By Cameron Franz EBS CONTRIBUTOR
Being a
first-generation Montanan, I don’t know as much of Montana as those fifth-generation
families with the homestead still on their property. However, I’m proud to be
born and raised here and very lucky my grandparents decided to move here after
just one visit to Yellowstone.
Coming from
South Dakota, my grandfather was primarily a bird hunter, walking down old
country roads waiting for the familiar beating of a pheasant’s wings. So, when
I wanted to go deer hunting at the ripe age of 12, he was excited but nervous
given how little knowledge he had on the subject. He took the opportunity to
learn with me and start a new chapter in his hunting career.
My
grandfather went with me to every hunter education class, taught me how to
shoot and researched the most deer-rich hunting areas every night until he fell
asleep, with his readers still on. Our first season was full of mistakes but we
had a blast. He’d tell stories of his upbringing and how he learned to duck
hunt with World War II veterans.
When the
next season rolled around, we had a treat in store for us. My good friend’s dad,
John, was a great hunter and had the wall mounts to show it. John had heard of
how green my grandfather and I were and decided to take us under his wing and
go on an antelope hunt in Forsyth. We jumped at the opportunity and sure enough,
John, led us on a hunt I’ll never forget.
John knew
where to be, when to be there, and what the antelope would do. He might as well
have been part antelope himself.
We woke up
before the sun on a clear, cold fall morning. The big Montana sky welcomed us
into the wilderness, cocoa, as I had yet to discover the wonder of coffee, in-hand.
A short truck ride later, John had us low crawl in a dried-up creek bed
until we got to a bend. It seemed like forever for a 13-year-old kid, although
thinking back now, it was probably a fifteen-minute process.
Once there,
John told me to peek over the edge and take my pick of antelope. Shaking with
anticipation, I slowly stood up with my rifle at the ready. As promised, about
15 antelope grazed lazily about 50 yards away. Still shaking, I chose the buck
separated from the herd, aimed, fired and ducked back down.
A little
perplexed, John asked if I got it. I remember seeing a puff of hair through my
scope but wasn’t sure my bullet had reached its target.
“I
don’t know, I ducked too fast!” I replied. Laughing, John stood up and
gave me a thumbs up. I had made a good shot. Grandpa was ecstatic, perhaps even
more than me, if that was at all possible.
It was a
wonderful day. Grandpa and I couldn’t have imagined a better hunt and are
forever grateful.
Over the years,
my grandfather’s health limited him in his hunting, as well as his first love,
fly fishing. But, after every hunt I would still call and replay the day’s
events for him. He’d laugh and give words of encouragement after I got
“skunked” on a hunt. He was the father figure I needed as a young man
and I learned so much from him.
My
grandfather passed last year, but his lessons and stories remain a part of who
I am today. I wear his wool fingerless gloves on a cool day and his stories
play through my mind on every dirt road I drive. I am thankful every day that
he took a risk, and moved to the last best place: Montana.
Cameron Franz was born in Bozeman, Montana, and likes
hunting, fishing and making people laugh.
