When it comes to hunting techniques and shooting, I'm pretty much self-taught. When it comes to influence, however, the following article I wrote the day my grandfather died says it all.
A TRIBUTE TO POP
At some point in nearly everyone's life, another person ultimately will influence one's behavior --- conduct, morals, principles, ethics, whatever. My life was no different. Early on, my grandfather, Luigi Migali, became that person. Everyone knew him as "Pop."
Born in Sicily in 1891, Pop came to New Jersey as a teenager and worked construction jobs for most of his life. He battled through the Great Depression, saved enough money to build a house and eventually retired in the late 1950s.
Although the hunting opportunities close to home were meager, Pop made the best of them. Each year he hunted for deer in the hardwoods and farm fields of upper New York State, and on Thanksgiving Day custom dictated that he and the other men in the family spend a cool, autumn morning searching for a few rabbits, squirrels or upland birds.
The outings into the brightly-hued woods were only for grown-ups; I never went along with them. After learning how to shoot by sniping rats in a local dump, I eventually killed a spike buck on a hunt in New York State. I was 17 then and went with my cousin, who was also 17.
Although I never hunted with my grandfather back then, I spent a lot of time with him; weekend family gatherings and Sunday dinners typified Italian traditions. Because I was the first and only grandson, Pop might have played favorites. I'm not sure, but I do know we were always close.
Pop moved to Arizona with my parents in 1960, and my wife and I followed a few months later. At the time, he was already in his 70s. I had just turned 20. The hunting opportunities in our new home state excited us both. We immediately began a new relationship. In addition to being grandfather and grandson, we became hunting buddies.
During the time we spent together, Pop taught me things my urban upbringing precluded. He showed me the fundamentals -- the proper way to sharpen a knife, pluck a bird, field dress a deer and other things kids who had spent their early years in the outdoors probably had learned before they were 14.
I retained it all. But the philosophical things --- matters dealing with the moral or ethical side of hunting --- are what I remember most. Pop always told me, ?Obey the law and do only what you feel is right. If there's a doubt, don't do it.? I've followed that advice for more than 35 years now.
My two boys started to come along on our hunting trips before they were 10 years old. Their ?Papa? taught them, as well. Sometimes they still acted contrary to what Pop felt was right. When that happened, he corrected them, usually with his favorite short and to the point reprimand --- "Shame on you."
Like most youngsters growing up, my sons and daughter often shed tears as a result of a scolding or an insignificant hurt. Pop chided them with "Big boys (or girls) don't cry." That usually stemmed the flow of tears as it did for me throughout my childhood.
For 15 years, Pop accompanied me on every hunting trip. We scattergunned for fast-flying doves and flushing quail, crawled through the sage for speedy pronghorns, climbed the foothills for the elusive javelina and stalked through the pines for the majestic elk. And yes, we hunted mule deer, too; Pop relished it.
The North Kaibab usually produced venison for the freezer, so it became Pop's favorite hunting spot. I took him there whenever possible. In the early 1960s, Kaibab deer permits came easy. Later, however, after the drawing system went into effect, our hunting trips to the North Rim dwindled. If we failed to get a permit, Pop showed great disappointment.
Pop rarely was sick. The years eventually took their toll, however. A strenuous day in the field often caused him to experience severe leg cramps in the middle of the night. I would then climb out of my toasty sleeping bag and rub the baseball-sized knots in his thighs until the pain subsided. It never discouraged him, though. He endured the hurts rather than miss the thing he cherished most. Despite the fact his physical ability lessened, his love for hunting persevered.
While I spent my days stalking through the woods in search of good buck, Pop sat in one place for hours, waiting for a legal deer to show itself within range of his .30/06. Hoping to spook something toward him, I made a point of ending my day by circling toward his position. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. I could always count on finding Pop where I had left him, usually leaning up against a tree or sitting on a stump, watching and waiting. He marveled at the fact that I covered many miles in a day's hunting.
When my boys were a bit older, they often came along on dove hunts, and the oldest, Keith, even went with us on a Kaibab deer hunt when he was 8. Pop had sliced an apple and made Keith put a couple hunks in his jacket pocket so the smell might keep deer from scenting them. He warned the boy not to tell me because I had already told Pop I didn't think the smell of apples in the Arizona woods was any better than human scent. My son, now in his mid-20s, and I still chuckle about it years later.
Due to family circumstances, Pop moved back to New Jersey in 1976, and quit hunting about four years ago. He then visited every summer, and if I had killed some game the previous fall, he went home with a box of meat. Yet, his heart remained in Arizona; he longed to return for good. Last July, he got his wish.
His stay was brief. On October 12, 1985, three months after he returned to the place he loved most, my hunting partner made his last stalk.
Without a doubt, he's probably watching me struggle through this column and saying, "Shame on you. Big boys don't cry."
Pop was rarely wrong. He would be this time.
TONY MANDILE
How To Hunt Coues Deer
