The Year of the Ladder

My dad had a simple solution for all that was bothering me when he put that rickety ole stepladder against the cedar tree, and with a encouraging gesture pointed to the wood line and whispered, “Alright, if the deer come, they’ll come from over there.” With that, Dad headed back through the brush and I climbed atop my throne for the evening.​ I sat through the longest hours of that evening, like a member of the leisured aristocracy in utter boredom, I had only the birds zipping to and fro to keep me occupied. But when the long shadows started creeping across that broomsedge field, I became a member of the “warring aristocracy,” as the enemy, four deer, came squirting out of the Russian privet that lined the field edge and crossed in front of me.​

All the adrenaline rush I got at their appearance quickly subsided as I realized it was just enemy females – they were just does. And, back in them days, does were off limits as per Dad’s orders. About the last fifteen minutes of the day, when it is that hazy ‘gray light,’ across the broomsedge came this big bodied behemoth, with a very noticeable rack crowned atop his head. As the testosterone crazed buck followed the path where the four lovely ladies had previously crossed the field, he came right in front of me. I carefully raised my rifle and got a sight picture that was nothing but fur covered vital organs.​ At fourty-five yards, and with such easy pickings and the buck-fever adrenaline rush that only a 13 year-old boy can have, I threw out everything my Dad had taught me about shooting and just wildly jerked the trigger. It didn’t matter though, the buck ‘mule kicked’ as he leapt into the air, a sure sign of a good hit, and he whirled and bolted for the wood line he had just came from.

I sat there, fighting for oxygen (how long had I been holding my breath?) and stared at the spot in the wood line where I thought I’d seen the buck disapear, and tried to figure out what had just happened.​ In less than a minute, my dad’s head came popping through the brush and he immediately began interrogating me about what had just happened. I burst into a wild, incoherent stream of psycho babbal and frenzied gestures, as I tried to convey the story to my dad. He began chuckling and calmly said, “Well, alright then, lets go look for blood.”

With a calloused hand reassuringly gripping me around the shoulder, Dad and I inched along slowly, straining our eyes, searching the through the leaves in the glow of my Maglite at the edge of the woods. In the heat of the moment, I hadn’t paid attention to the exact spot where the buck went into the woods and this caused us a little trouble finding the blood trail. And, I got a stern talking to about the need to pay attention to details. All that aside, the evening was saved when Dad brought out his headlamp and began searching by himself, as I stood there out of the way, half ashamed at myself.​ Then he said, “Hey boy, right here is blood.”

With those words, all was right with the world once again. A few yards further and we spotted one crimson spot in the leaves, this became multiple spatters and a few yards more was a puddle. Then, in the yonder glow of the headlamp beam, an antler in the leaves appeared.​ In one great leap I set upon the carcass of the buck, and immediately began assessing my trophy. It was a nine pointer. Sure, it wasn’t a monster buck, but it was the biggest deer I’d ever killed around the house up to that point and, more importantly, no other boy in school had shot a deer that big. As I knelt there admiring my buck, that ole calloused hand firmly squeezed the back of my neck and Dad said, “Congratulations ‘Bucky-Doodle,’ that is a nice buck and I’m proud for ya.”​ 

We got my hero shots on film, for posterity’s sake, before we went through the time honored tradition of field dressing and dragging the deer back to the truck. I strained so hard trying to load that buck in the truck bed by myself. And of course, you know I left the tailgate down for the forthcoming victory lap through town.​ My little “triumph” ended at the local gas station/sporting goods store, where I recounted the story in painstaking detail for anybody that was unlucky enough to make the mistake of asking to hear it. But they were all good sports and hung on my every word, or at least pretended to enjoy it. All the older men, and my dad’s friends, all knew the gravity of the situation and the importance of what had just transpired in the life of a rural, 13 year-old boy.​​ “The Year of the Ladder” was my 8th grade year. It is a hard time for most kids, and it was especially hard for me.

I chafed under the overbearing authority of nagging female teachers. I didn’t fit in with the other kids. I wore cowboy boots to school, tucked my shirt in, and would sometimes stroll down the halls in a Confederate Columbus Depot shell jacket, with a butternut colored kepi, too. I wanted to talk about history, hunting, politics, and farming. The other kids wanted to talk about smoking weed, the latest rap video, skate boarding, and partying. I didn’t get the other kids, and they didn’t get me. For crying out loud, I listened to Ted Nugent and rambled on incessently about how Gary Rossington and Allen Collins were the two best guitar players to ever live. To say that I was “uncool” at a time when all the kids wanted to be kool, is an understatement.

So, I went through that period of my life a little unsure of myself. I’m sure some galaxy brained, shitlib, and lab coat wearing busybody would have taken one look at me, and my social life, and pegged me for a potential school shooter. I reckon I could see where they could get such an idea, even if it was wrong.​​ I wasn’t one of the “cool kids” that talked about shitty rap music, MTV and doing drugs. I had something else. I had that little wooden stepladder, out in that field. I had a dad that, even though he worked like dog, always made time to drive me out to the woods. He spent time with me.​ Things that went on in that field gave me something else, something that “fitting in” never could. It gave me a positive self-image. It gave me a sense of accomplishment. It gave me a sense of self-worth. I had a place to go, to get away from it all, and to begin the process of self-discovery. And, I had a father to show me all that his father and grandfather had showed him.​​ 

In the practical sense, the ladder gave me some social credit amongst my peers as well. Yeah, I wasn’t athletic, I wasn’t cool, and I wasn’t slick with the ladies. But, I killed the biggest deer that season. What is more, while my dad was on a late season archery hunt in South Dakota, I busted a little six pointer off that ladder. I tracked it, I drug it, I gutted it, and with the help of my Grandpa and his truck (I still can believe he let me put that bloody ass deer carcass in the back of his immaculately kept pick-up truck), I hauled it to our shop, hung it, and skinned it all by myself. None of those other kids did, or even could do that. But I did, and I got to brag about it. “Yeah, I busted that big buck.”

You know what else? All the dudes thought it was cool. They liked to hear the stories about hunting. They didn’t just like my stories, they actually wanted to hear about it. It was the one area where I was actually the cool guy.​​ “The Year of the Ladder” was a pivotal moment in my life, and the experiences gained there really helped me stay grounded. Maybe I experienced some “rite of passage,” or discovered some surrogate activity, or something else, who can say? Whatever it was, that little stepladder and my Dad saved me.​​

I look at society and I look at the decay. I look at the loss of purpose and meaning, and when I behold this great “unravelling,” I cant help but wonder about the boys out there that were just like me. I’d bet all the money in my sock drawer that there are a lot more boys out there today feeling like I was back at that age. On top of that, I’ll gurantee you that they need “The Year of the Ladder” twice as bad as I did.

Do they even have the ability to have one? Will there even be the ability to have one if we let traditions like hunting, fishing, working on ole cars with Dad, and tending a garden die out? What should we do to fight back?​​ As for me, I know what I’m going to do; I’m going to call my little cousin and ask him if he wants to go turkey hunting this year. I’m going to work as hard as I can to get him a gobbler.

I’d say he likely needs his own “Year of the Ladder” and I’m going see that he gets it. That is my way of fighting back.​​​ 

– By The Gentleman from the Cane