"One Shot" by Tony Benavidez

To Tony, his beautiful wife Cathy, and the amazing Benavidez family...

Thank you for welcoming us into your lives and sharing this amazing childhood memory. This story shows us that hunting transcends so much more than the mere taking of an animal for food. It provides lessons in life that are not soon forgotten and will forever be cherished. Tony, your Dad raised a good one, he would be proud.

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Shortly after arriving in New Mexico my family and I befriended a couple from our church, Ave and Antonio. They were a much-needed blessing in our lives, taking us under their wing in the new and foreign place we called home.

Ave and Antonio absolutely love life and on the outside are quiet and unassuming...well, Antonio is. Whether it is a new day or a simple refreshing glass of water, Antonio, in his meek and soft voice, is always giving thanks for each and every blessing he receives. As an accomplished music teacher, one would never guess his difficult and wandering childhood working in the fields and orchards of the West, harvesting crops from Oregon to Texas.

Ave, on the other hand, is a carefree and spectacular woman who had a more structured upbringing spending most of her young life in a small rural mountain town, deep in the heart of New Mexico. This made her strong. She is also not shy to express her emotions when she feels the need. When the English quickly turns to Spanish, you know Ave’s spirit is awakened. It’s inspiring to see her in action for her work ethic is breathtaking.

Both Ave and Antonio are the epitome of hard work and discipline, sadly two waning traits in today’s society. When they invited us to visit Ave’s parents’ home on the eastern slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, we couldn’t wait to see the place and meet the people that created our near and dear friends.

The cool, crisp, Labor Day visit lived up to all our expectations. It was a fitting choice of holidays as well for Ave’s parent’s, Tony and Cathy, were the statelier version of their hardworking daughter. The years of hard work were chiseled into Tony‘s kind but rugged features and were clearly expressed in his hearty and welcoming hand shake.

That weekend we stayed in their humble, yet beautifully crafted home, constructed and adorned with wood and rocks from the historic mountain town in which they lived. Cathy worked wonders decorating the place and treated us all to some amazing New Mexican meals. The highlight of the trip, however, was not a gracious helping of green chili enchiladas, nor was it a hand-crafted piece of furniture handed down through the generations. Rather, it was a boyhood memory Tony shared of his father taking him on his first ever deer hunt.

Tony had captured the memory on paper to create a permanence for his story that could not be forgotten or mis-told. It was meant to endure time. As Tony read the story by the flickering light of the campfire, his rich Hispanic accent immediately carried us to a different time and a much different place. A place where family, and traditions, and discipline was constructed of hard work and bound together by love. Tony’s voice occasionally quivered when speaking of his father and we knew he spoke from the heart. It was a story that will hopefully be told for generations to come.

I hope you appreciate Tony’s memory as much as I did.

(Completely unedited. A story told by a hard-working "Man of the Mountains" of his first-ever deer hunt on the Santa Fe National Forest in Northern New Mexico. Thank you Tony.)

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"ONE SHOT"
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In Loving Memory of Miguel Pablo Benavidez

By Tony Benavidez

"I have never been a good deer hunter. In my entire life I have harvested a total of three deer. One doe and two bucks. The doe I harvested a long time ago, when they were still legal to hunt. One buck, I shot along with a friend of mine when we were hunting together. The other buck I shot when my wife, (who loves the outdoors) was hunting with me, spotted three bucks close to a spot we had stopped to rest, after hiking to the area we were to hunt that day. And even though, I was the one who shot the deer, I still feel it was our harvest of the buck, not mine.

But when fall rolls around, and the leaves on the trees turn color, and the cold chill of another impending winter with the nip of cold air at your nose hangs in the air, the love for the sport of deer hunting, that my father instilled in me, stirs something deep inside me, and I cannot keep myself from going back to the fields and mountains my father and I frequented when he was still alive.

My father’s skills for hunting deer were honed at a time when he was still a young man working hard to keep his family fed during the great depression. It was essential that he be a good hunter in order to put wild game meat on the table to add to the diet of his growing family.

I was not born until 1953, and was not allowed to accompany my father in the field to hunt deer until I was ten years old, therefore it was not until 1963 that I began to accompany my father into the field to hunt deer. I was eleven years old, and it would be the second year I would be allowed to go out in the field, that I had the most exciting experience of my very young hunting life. That was the first time I witnessed my father (or anyone else for that matter) harvest a deer.

It was early November and my oldest brother Ben, who was in the army, had come home on leave in time for the deer hunting season. My brother’s visits were always a grand occasion when he came home to visit from the army, and this year there was cause for extra special celebration. My third to the oldest sibling, my sister Clara was also at home with her new husband J. D. (Joseph Donald) Jordan.

