I had just slid my coffee thermos back into my hunting pack when I heard a branch crack to my front and left. It sounded like a cannon shot in the stillness of the crisp, cool morning. The sound came from the old skidder trail just south of me and I recalled the pile of slash and wood scraps mounded at the end of it.
Another crunch told me that something heavy was heading my direction, now just 100 yards away — or closer. I was perched in my ladder tree stand, tucked into the edge of the mixed spruce and fir wood line. My position overlooked an abandoned landing that once served the network of overgrown logging trails around me.
My focus was a scent wick hanging 75 yards across the clearing from where I sat. It was directly between me and the last crunch.
It took no small effort to control my breathing as I slowly mounted my Marlin 336 lever gun. I could feel my blood pressure elevate slightly and swore I could hear it pulse through my ears. My heart started hammering away inside my rib cage when the eight point buck broke cover and lifted his nose to the hanging wick.
He was in a perfect broadside position with only his rear end still hidden in the opposite wood line. I thumbed the hammer back to full-cock and settled the front iron sight on the vitals. Estimating the range, I dropped the front sight between the buckhorns on the rear of the barrel and felt my finger start to apply a steady, even pressure.
The big whitetail leapt and kicked, bounding into the wood line. I heard branches snapping and twigs cracking as he fled and then the final crash as he piled up. The one thing I never heard, however, was the report of my tried and true .30-30 Winchester.
It was 30 minutes into my first deer season as a Maine resident and my hunt was over.
I took a deep breath and sat back against the tree I was lashed to, admiring not necessarily the beauty of the rifle I was holding, but its history. As I thumbed the worn, walnut stock, I felt every nick and gouge in the rifle earned over its 40-year hunting career. The faded bluing around the receiver was another testament to long days carried through the deer woods. I also recalled how this special rifle came to be mine and the promise I made to a hunter’s widow years ago.
Nadine worked in the florist shop I patronized in the small town I hail from in the mountains of northeast Pennsylvania. Before every holiday and trips my wife and I made west to visit with my mother-in-law, Nadine would put together the flower arrangements for me. She was my favorite of the three working at the florist — her creations were beautiful and always well received.
I also knew she was a widow from the years I visited the flower shop. She was supplementing her Social Security income with part-time hours and tips at the florist. Her husband Ed had succumbed to a massive heart attack some years ago and Nadine found herself suddenly and unexpectedly, going it alone.
Ed was an avid sportsman, traveling across the country to hunt and fish. Nadine knew I was also a dedicated hunter and fisherman and loved telling me stories about Ed’s hunting exploits, both good and bad — some downright hilarious. I’d find myself chatting with Nadine about Ed’s trips long after I’d paid for my flowers.
I enjoyed the stories and I knew talking about her late husband’s passion was a way for her to keep close to him. I was more than happy to oblige — I love talking about hunting, especially deer hunting. Remember, this was in Pennsylvania where deer hunting is king. You know it is serious business when schools close for the opening day of deer season.
It was during one of our last deer hunting chats before I moved to Maine full-time that Nadine brought up the subject of Ed’s gun collection.
Nadine explained to me that no one else in her family hunted or had any interest in Ed’s hunting guns after he passed. She never thought twice about having guns in her home when Ed was alive, she said, but having them there and living alone made her uncomfortable.
She told me she thought about selling them to a gun store but realized strangers becoming the new owners of his prized collection wouldn’t be what Ed would have wanted. He certainly wouldn’t want those guns forgotten in the back of some crowded gun safe either — he would want them put to use.
Nadine offered me a deal on the collection that I couldn’t refuse. There was one condition however: I had to promise to take them afield once in a while and let them see daylight during hunting season. It was the easiest promise I ever made.
As I was loading the last gun in my truck, Nadine touched my arm and told me, “That one was his favorite deer rifle. Ed bought it in 1978. He’s taken a lot of deer with it.” I looked down at the Marlin model 336 lever-action in my hands and could barely fathom the stories it could tell.
I raised my eyes from the rifle in my lap and prepared to climb down from the stand to retrieve my buck. Before I did though, I glanced towards the heavens, smiled and said aloud, “Ed, I kept my promise to both of you — the one I made to Nadine and the one she didn’t know about. Your old Marlin just added another whitetail to its legacy.”
