if of course I had a choice. None of us do, but if I could, my choice would be to depart this earth like as he did. There are some people mentioned in this story that are still alive and are good friends. I hope they don't take umbrage to it and that we remain good friends.

Good job.