Over the next couple of days, I listened and watched as my older brothers Ben, Horacio, Bobby and our new brother in law J. D., along with some neighborhood friends, planned and prepared for a deer hunting/camping trip to a place named Cielito (little heaven).

I, foolishly believing my father would allow me to go along with them on the hunting/ camping trip, grew ever more excited with every detail I heard, as they made their plans. My father on the other hand, who had taken notice of the copious amount of alcoholic beverages that had been purchased for the occasion, and wise to the foolhardy shenanigan’s that would go on at the camp site, when a group of young men full of adrenalin and liquor got together, quietly let me know, on the eve the hunting party was to depart, that I would not be allowed to go along with them. I was, of-course, greatly disappointed. As is the way with children that age, I could not hide my dismay, and with a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders walked away.

The next morning we looked on as the great hunting party with much commotion and fanfare, loaded down with camping gear, departed in a long caravan of trucks. My father seeing the disappointment on my face, lovingly tried to cheer me up, by telling me that he and I would on the next day go join them, and hunt the same mountain where the group was going to hunt.

That night as I lay restless in my bed, I wondered how my father and I would hunt the next day, since we did not have a rifle to hunt with. All the hunting guns in our house had been taken by my brothers and brother in law! I was really questioning my father’s reason/purpose for taking me in the field with him the next day. As I lay wondering in my bed, little did I know my father had already foreseen the dilemma and had gone the day before to the nearby village and had borrowed a hunting rifle from my uncle Vevo Lovato before he had joined the hunting party.

When my father woke me up early the next morning, (and we prepared for what I thought would be our walk in the woods) I noticed a hunting rifle leaning against the wall next to the wood stove. As I looked at the gun, I recognized it as a Remington 30-30 bolt action with a clip to hold extra bullet shells to be quickly loaded into the gun as needed. All the hunting guns my father owned were 30-30 lever action Winchesters. And to top it all off there was no clip for heaven’s sake! Not a good sign! 

Noticing the look of disapproval on my face, my father asked me what was bothering me? I pointed at the gun and asked him where the clip was? He replied that the clip had been lost and there was no clip. Trying hard to not sound frustrated with me he softly reassured me that it only took one well-placed shot to kill a deer. I reluctantly questioned him, what if you miss? My father lovingly looked back at me, eyes filled with years of experience and said nothing in reply. With that, I resigned myself to going with him truly believing that our hunt would be nothing more than a nice walk in the woods to visit my brothers hunting camp. I felt it was a way that my father was using to try and appease my hurt feelings.

We drove silently along the winding road climbing higher into the mountains through the very early darkness to our hunting spot, and arrived at the foot of the mountain my brothers and the hunting party were camping at, well before the sun even began to rise. My father still trying to sooth my hurt feelings, invited me for the first time, to partake of the pre-hunt ceremonial cup of hot coffee, with a shot of bourbon in it, that my father would drink to ward off the cold morning chill. After finishing our cup, we stepped out of the truck to begin our hunt and the long climb up the mountain.

As we left our vehicle, and stepped out into the silent, chilly, dim semi-darkness of the early morning, my mind was not on hunting. I still believed that this was just a way for my father to try and make me, and him feel better for not allowing me to go with my brothers. As we began our walk/hunt my mind wandered. I could not stop thinking, here we are at the foot of the mountain my brothers are hunting, hunting deer with a borrowed gun, that we were not familiar with, and to top it off, it would allow you just one shot, before going to what I thought were great lengths to reload in order to get a second shot. Absentmindedly walking behind my father, thinking to myself surely it will take more than one shot to bring down a deer.

Lost in my thoughts, I rambled along paying no attention to where I was going, where I was stepping, or how much noise I was making. After a short while, my father noticing my lack of attention and the excessive noise I was making as I walked, turned towards me and sternly asked me why I was not paying attention to the hunt. I replied that we were nowhere near the top of the mountain we were to hunt, so there was no need to be attentive or quiet at this time. My father, (who anyone that knew him did not suffer fools lightly) sternly replied, that from the moment we had stepped out of our vehicle the area all around us was the deer’s home, and that it was very possible that we could at any moment encounter a deer.

Almost as if on cue, a doe stepped out of the brush into my and my father’s view. Instantly we froze, and slowly squatted down to see if any bucks accompanied the doe, or were nearby, since it was a buck only hunt. Time slowed down as both my father and I scouted the area around the doe though-rallying for any bucks. After what seemed like a long time the doe finally slowly and silently moved on disappearing like a silent ghost into the morning shadows.

