Wednesday morning, everyone dressed warmly, packed a fried egg sandwich in a coat pocket and headed out to his assigned run. Jerry was in charge of the dogs. He would wait until he was sure everyone was in place, and then he would release them.
Jake filled up the wood stove with three large blocks of sugar maple wood, topped up the side water reservoir, and put enough beech wood into the wood box stove to hold the fire until he returned. He knew that the cabin would be warm and the cook stove ready for cooking breakfast. He would add six or seven small pieces of maple, and the frying pans would be hot and ready to cook.
Jake stepped out of the camp door with both of his sandwiches. Being the cook and having a young hollow leg to fill, there would be lots of room for two sandwiches. Jake realized he was not dressed warmly enough. He went back in, took off his overalls, and put on his fleece-lined pullover, his high school sweater. Jake had just purchased a NDHS sweater at school a couple of months beforehand during “September Spirit Week.” He was sure that it would be thick enough to keep him warm on the run.
Jake’s run was the farthest away from camp as young legs were given the longest distance to travel. The night’s dusting of snow showed every track, like those of rabbits bouncing from place to place. Fox tracks were the most interesting. You could follow these tracks to the end before realizing that the sly fox had doubled back moving left or right with a large jump. A weasel track with its sprocket-like appearance went across Jake’s trail. The prints most hunters did not want to see were a wolf’s or coyote’s. These populations were increasing and many deer hunters would give up a shot at a deer if a coyote was present. The rule for coyotes was SSS: shoot, shovel, and shut up. Beef farmers were losing young calves to smart and nimble coyotes and dead beef represented lost income. Cows have one calf a year, unless they have twins, so a cow’s yearly production could disappear in one meal for coyotes. The quickest way to reduce the coyote population was to watch for a cow ready to calve and scoop up the afterbirth with a shovel before the other cows or farm dogs could eat it. Farmers took the afterbirth, placed it near the edge of the woods and waited to the left or right of a downwind for the coyotes.
Jake was anxious to bag his second deer and make it two years in a row. Last year for his first hunt, Jake was partnered with his Uncle Ken. This was standard procedure in training new hunters, teaching them the rules and procedures of working, hunting, and having fun at camp. Uncle Ken told Jake about an old buck that had been sighted for a number of years but never shot. Each year a buck grows more points on the rack, and as it gets older, each new rack gets another point. Many hunters count the points, which they believe gives the age of the buck. To survive, a buck has to be wise and skittish and avoid being shot or eaten. This old buck, that everyone talked about, would have a record rack for magazines to write about.
Jake, at thirteen, and his Uncle Ken were on their run when the buck appeared. They looked in wonder as this thin old deer stared back at them. Growing out of its head appeared to be a full-grown staghorn sumac tree. Before Jake could take aim, the buck bounded over the hill and was gone. Jake, not knowing that you can never catch a deer, made a snap decision to run after the buck up the rise to see where it had gone. Uncle Ken could not keep up to the young lad and followed behind. At the top of the hill he saw Jake lift his rifle. He heard a shot. The buck had stopped and looked back, as Jake broke over the hill. This fine old buck stayed in perfect formation for a clean shot.
Its head was very old and had a record-breaking rack. The carcass, though, dressed out with less meat than a year-old doe, as the animal was probably in its last year of life. The meat was turned into sausage. Everyone knew that you could not chew that old buck.
A number of hunting magazines picked up the story. Jake, in his first year at camp, had that trophy rack many hunters waited for all their lives. Having the head mounted was an option, but it would be expensive and the head was looking old. Saving just the rack was the best thing in this case. What do you do to follow that record?
Jake, although only fourteen, knew that his success last year had no bearing on this year’s hunt. He was just hoping to get a shot at a buck, and be able to tell the story back in camp. Jake walked to his run and brushed off the snow on an old oak stump. He put a couple of cedar branches under his butt to keep the cold from penetrating. He was prepared to sit there motionless for two hours, waiting, listening, and hoping a buck would head down his run. He heard dogs barking, but they were off his trail, and he could only imagine his dad on the west run getting a good shot. A few moments later he heard a shot that came from his dad’s run, and given the single shot fired, it was either a clean kill or a miss.
Time crawled by and all he could hear were dogs in the distance. It seemed that the deer had decided to go north in the direction of the night’s wind and not to move south. Clearly, the hunt would not end today as one kill would not fill their licence quota. It was time to eat the second sandwich and be patient.
After two hours of waiting, he decided to walk back to camp. He had fun thinking about what would be served for breakfast today. A small breeze had picked up, and snow had started to drift off the branches of the maples, oaks, and elms. The sun caught the crystals. It was quiet and very peaceful. The snow on the ground took the crunch of leaves and twigs out of Jake’s step. The sun started to climb, making it hot. Jake realized that the extra sweat shirt was just too much clothing. His NDHS sweat top was white with blue and gold lettering. He opened the front of his overalls to cool down. Jake did not realize that the front of his overalls formed a perfect white V-shape. All would have been well, but just as he was getting close to camp, he saw two coyotes slink off to one side of the hill. SSS, shoot, shovel, and shut-up, was the rule and he decided to move over a bit to the east to take a shot and drop one of the predators.
Meanwhile, just over the rise, Manley spotted a buck drifting north. He had his gun up with its sight aimed just below the rack. He saw the buck turn and flash its white tail. He was sure it would be a clean shot. He controlled his breath and slowly pulled the trigger.
The bullet hole entered just above the crossbar in the H of NDHS. Jake never felt a thing, falling backwards, as a lead mushroom bullet drilled through his heart and tore out his back.
Manley was in shock when he walked over to the kill site. No buck, just Jake lying on his back. Manley, a sniper in the Second World War, had made a practice of never looking at his completed work. This was the first time he had killed a human and seen the result.
The word of Jake’s death spread through the hunting camps. Hunters from miles around decided that they should pay their respects and attend the funeral. Not everyone knew Jake and his family, but everyone had met or heard of Reeve Manley. Every hunter who picks up a rifle or a bow fears the day that he will pull the trigger and not hit the target that he expects.
The hunt was over for this year.
The Funeral
Saturday, November 7th, 1960.
News of the tragedy spread quickly through town and all the hunting camps. High school students were informed by an announcement on the PA system at 3:14 p.m., one minute before the end of the last class. Jake’s older brother, Harvey, had been part of last year’s hunt, but decided not to go this year, as he needed every last mark on June’s departmental exams, so he could go to university. The vice-principal took Harvey and Rose aside and tried to tell them the news without breaking down. He wanted the brother and sister to hear the news before the principal made the PA announcement to the student body. Everyone was in shock. No one wanted to believe the news.
On the southeast corner on the main street in Norwood stood a hydro pole bristling with tacks and staples. This was where death cards were posted for public viewing. The Norwood Register was the town’s only paper and it published weekly. It told you what had happened and what was going to happen, but it could not deliver immediate news. That news was posted on the hydro pole. Obituaries were found in the