Grandfather’s Gift of a Fog Buck
My grandfather, Paul, died more than 20 years ago but he gave me the gift of a love of the
outdoors in fishing and hunting—and this year, one of my best bucks ever in the woods of
Georgia.
I never actually got to hunt with my grandfather—by the time I was old enough, he could not
physically handle the challenge. However, my earliest memories of my grandfather were the
days we spent deep sea fishing off the coast of New Jersey’s Atlantic Highlands where he was
known as “Doc” from his former days as a dentist—and also known for taking almost every
weekly pool for the biggest fish. When I was four years old, he took me fishing for the first
time, and I returned the favor by taking him fishing for his last time at age 84.
Even though we never hunted together, he filled my head with stories from his days hunting in
Germany before the Nazis expropriated his land and took away his firearms. He and my
grandmother barely made it out in 1939 and were among the fortunate few (along with my
parents) to make it to freedom in the U.S. I marveled at photos of his old dental office with its
walls lined with European Mount deer antlers.
Once I began hunting, while living in Vermont, my grandfather was similarly interested in my
experiences—and always had a word of encouragement or tip from years gone by. One
particular story he told was a season long chase of a large buck that he had been pursuing for
several months after spotting the deer in the spring. The season of 1937 was drawing to a
close, he asked my grandmother if it was alright to take one more chance at finding this buck.
She agreed and he was off. The morning was extremely foggy and my grandfather could barely
see 25 yards. He made his way to an old ground stand and sat, hoping for the sight of the buck.
My grandfather was about to leave in frustration when he heard a noise. He looked across the
fog‐covered forest when suddenly a patch of sunshine shone through. Standing in the only
area not covered in fog was the buck he had been chasing. One shot from his old rifle and the
deer dropped—and the fog closed in again. It took some searching but the buck was his at last.
Fast forward 70 years later and I am sitting in the woods in Taylor County, Georgia in early
December, hunting with my long‐time friends Cliff, Brad and Glenda Brannon. I was not even
supposed to be hunting deer that weekend—I had gone to Florida on business and drove to
Georgia for a quail hunt with clients. Cliff came along and suggested we stop by the deer lease
on the way back to Atlanta for a late Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning hunt. Since I
already had my license (I’ve been hunting with the Brannon’s for 17 years) I agreed. I did not
even have my own rifle along.
Sunday morning after our normal discussions about who was going to hunt where, I ended up
in the Dove Field Stand, a beautiful location to watch the sun rise—which I could have done
had it not been so foggy. I sat in the stand marveling at the shadows created by the fog and
increasing sun when a large doe strolled into the food plot. As she browsed for 45 minutes or
so, I thought about what a fabulous season it had been for me. I just returned from South
Texas the week before, where I took a nice 10 pointer with split brow tine, two does and a
turkey. The year coming to an end, I thought of my daughter’s recent graduation, a good year
in business and the completion of my first book.
As the fog played tricks with my eyes, I thought of my grandfather and how much he would
have loved hunting the Georgia woods and wondered how it looked that day he got his big fog
buck. I also thought of how proud he would have been of the nice 10‐pointer from Texas.
All of a sudden there was a slight movement to my left. I stared in disbelief as all I could see
was a large set of antlers walking to the edge of the food plot. I didn’t even need to raise the
binoculars to see the massive, chocolate brown rack standing 75 yards away. I reached for the
borrowed 7 mag, put the deer into the sights and pulled the trigger just after the monster
stepped into the field broadside and looked straight at me. He fell on the spot and I sat there
stunned. In 17 years of hunting in Georgia I had never shot or encountered such a buck—and
there he was lying on the ground in front of me.
My daydream of my grandfather had been stimulated by the fog. I could barely believe the size
of the 9 point buck which weighed 176 pounds and scored 130. I only came back to reality
when the radio chirped and Cliff, in a nearby stand, asked if I had shot. I stammered that I had
shot a big deer—which was met with disbelief—at least until Cliff and Brad showed up with
the truck. This deer had a gray face, was at least 4 ½ years old and had never been seen on the
lease before, either by a hunter or the trail cameras.
I truly believe the buck had been sent by my grandfather—and I thank him always for the deer
and for giving me the love of the outdoors.
By Mark Gabriel
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