As the early morning light began to get a bit brighter, allowing us to see deeper into the woods, and with my attitude for the hunt readjusted and my senses more attuned to the hunt, we continued our hunt/walk up the mountain to my brother’s camp.

As we approached the mid mountain point of our climb, we once more spotted a small group of deer. Once again, we stood there frozen, and slowly squatted down, all the time keeping our eyes on the small group of deer scouting for a buck as a light breeze made quiet ruffling sound with the last remaining leaves on the oak brush. Time slowed down once more, as we both tried hard to find antlers on one of the animals in the group. Suddenly a slight movement at the rear and slightly apart from the rest of the group of deer caught both my and my father’s attention. As our eyes slowly adjusted to the shadowy light, it quickly became clear to both of us that it was a buck. My father turned to me, our eyes met, making a silent confirmation of what we were seeing. As my father turned back to the buck, and raised the rifle to his shoulder, my heart was racing and pounding in my head. Silently I kept repeating, shoot dad shoot!

Since this was only the second deer hunt of my life and being inexperienced, I did not realize how brushy it was where the deer was standing. Time stood still, as I waited for the blasting sound of the gun. It never came, as I watched the buck stealthily and silently moved back into the shadows of the forest. As my father lowered the gun from his shoulder, I impatiently asked him why he had not taken the shot. My father’s soft reply was that he did not have a good clear shot. I did not understand until years later, that my father knew he would have just one shot, and he would not risk taking a shot that might not hit its mark. My heart sank and my disappointment grew.

My father sensing my disappointment, once more in an attempt to lift my spirit’s, looked at me, smiled, and said that it was still very early, and that we still had a ways to go before reaching our destination.

Once again, we quietly continued our hunt in the chilly, still silence of the early morning. We slowly continued our walk up the steep mountain trying to control our breathing so as not to make too much noise. Nearing the end of our climb, we came to an area where the oak brush and forest ended, and the edge of a meadow began, that stretched all the way to the top of the mountain. Small ridges, like fingers stretched down from the top of the mountain. As we looked towards the summit of the mountain, the closest ridge to us that crookedly came down the mountain was to the East, about seventy-five to a hundred yards away. It ended in a fairly high bluff with a smattering of scraggly bristle cone pine trees scattered at its top. A thin deer trail came down the bluff in our direction.

As we approached the edge of the meadow, with the sun just about to come over the top of the mountain, my father stopped behind a small tree and we crouched down to scout the area for deer. As we crouched there for a short time scouting the area, with the muffled sound of our heavy labored breathing, and thick clouds of vapor trailing off after every breath, we spotted another doe, slowly emerging from the shadows of the scraggily bristlecone trees at the top of the bluff. My father gently tapped my shoulder and pointed in the direction of the doe to be certain I had seen her. We watched silently, as the doe with her head held slightly forward, all the time sensing with her nose and searching with her eyes and ears for any sign of danger, slowly and cautiously made her way down the thin trail towards us. Our breathing slowed down as we continued to watch her in our frozen crouch as she slowly walked past us, just yards away, never knowing we were there.

After watching the doe disappear into the brush at the end of the meadow below us, our eyes returned to the top of the bluff, and the narrow deer trail where the doe had emerged. Anxiously we searched the area where the doe had stepped out of the scraggly bristle cone pines, when, suddenly our eyes caught movement amongst the shadows of the scraggly trees. Our eyes strained, but we were not able to make out more than motion amongst the shadows and trees, moving in the direction of the thin trail. Then just before stepping out of the shadows and onto the trail, the movement stopped, a deer waited there without moving, as if watching where the doe, just a short time earlier, had gone down the trail.

We squinted our eyes into the early morning light, trying hard to see whether it was another doe, or praying silently it was a buck. Long shadows, cast by the rays of the early morning sun rising over the top of the mountain and the rays of the sun themselves shining directly in our eyes, made it hard to see clearly.

Slowly as if putting a puzzle together both our eyes began to piece together the form of a deer. Our eyes met, confirming once more to each other what we were seeing. We patiently watched the deer form at the top of the bluff for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, very slowly, the deer, turned its head slightly, just enough to catch a glint of sunshine on its antlers. My heart jumped and my mouth went dry.

Once again it seemed as if time began to slow down and everything seemed to move in slow motion. I turned to look at my father who already had the gun at his shoulder and was bracing himself against the small tree to steady himself for the one shot. As I crouched there looking at the buck, anticipating the blast to come from the 30-30 rifle, I was nevertheless startled at the sound of the shot. I watched in wide eyed wonder as the buck, in what seemed like slow motion, jumped down the trail a couple of times and then fell in a crumpled pile. I immediately jumped up from our hiding place, gave a loud whooping yell, and started running towards the deer.

