Born to Fish by Tim Gallagher

Author:Tim Gallagher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

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The Deerslayer

With the money Greg was earning from his work in the electricians’ union, he started going on trout-fishing trips with his friend Bear Judkins from college. Greg had introduced Bear to fly fishing, and now he couldn’t get enough. They traveled together to rivers and streams all around the Northeast and also sometimes headed west to the famed San Juan River in New Mexico and to Colorado. They often camped along the Kennebec River in Maine. On one of their trips driving through Vermont, they found a cabin along the White River near Bethel and decided to split the cost and buy it together. In addition to being avid anglers, they both loved snow skiing, so the place was perfect—right on a river and close to Killington Ski Resort.

“We became regulars at Killington and would ski about a hundred days a year there,” said Greg. “Whenever my union jobs finished and I got laid off, I would go up there and work for the steak house at Killington, beating up people who were out of control. Killington owned it, so I had a free season ski pass. So it was skiing in the winter and fly fishing in spring.”

But in autumn, as the chill of the changing seasons settled over the land, Greg’s mind always turned to hunting. He had seen a great buck several times in early fall, always in the same area—a small meadow in the woods along Highway 107, at the edge of the Green Mountains, just a couple of miles from his cabin. It was big, easily topping 200 pounds, with the best rack he’d ever seen on a whitetail. He couldn’t help thinking about it as deer season approached. This was his buck, and his alone. He knew he would be there waiting at the edge of the meadow as dawn approached on opening day.

Several friends stayed at his cabin the night before and planned to go deer hunting nearby, but Greg didn’t tell them about his buck. He got up before anyone else and stood drinking a cup of hot coffee, staring out the window as the first snow of the season fell in the darkness, accumulating quickly on the ground outside. Everything was ready: his rifle was clean and oiled; his scope sighted-in. As his friends slumbered, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and stepped outside.

It was a black, moonless night, and he hadn’t brought a flashlight, but he knew the way by heart. He hiked a couple of miles down the small two-lane highway, then turned at the place where the forest opened into the small meadow the buck frequented. Snow was falling heavily, thick and fluffy, as Greg made his way carefully into the woods. He sat quietly at the edge of the meadow, waiting as the first rays of daylight began illuminating the forest. All of his senses were tuned perfectly to his surroundings—his ears, his eyes, his very spirit. The woods seemed to pulsate like a single organism, living and breathing around him and within him.

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