6th Prize
Hunting Journal with Weatherby Logo (100 awarded)
Steve Drinnon, Alabama
“March 19, 2003, I lay in a bunk bed at an air base in Bahrain preparing for the inevitable war in Iraq. As night closed in, my thoughts drifted back to a ‘dream’ and a person who helped shape my life. Growing up in Warner Robins, Georgia, I had many influences, but the individual who pushed me to be better than I ever thought I could be was my stepdad, Ralph. Ralph had the difficult task of filling dad's shoes when my parents divorced. Undoubtedly it was difficult to find common ground with an 8-year-old, but somehow he made time and took the extra effort. In large part, the outdoors was the stage he used to teach me life's lessons. In a wise, gentle manner, he would always explain to me the wonders of nature and the intricacies of hunting or fishing even as I would grow impatient and, often times spook the quarry we were seeking.
What I learned on hunting trips with Ralph, I was able to share with friends and family through school age, college, and eventually Air Force pilot training. Despite geographic distance, and a career that often took me beyond the borders of the U.S., Ralph and I would always discuss hunting techniques and tactics over the phone or email and, somehow the magic of the conversation transported us as though we were in the same room. From the first deer I harvested, a small spike, to a 120+ class buck I took while stationed in Kansas; Ralph always was more proud than me. It was the pride of a man who inspired me to follow my dreams, respect what God has provided to us, and become a man for my family. That pride can only come from a dad toward his son.
For the reasons I mentioned above, because of his selfless devotion to our family, and taking the time to teach me lifetime hunting lessons to pass on to my daughter there is no one in my microcosm that I believe deserves more to go on a ‘dream hunt’ than my stepDAD, Ralph. In Bahrain, I kept a stack of North American Hunter and Petersen's Hunting magazines by my rack. After combat started I could still escape to the alfalfa fields of Montana in their well-thumbed pages.
The picture is as vivid now as it was in 2003. I wanted to hunt with my ‘Dad’ on the Milk River in Montana. I always imagined sitting at one of the many lodges such as: Milk River Outfitters or Rock Creek Lodge...discussing patterns and movement from feeding to bedding areas. The anticipation of the following morning, not just the hunt itself, but the excitement of seeing the sunrise in a new venue and feeling the cool wind as it whips through the valleys. Of course, I want Ralph to hunt first, in his success I find mine. Without a second thought he always gave me the ‘better’ spot and I want to return the two-decade old favor. I want to be there as he un-cases his gun and loads the shells in the magazine one at a time until there are three rounds in his well-weathered Ruger .270. I want him to realize this day, and this hunt is about him. It is about the appreciation I have for all he taught me, all the frustration and all of the support. I can see him, graying beard, peering through binoculars at a distant ridge and coming to terms with the vastness of the land and the appreciable size difference of the deer versus Georgia.
In the stand, I can picture those first few deer coming down the well-worn trail nearby, the same way they have for eons because instinct says so. Ralph explained to me early on that deer herds can, at times, be predictable and that the first few are often the yearlings and younger deer. Today seems no different as two smaller deer move into the alfalfa field begin feeding, stopping only to frolic periodically. As the light turns to a soft orange-purple in the west more deer begin moving. With 15 minutes of shooting light remaining the goliath emerges from a nearby thicket, alone with antlers gleaming in the fading light as a crown rewarded for an undetermined number of seasons and hunters. This deer is here for Ralph and I am humbled to share in the moment. As calmly as I have ever witnessed, Ralph raises the .270 and pushes the mauser-style safety through two positions to fire. I can almost feel my heart palpitate through my Scent-Lok clothing, and I worry that it is going to spook this magnificent animal.
Ralph's years of experience tell him the moment is right and his time as a firearm instructor in Macon, Georgia, kicks in as he softly touches off a round. The bullet flies true and the moment is now mine to beam with the pride of his triumph.
I don't think I ever imagined how big his buck would be, but it doesn't matter to me because it never mattered to him. It was spending the time together and being thankful that we had lived to harvest that which we are to be stewards of. I want to be the one to brag on him at the lodge, to tell the story to my daughter...of the deer that Papa Ralph shot. I want her to pass the story on to her grandchildren as I am sure I will to my own. Years later, I want to stare into the photo from that proud moment at the piercing sky, the camaraderie of the hunt and the respect for the animal and re-live the overwhelming sense of awe that only a father/son hunt can kindle. I always figured I would hunt my turn, but, no matter the outcome, I will have already had my dream hunt.
There it is, from a bunk in a small metal trailer in a foreign country to a virtual notebook. My dream hunt is simple; I want to take my stepdad, Dad that is, to Montana. Ralph, me and the Milk River are all the ingredients to make for the hunt of a lifetime (actually two lifetimes). I owe him a debt I can never repay and our family will reap the benefits of him coming into our lives for generations. As I conclude this I realize that, irrespective of the contest's outcome, I have already won by getting to share this with you and think about things that tend to get lost in the hectic pace of life. Sometimes a dream hunt is just that; one that take place in the fields and forest of your mind. Over the years I have been able to hunt with my best friend no matter where I am or what the season is.”