One More Sunset

By Keith Bailey

You may remember an article several years ago titled “Heroes and Legends” about my deceased father—the hero—and Bill Carter—the legend. Bill knew of my father’s passing and obliged to participate in a hunt I would dedicate to my father. Apart from pulling the trigger on that season’s buck, my fondest memory is of Bill and I walking the senderos of south Texas casually talking while looking for arrowheads.

Five years later, in October 2016, I received a call while at work from Kevin, my twin brother. As a captain of a fire station, I have seen my fair share of illness and death, but nothing prepared me for what I was about to learn. I could hear the crack of hesitation in his voice and could tell what he needed to say was difficult. He gathered his courage and said, “Well, I got the tests back and it’s cancer.”

My heart dropped to my stomach and a lump formed in my throat rendering me speechless. From womb to childhood and adulthood, a lifetime of memories entwined. Memories of hunting, baseball, family, holidays, and laughter engulfed me, leaving me in shock. After a long silence, Kevin’s courage grew stronger than my own, “We’ll know more in a few days about the course of treatment and I’ll let you know.” His voice jolted me back and I said without even thinking, “We should go hunting this year. I have a great place. Let’s make it happen.” We agreed.

It turned out he did not make the hunt. The sinister growth on the side of his neck, eating him from the inside out, embarrassed him. He hated the stares. He hated the questions.

But mostly, he hated the reminder things would never be the same. I did not make the hunt either. Kevin died Oct. 30, 2017. His death hit me hard. After watching him diminish by cancer’s insidious grip, I was too stricken with grief to hunt in 2017 or 2018.  Before his death, though, I promised him I would hunt a season in his name.

2019 saw many changes, not the least of which was hanging up my fire helmet for the last time. Retirement afforded me generous time to hunt. Cliché as it is, my brother’s passing forced me to face my own mortality and I realized it was time to make good on my promise to him. So, I contacted Jason Shipman and told him I wanted to dedicate a hunt to my brother. Without hesitation, Jason said he would be honored.

As the heat of summer abated, Jason and I began to talk about the best time to make my way to South Texas. We decided on Oct. 29. I filled the tank of my truck, loaded my gear in its bed and began the four-hour trip. Once past San Antonio, I turned my thoughts to my brother. Wiping tears from my eyes, I rejoiced in the many seasons we shared together. It was what connected us. And in that moment, I could feel his presence urging me on.

With my sights set on the Flores Ranch, I was amazed to find a lush, green landscape where a parched desert of cactus, mesquite trees and sage brush should be. Wet weather is great for antler development, but I also knew the herds had better foraging and could potentially narrow my chances of seeing a good buck. So, I repeated my hunting mantra, “Get in the stand and see for yourself,” and continued the journey.

I pulled through the gates of the ranch and parked at the lodge where Jason greeted me. We discussed strategies for the evening hunt. As we made our way to the back of the ranch, I could not help but think how the area had the look of big buck. Hunters know the look: thick and dense.

As Jason and I walked to the blind, I got familiar with the surroundings. The stand’s bird’s-eye view revealed draws and openings. Deer could be easily spotted entering the senderos, giving me time to ready my shot.

Luck was not on our side that first evening. But there’s nothing like “stand therapy” to put life in perspective. I sat with Jason Shipman, wildlife biologist, for whom I admire and respect. I was dedicating this hunt to my twin brother, as promised. I had recently retired. All at once, the stress and tension of 2019 fell away.

The next afternoon we climbed back into the same stand and waited. The sunset cast orange light across the sky as “deer-thirty” fell across the chaparral. Suddenly, there he was, the big buck we were after. I asked Jason, “Is that him?” Jason whispered, “Yeah, that’s him.”

I was dumbfounded by the buck’s size. I whispered back to Jason, “I believe I want to take him.” Jason just smiled and slowly raised his binoculars to get a better look. Seconds later, I sent a 180-grain bullet from my .300 Win-Mag. Forty yards was all he was able to go before collapsing in the bush.