The Old Hunting Knife

It is just an old hunting knife. Handmade with a finely shaped steel blade, a brass guard, and a layered handle with alternating clear and brown Plexiglas, capped with a hand shaped aluminum butt. I was told that it was made by my father’s brother, my Uncle Dick.

When it was crafted is unknown, the keepers of that bit of family history are all gone now. But I do remember dad saying it was given to him before he left home after his enlistment in the Army Air Corps in 1941. I would like to believe that dad carried it through his twenty-seven combat missions over Germany and France in 1944, but that is pure romantic speculation on my part.

Regardless, the knife is now mine and has become a treasured keepsake. Just when the knife was given to me by my father, I cannot recall. It wasn't a monumental ceremony, a passing of the torch by any means. Just one day it was mine.


I have come to believe that the knife held special meaning to my father, because his name is neatly engraved in the blade. Unlike myself, he was never one for collecting things, other than the stack of once read Wall Street Journal’s that would accumulate on the top of his antiquated paper cutter, which sat at the front of his little print shop in our garage at home, as if the information contained in that mountain of back issues may at some time in the future, be of immense value.

Dad was not a hunter. Not that he condemned the practice; he just chose not to participate. Mother told me it was due to the near miss incident with a shotgun, while duck hunting along the tailings pond near their home in Magna Utah, with my Uncle Dick. In addition, Dad was not one for roughing it in the outdoors. His idea of camping was in the comfort of a motor home.
In retrospect, I believe, that dad had seen enough shooting and killing while in Europe during the war. He never fully elaborated that fact, but given my father’s kind nature, I am confident that played a large part in his choice.

My love for hunting was fostered at an early age by another uncle, and a cousin. I was fortunate to spend many of my summer breaks from school, at my Aunt Jalna and Uncle Karl’s farm in Shelley Idaho. Elementary school children way back then, were not subjected to the torture of year round school, we actually had the whole summer to be kids.

My cousin Reed and I took advantage of those carefree summer days. We swam in the canal, rode bicycles, which eventually transitioned to motorcycles, up on the butte, and explored the lava rocks around the edge of "the project", which was the section of ground Uncle Karl farmed with his three brothers.

The lava rocks are the natural home for “Rock Chucks”, a furry varmint, who love eating the crops planted along the edge of the "lavas". Rock Chucks are perfect game for a couple of young boys with 22's trying to perfect their hunting abilities. Timid little buggers, at the sound of anyone or anything approaching, they slide undetected into their dens in the jagged rocks. To successfully dispatch this nuisance to farmers, one must learn the art of stealth, a silent stalk is required, as well as patience. Working ones way into position on the high rocks above their habitat, then waiting, for what seemed like hours, for the critter to emerge from their hidden home. Then POW, let him have it!!

Of course practice was required to develop that "dead eye" necessary to quickly dispatch any desired target. Hours upon hours, and box after box of ammo, were spent with BB guns, then 22's and eventually shotguns.

My love for hunting was firmly established, when Reed and I became old enough to accompany my Uncle Karl on my first pheasant hunt. The anticipation, as we heard the opening of the gun cabinet, and saw the box of 12 gauge shells sitting on the kitchen counter. Leaving the warmth of the house, for the crisp fall air, well before sunrise. My cousins Weimaraner , Smokey knew what was ahead, and was waiting at the back door.

It seemed to take forever for the morning light to greet the fields, we would have to wait until 1/2 hour before sunrise, for the season to officially open. Smokey crisscrossed the cut grain field, nose to the ground, then stiffened, with tail at a point. The command to "get him out" was given, and Smokey jumped! I jumped, as the field seemed to erupt, with the startled bird heading skyward in a straight up flight, then away from the danger, only to fall lifeless to the ground as Karl shouldered, than shot. It was amazing for a young man to see!

A few years and some needed growth were necessary before Reed and I could handle the recoil of the 12 gauge, but we soon joined Karl on the hunts. Bruised shoulders from shooting box after box of shells, and tired legs and feet, did not dampen our enthusiasm. Over the course on many trips to Idaho, that scene would be repeated, as Reed and I took to the ditch banks and fence rows.

