November 28, 2001

A few bucks in the family

I never asked my dad or mother if one or both of my immigrant grandfathers were buck hunters. Or did the family hunting tradition start with an uncle? Uncle Robert was a talented taxidermist and must have had a vast fund of knowledge of the wild creatures of Sonoma County. He and his brother August drowned in a sudden squall on Clear Lake in 1931 while gathering bird's eggs for the collections of the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco.

One particular day in August 1930, several of my mother's brothers, my dad, and a few of their friends gathered to hunt deer. An unfortunately memorable group picture was taken that day. I don't know who organized the group, or who took the picture. That day my Uncle Paul was accidentally shot and killed by one of his friends. The brush had moved. The friend got "buck fever." Paul was almost 20. I was named after him. I don't know where my Dad first thought of hunting venison. I grew up knowing he was an avid buck hunter, but how old was he when he got started? Who taught him hunting tactics? Who showed him how to dress out a deer? If I ever knew, I've forgotten. I don't remember discussing it. I wish I'd asked while I had the chance.

My brother Dan became the hunter in the family. He loved deer hunting. He loved the outdoors. Unlike me, he was an excellent shot. He was his father's son, though my Dad didn't do a lot of hunting the last 30 years of his life. I went with Dad on a hunting expedition only once, not long after I got out of the army. I functioned as the flushing dog, with Dad on stand. It was on an abandoned ranch 10 or 15 miles from Santa Rosa. To see that old place, hills overgrown with manzanita, is to respect the hard work it took when the Italian immigrants cleared the land, made it a home and made it productive.

My job that day was to work along a particular path, so any deer in the neighborhood would quietly move away from me and toward the place my dad stood in wait. There was no venison that day, but I wouldn't have missed that trip for the world. It was the nearest I ever got to seeing a side of my Dad he seldom showed me.

I'd heard the stories. Dad loved to tell them. I loved to hear them. There was the time Dad and Uncle Johnny went hunting. Walking in past a hunting camp they stopped and visited for a few minutes. The campers, there a week, hadn't so much as seen a deer. Dad and his brother hiked another twenty minutes. Dad spotted a buck, drew down and shot. At that moment, another shot rang out. "Hey that was mine" Dad said.

Johnny agreed Dad had his buck, but "You got yours. I've got mine." Two happy hunters walked back past the hunting camp a short time later carrying two beautiful bucks. And, I assume, being envied by some very frustrated hunter/campers.

My brother Dan and I went trout fishing once on a stream by a waterfall on St. Helena road. The legal limit was 15. I got my limit (3). Dan got his limit (27). On the average we were legal. They were very tasty. My sport is abalone, but we'll leave that for another time.

E mail Paul Azevedo at Paul@thereactor.net. Check his website at http://www.thereactor.net.