New Traditions
The West Virginia hunt started back in the late 70s. My cousin Barrel’s dad, my uncle, was killed in a farming accident during a blizzard. My uncle Jerry took Barrel to West Virginia that year to do something different while spending time together. Over the years more people started going, including myself. As people got older and stopped going, there was always someone younger to step in. It’s the revered cycle of life.
After almost 20 years, the unexpected happened. Uncle Jerry died on the very mountain we hunt. He was only 50. Barrel, Brent and I were there. The saying misery loves company was never more apparent. The experience drew us closer together, and the WVA hunt became almost sacred.
A few years later, our Uncle Gary, Brent’s dad, started coming to WVA. Being older, he didn’t venture far from the road but loved hunting and being outdoors. When walking out of the woods, I’d sometimes smell cigar smoke. I’d follow the aroma and see Gary sitting on a log, enjoying the last light of day, a big grin on his face.
He truly loved the outdoors. During Pennsylvania’s deer season, he’d sit all day, dark to dark, in his tree stand every day of the season. Farmer tough, rain, sleet, snow, cold or wind didn’t deter him. And he made the ride to his stand on his ATV. He did this up until last year when he died at age 80 after having dinner with my cousins.
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