My father not even attempting to reload, instinctively jumped up and ran after me. With a few anxiety-filled running strides, my father caught up to me and grabbed me from the scruff of the neck bringing me to a stop. He began to harshly admonish me for doing such a foolish thing, then catching himself, he bent down, and hugging me with all the love, tenderness and patience, that only a loving father (or any loving parent for that matter) can muster, at times when their child is endangered by their own foolish acts. In a calm and steady voice explained to me that one must be cautious when approaching a wild animal that has been shot. He went on to explain that the animal might just be wounded and when approached without caution, could get up attack, hurt, and possibly kill you. As he spoke my father inserted another shell into the gun.

After taking a few moments to gather our composure, we walked together to where the buck lay on the ground. As we got closer to the animal, my father told me to always approach the animal from the rear. He gingerly and cautiously poked with the barrel of the gun at the animal’s rear to make certain that it was dead. The animal made no motion indicating it was dead. Together we moved the animal around and inspected it to see where the bullet had entered and exited, it quickly became evident that the shot had been well placed. The bullet from the ONE SHOT entered just behind the shoulder and went perfectly through the lungs and heart. Making it a quick and merciful kill of a very nice buck, with a three by three antler rack. It would be the first of many deer I would witness my father harvest in the coming years.

I always knew my father was a spiritual person, but when he knelt down beside the dead animal and asked me to join him in prayer to give thanks to our good LORD for a successful hunt, and not just for a successful hunt but for the animal itself, I learned a lesson I have never forgotten. As he quietly spoke, in conversation with GOD, telling him of how grateful he was for allowing him to take the life of a creature He had created. Only after finishing his prayer/conversation with the ALL MIGHTY, did my father recite the one formal prayer taught by JESUS himself, the OUR FATHER. I joined him in reciting the prayer word for word. My father taught me many lessons, but of all the lessons he taught me, this lesson has always been first and foremost for me and I will never forget it.

Having finished inspecting the deer, and giving thanks, my father began my first lesson of the work involved after a successful hunt. How to properly field dress a deer in order to preserve the meat. First, he taught me how to position the deer with the head down slope to drain as much blood as possible from the body and where the deer’s smelly sensors were located on the deer’s legs, and how to remove them. After that he taught me how to do a proper field dressing. Taking his time, he separated the heart and liver from the rest of the deer entrails, delicately removing the gall bladder from the liver, and then placing each one in separate plastic bags he pulled from one of his jacket pockets. Delicacies to be cooked and eaten first.

When we/he finished field dressing the animal, and my lessons, my father pulled a thin but strong rope from another of his jacket pockets, (my father never had a back pack) and proceed to tie it to the deer’s antlers. Then he looked around for a good sturdy piece of scrub oak, about four feet long, and tied the other end of the rope to the center of the oak stick. He then had me hold on to one end of the oak stick as he took the other end and we began the hard job of dragging approximately 150 lb. of weight to my brother’s and friend’s camp. Lucky for us, it was slightly downhill making it easier to drag.

Looking back, I cannot picture a prouder hunter, walking into a hunting camp dragging a buck behind him than I was that morning, as my father and I dragged our deer into my brother’s and their friend’s camp that morning.

In subsequent hunts, my father and I went on together in the years following, he taught me various methods of hunting and packing a deer out of the mountains. Although my father tried hard, to instill in me the patience and skills for hunting deer, I can honestly say that I did not acquire the full extent of those lessons.

Nonetheless, every year, when the leaves on the trees begin to turn color, and the chill of another impending cold winter hangs in the air, and nips at your nose, I feel an incredible urge to go out into the fields and mountains I used to hunt with my father.

Today the memories of those long ago times, sitting at my father’s side on the edge of a high mountain ledge, in the early morning light, of a crisp, cold, fall morning, looking out over canyons and low lands scouting for deer, with the thick vapor of our breaths trailing off after a drink of hot bourbon coffee, and the sun rising over the horizon at our backs, are imbedded in my memory as if it were yesterday.

I have often wondered why my father was so patient, kind and loving to me during that hunting trip. Was it that I was his youngest of three sons and he realized he would not have another chance? Or perhaps age has a way of mellowing a person? Whatever it was, I don’t know, and I don’t think I ever will. What I do know is, it has been a long time since my father and I hunted together and he departed this world, so when this time of year comes around I MISS YOU DAD. :’( Te amo"

Cathy and Tony Benavidez (author)

Antonio and Ave at her father's house in Montezuma, NM.