Caseknife
Well-known member
I lost my father in February and we just had his Celebration of Life last Sunday. He will be missed greatly. This is what I read for his memorial last Sunday:
I grew up listening to hunting stories, waiting patiently every Sunday each fall, in anticipation of new tales.
Tales of Two-Buck Ridge, Needle Rock, Sled Camp, Big Hole, the Dark-Side, and many other places to secret to name. A few of those places back in the 50’s garnered signs, Lotsabul and Lotsabuc. Lotsabul was named not because of the long-winded campfire stories, but for the fact that they killed 4 bull elk, the first 3 were big 6 points and the last was a spindly spike, they pulled camp cuz the elk were getting too small. I was fortunate to find the Lotsabuc sign still nailed to the tree over 40 years after it was created by the campfire with a bent nail heated in the coals.
Some of Dad’s hunting stories didn’t involve deer or elk; it may have been a wayward hare. One day during elk season many years ago, Dad was standing motionless on a well-worn game trail, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement at ground level, along came a snowshoe hare in partial winter coat. The animal stopped at his Bean Boot clad feet, his nose twitched a few times, and then promptly hopped over his toes and continued down the trail. That was the highlight of his day, and it was a success even though he saw no elk.
The experience of being one with nature is what Dad instilled in us kids. He taught us when traveling in unfamiliar country, to stop and look back every now and then, because when you start for home, the picture is different and you don’t want to get turned around.
As a youngster trailing after Dad in the brush up the SF Taneum with a fly rod, I couldn’t figure out how to weave the long fishing pole between the alders ahead of me like Dad could so easily, so I tried carrying it behind me. That didn’t work so well either, pretty soon the reel started spinning and I had to go back to retrieve my fly caught on a branch. Most of my fishing rods also had repaired tips because of car doors. It was quite the experience following in Dad’s footsteps growing up.
Material things didn’t mean much to Dad. He never had to have the latest design of anything. That may have been due to the fact of being raised during the Depression and having to raise 5 kids on a Cat mechanics wage. The gear he did have always seemed to get the job done, somehow, someway. The Winchester Model 70 that he carried for over 60 years was an example of that. He liked the way it was easily packed around, the trigger was like breaking glass, and it seemed to get the job done. The collector value has been lost, but not the memories, if that rifle could only talk. I think that I’ll have to take it elk hunting to let it tell me a few of those stories this fall.
I grew up listening to hunting stories, waiting patiently every Sunday each fall, in anticipation of new tales.
Tales of Two-Buck Ridge, Needle Rock, Sled Camp, Big Hole, the Dark-Side, and many other places to secret to name. A few of those places back in the 50’s garnered signs, Lotsabul and Lotsabuc. Lotsabul was named not because of the long-winded campfire stories, but for the fact that they killed 4 bull elk, the first 3 were big 6 points and the last was a spindly spike, they pulled camp cuz the elk were getting too small. I was fortunate to find the Lotsabuc sign still nailed to the tree over 40 years after it was created by the campfire with a bent nail heated in the coals.
Some of Dad’s hunting stories didn’t involve deer or elk; it may have been a wayward hare. One day during elk season many years ago, Dad was standing motionless on a well-worn game trail, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement at ground level, along came a snowshoe hare in partial winter coat. The animal stopped at his Bean Boot clad feet, his nose twitched a few times, and then promptly hopped over his toes and continued down the trail. That was the highlight of his day, and it was a success even though he saw no elk.
The experience of being one with nature is what Dad instilled in us kids. He taught us when traveling in unfamiliar country, to stop and look back every now and then, because when you start for home, the picture is different and you don’t want to get turned around.
As a youngster trailing after Dad in the brush up the SF Taneum with a fly rod, I couldn’t figure out how to weave the long fishing pole between the alders ahead of me like Dad could so easily, so I tried carrying it behind me. That didn’t work so well either, pretty soon the reel started spinning and I had to go back to retrieve my fly caught on a branch. Most of my fishing rods also had repaired tips because of car doors. It was quite the experience following in Dad’s footsteps growing up.
Material things didn’t mean much to Dad. He never had to have the latest design of anything. That may have been due to the fact of being raised during the Depression and having to raise 5 kids on a Cat mechanics wage. The gear he did have always seemed to get the job done, somehow, someway. The Winchester Model 70 that he carried for over 60 years was an example of that. He liked the way it was easily packed around, the trigger was like breaking glass, and it seemed to get the job done. The collector value has been lost, but not the memories, if that rifle could only talk. I think that I’ll have to take it elk hunting to let it tell me a few of those stories this fall.
