I was going through some old pictures of my dad and grandpa and found several hunting pictures so i decided to post a tribune to not only the fallen hunters i have known but also to everyone who has. I am looking up some websites so hopefully i'll have that soon. Until then anybody who has lost an special hunter(s) in their lifes, please reply and tell us about that person. thank you for all replies in advance
My dad: Gary L Knox: Law enforcment officer for 34 years and an hunter for almost 45
My Grandpa: Paul D. Knox: WWII veteran: Carpentry for 50+ years, not sure how long hunted but long time
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Proud Daddy of Mini Red Hawk
Master of the Poof-B-Gone Pen
The property Dad and I own was bought from the family of my Dad's best freind who owned it before he passed. I've been hunting there since I was 16 (20 years). We've owned it for about 10 years now. It's a rather special place to say the least.
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We were made by God and for God, and until you figure that out, life isn't going to make sense.
If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a civilization, it expects what never was and what never will be.
They are all three still living, my pawpaw is too old to get around much (92), my dad (at bottom) still hunts now and then and my uncle Joe owns a ranch just outside of Dallas.
We were hell on the deer when I was young, we tried to kill every deer in Arkansas but came up a bit short.
My pawpaw told me a story once. Back in the late 30's there were not many deer in Arkansas at all. One day he was out plowing his field when his closest neighbor rode up and told him about 2 sets of deer tracks they found. My pawpaw, his dad, and the neighbors gathered up their guns and some food and set out on a hunt.......based entirely on a set of tracks. To them, the deer represented free meat. They killed the deer on the third day and it was years after that before they saw another one.
During my teenage years in the 70's and 80's, it was hard for him to pass up any deer at all, I guess he was making up for the slim pickings of the past..
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All change is not growth, as all movement is not forward. - Ellen Glasgow
My uncle Earl killed the first deer that had been killed in the Northern neck in 50 years back in the 40's when him and some boys were fox hunting, there was no season on them then because they weren't there (supposedly) then. Between him and Tim, his son, my cousin, they taught me to hunt. They forgot more about hunting than I know today. Once they opened a deer season after that they both limited out every year, they always killed thier first buck on opening day, of course they had been scouting them out from the middle of summer every day until the opening day. My grandfather hunted ducks and squirrels mainly, however he did kill the last known turkey in the northern neck in the 20's. In that part of the country in those days many men like my grandfather hunted to put meat on the table other than fish. He was a waterman and kept a 22 on his boat and would shoot every duck he could with it, in the head to where he wouldn't mess up any meat. Yes he shot them on the water, remember hunting was not a sport then, it was putting food on the table. Did I mention my grandfather could strike kitchen matches at 50 feet with that 22 when he was 70 years old?
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The Tazman aka Martin Price
Proud father of a Devil Dog
I'm sorry this is a long one, but it's my tribute to someone very important to me.
My cousin's husband Mike. He became a part of my life when I was around 12 or 13. My father worked out of state and came home every other weekend, so I was kind of lacking a father figure. Mike filled in.
He grew up in Detroit, but was acountry boy at heart. As an adult, he lived as an outdoorsman. He drove an old pickup named Jaws. He painted shark teeth on the front, and wrote "Go ahead, make my day" on the tail gate. Mike took me to gun shows, gun stores, let me use a .410 for squirrels until I saved the money to buy my own .22 Rossi pump. Later, he helped me buy my first muzzle loader.
We would target shoot at an old dump every few months. Mike would bring a small arsenal; hand guns, high power rifles, muzzleloaders, shotguns, and .22's. He taught me everything he knew about guns and hunting. I got my first deer hunting with him. Mike loved everything outdoors, and he passed a lot of that on to me.
When I turned 18, I moved out of state to go to college. I got married, started working, and didn't hunt for about 12 years. In that time, I learned that Mike had non-Hodgkins lymphoma. It was too hard for me to believe that Mike could be that sick. I went through denial, not calling or visiting him for years. I am ashamed of myself, but I was to weak to come to grips with reality. Mike steadily declined. Treatment after treatment failed. My mother called me one day to tell me that it won't be much longer, so I had better give Mike a call. I still waited, and then my wife and I learned that we were going to have a baby. In a few months, we learned that we would have a boy. Somehow, this knowledge made me face the reality about Mike that I had been avoiding for so long. I called him, talked, let him know that we were expecting, then asked if I could name my son after him. He was silent for a moment (rare for Mike) and said yes.
After Mikey's birth, we went up to Michigan for a visit. We spent the day with Mike, letting him see and hold his namesake. Mike and I caught up a bit. It was so difficult to see the formerly 6'4", 250 pound outdoorsman as a walking skeleton. He was hooked up to oxygen, covered with wounds that wouldn't heal...
But he kept talking about the future: next hunting season, the cabin he was going to build. I am so thankful I came to my senses and spent this time with Mike. He passed a few short months later.
Tribune to fallen hunters
