Every father wants to pass on the lessons of life that he has accrued, as well as traditions that have personal value.

Author: Frank Ross

Andrew Ross has a big grin on his face after bagging his first buck.

Ever since my eldest son, Andrew, screamed his way into the delivery room, I had visions of hunting and fishing trips where we would share great adventures together.

Slowly, almost without notice, the years have slipped away. When he was old enough to tag along I would take him fishing, but hunting was his passion, and guns were a more serious step. Under my careful tutelage, he graduated from BB guns to a .22 single-shot rifle, but it didn't take long for him to realize that my rifle would take game a lot farther than his.

As most boys his age, he had a love of horses that was burning a hole in his pocket. Almost weekly he asked for permission to spend the money he had earned by selling his 4-H lamb. We board three horses, which he could ride, but they aren't "his." After a couple of years of doing horse chores and watching as their owner brought in the costly stream of oats and hay that it takes to sustain these glorified mulching machines, he decided that having a horse to ride without the expense was a pretty good program. He still wanted to spend the money, for the heat in his pocket hadn't subsided, but now his attention was focused on increasing his firepower.

At the age of 12, he completed the mandatory hunter's safety course and immediately started salivating every time we passed the gun library at Cabela's retail store. Rather than make the decision for him, I made him do the research necessary to determine what type of gun he would buy. He gathered the ballistic information from Cabela's gun guru, Wes Dillon, and studied the various trajectories, muzzle velocity, and bullet energy calculations. His challenge was one that all hunters in the west face when selecting a caliber. If you don't have the financial ability to own a different rifle for prairie dogs, coyotes, antelope and deer, is there one caliber that will cover all the bases?

After doing the paperwork, Andrew made what I considered to be a wise decision. He selected the Remington 700 BDL in a .243 caliber. While it may be a little heavy for prairie dogs, it is an ideal gun for varmints such as coyotes and a perfect load for the wary antelope. With proper shot placement, it is certainly large enough for both whitetail and mulies that roam our part of the western Nebraska panhandle. Once the selection process was completed, and the rifle bought, I did my part and donated a Tasco 4-16x40 scope and a box of Remington 80-grain ammo to the cause. The next day, the scope was mounted and bench fired. We soon had a tight group and were ready to take to the field.

Application was made for a deer permit, and during the long wait for the draw, we set out on several outings to find out if he could hit something besides a black dot on paper. A large prairie dog town near our home was taking over a pasture and the landowner was happy to have us thin out these pesky pups. Andrew passed this test on the first shot. Now all we had to do was wait for the draw and November. After numerous anxious trips to the post office, the long awaited permits arrived, and we were set for opening day.

I had obtained permission from two different landowners where I felt we had an excellent opportunity to see some deer, and with his "either sex" tag, a doe was certainly a good prospect for his first outing. I tried to prepare him for the possibility of not filling his tag, with stories about the number of years that I had hunted as a youth before getting a shot. Based on the enthusiasm in his eyes, I could see that he thought that was my story and his would be different.

Opening day came, and we were in place a half-hour before first light. The temperature was a crisp 29 degrees, and I wondered if his will to hunt would be eclipsed by his desire to be warm. I positioned myself against a tree a few feet behind him and blew softly on a grunt call. Just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon three does came in with curious ears, searching for the source of my calls. Andrew slowly turned and started pointing in the direction of the does and once he was sure that I saw them, he raised his rifle to his shoulder. We had discussed the decision he would have to make should the opportunity present itself. I watched as he lined up his aim on the largest doe approximately 100 yards away. She was standing at the top of a small mound of dirt in a perfect oblique angle. As I waited and watched both players in this drama, the does decided to move on and rather than call again, I let them walk toward a distant cornfield.

Andrew forgot that he was going to shoot.

After they were gone Andrew stood up and said, "Dad, did you see them? Man they were big and so close". "Yes, they were," I replied. "You didn't shoot. Are you holding out for a buck?"

His answer was both encouraging and amusing. With excited words punctuated by a lot of arm waving, he relived the moment. "When she stopped, there was an old fence post right in the line of fire. While I was waiting for her to step forward enough to make a clean shot, I forgot that I was going to shoot. Guess I blew it," he said.

Although I told him that he had made the right decision, waiting for a clean shot, he was concerned that he might not get another chance. He really wanted his first deer to be a buck, but not getting anything was also a concern that haunted him. We hunted the rest of the morning at the same creek but didn't see any more deer. I tried to reassure him that there was still plenty of time left, as we drove to our backup site for the afternoon's set. No deer that afternoon, or the following day consumed the fruitless weekend.

Since I had not taken any vacation for this hunt, we had one weekend left and for him it seemed like a lifetime before the workweek paid out. Saturday morning found us in the same position, expecting the deer to come down the same path. We waited, called, and waited. A big buck had been seen in the area several times before the season started, but as the sun crept higher in the cold morning sky our prospects were looking bleak. After two hours of sitting, we were both very cold and stiff.

I stood up and asked him if he wanted to walk the edge of the stream we were hunting to look for fresh sign. The cold had gotten the best of him. He was up in a flash, and we were off at a creeping pace, stopping to look and listen every few steps. When we had walked to the end of the property we had permission on, we stopped and before starting back Andrew looked at me and said, "I should have shot that doe on the first morning."

After walking back to our stand, I leaned my rifle against a tree and bent down to tie my bootlace. As I was tying the lace, I caught a glimpse of movement and looked up to see a group of 12 deer standing stone-like and staring at us. While they were about 200 yards away, it was a good distance for his rifle, and his scope was set to handle it. From my vantage point, they all looked like does. With my rifle leaning against the tree, if we were going to take one it was going to have to be his shot. I was afraid to move for fear of spooking the herd. I looked up at Andrew and whispered, "There's a dozen deer straight ahead of you at the end of the tree-line. Take your best shot!"

Raising his scope to his eye, he excitedly whispered, "It's a buck!" Seconds later the loud report of his rifle clapped like thunder, and I watched as the last deer in the group folded and dropped like an anvil. While the remainder of the herd ran at full speed with their white tails erect, Andrew began shouting and jumping up and down. "Hallelujah! I got him," he shouted. "It's a buck, it's a buck."

After reminding him to make sure his safety was on, we started making our way toward the fallen animal. Without my binoculars, at that distance, I had not seen any antlers, but with my eyes that was not unexpected. Once we closed the gap, I could see that he was right. Sticking above his head, I could see at least three points. Upon closer examination we discovered that he had made a beautiful shot on a very large 3x0 whitetail. The left side of his rack had been broken off either in a fight, or during the severe hailstorm we had during the summer. A large number of deer with broken antlers had been reported and speculation was that the hail had caused the damage. The hail had varied in size from golf balls to baseballs, across an area that stretched from Scottsbluff, NE to Sterling, CO.

Regardless of the reason, and the lopsided rack, Andrew was one happy youngster when I left him to bring the truck back.

We field dressed the buck, and it took both of us to load it into the truck bed. Andrew relived the moment at the check station, when we returned home, and every time he could get an audience. While we were driving home, I asked him if he was still regretting not taking that doe on opening day? "No way, I got a nice buck!" he said.

He did get a nice buck, but more importantly to me, I had filled my tag by realizing a dream that had been nurtured for 13 years.

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