As a senior in High School, the lure of the mountains called to me. With some buddies from school, and a 30-06 borrowed from my neighbor Mr. Keiser, I went on my first deer hunt. Being successful on that first hunt affirmed my enjoyment of all things hunting.

It wasn't until after I was married, and out of the house, that I purchased my first firearm, as dad did not allow guns in our home. It was a Model 70 Winchester, in 270 Caliber. I was invited by my father-in-law, Richard Cheever, to join him at his favorite hunting area. I suppose it was a gesture of acceptance into the family, and I enjoyed many years and have fond memories hunting everything from rabbits to deer with him and his sons Scott and Joe.

With a move to our first home, I met Talmadge Robinson, and his son Lane. Both shared my love of hunting, and for 27 years now, we have hunted both deer and elk together, in the mountains of Utah. And enjoy a special friendship forged from our trips to the mountains each fall.
So what does this long monologue have to do with an old hunting knife?

As I mentioned, the how and when of my coming into possession of dad's hunting knife has faded from memory. I imagine he felt that because of my love of the hunt, I should possess the treasured implement, handmade, and given to him as a gift in love from one brother to another.

Each fall as hunting season arrives, the knife comes out of storage with the rest of the hunting gear. Initially, I wore the knife on my belt, in the sheave that has held it since new. As the leather has aged, the possibility of it tearing, and becoming lost in the woods, has caused me much concern. I now carry it, protected from loss, in a fanny pack with the other essentials required for a day in the woods.


The old knife has been an essential part of those fall trips into the wild. It has been used to cut rope, to hack away branches obscuring the view of the perfect hillside that some unsuspecting animal my cross, to cut up food for dinner, and even whittle sticks around a shared evening camp fire. And yes, to do the necessary cleaning and skinning of a freshly dispatched animal. Yes, essential.

But for some reason this year it meant more. I arrived at Elk camp a day or two later than the others. It was late afternoon; three of our party had spent the day chasing elk, and had returned to camp tired and hungry. We seldom hunt on our own, generally we stay together and work as a team, looking for animals, and directing each other as necessary.

Being late afternoon, and feeling fresh and ready to go, I decided to drive to a favorite look-out spot, that after a relatively short hike up a ridge line provides an unobstructed view of three different canyons. In years past, with the assistance of a good pair of binoculars, we have spotted elk from this vantage point, allowing us to "put them to bed" in hopes of locating them the next morning. That was my intent when I left camp.

Given the lateness of the day, I had not planned to really "hunt', so I traveled lighter than usual. Leaving things like rope, extra water and snacks behind.

I paused and caught my breath after cresting the ridge line and began scanning the surrounding hill sides. It was difficult this year because the leaves on the aspens and oak brush have stayed much longer than usual, providing dense cover for skittish animals. After several minutes, and seeing no movement, I switched to a second canyon, again with no success.

The third and closest canyon I reserved for last, as it is the canyon I had just driven up. After just a few minutes of watching, to my surprise I saw movement, a quick look through the binoculars confirmed it was a spike elk. Surprisingly he was alone, as elk generally travel in herds.

As any hunter of large animals will confirm. Hunting is fun, right up until you drop an animal. The fun ended!! Knowing it would soon be dark, I quickly went about the process of field dressing the animal. Over the years of harvesting elk, the process is much easier when done with assistance. This would not be the case, as I was alone on the mountain, and help was still awhile away.

Opening my pack, like a trusted friend, there it was. The old knife that had accompanied me for so many years. Knowing I needed to quickly get to the unpleasant but necessary task at hand, I was alone in my thoughts as I unbuttoned the sheath.

As I pulled the blade from the aged leather, and read my father’s name engraved there in the blade, I was struck by those feelings of loss for a departed loved one, that seem to always come at the most unexpected moments.

I was on the side of a mountain, with a dead animal that required my attention, as I thought about my father, and how much I miss him. I chucked through my tears at the irony of it. All I could do is wonder what my Dad and my Uncle Dick would think of me putting the approximately 70 year old knife to its intended use, while reminiscing about them.

Perhaps my father entrusted me with his hunting knife, knowing I would think of him fondly from time to time. Or perhaps not…. But either way, this year it worked Dad.

I am not sure yet, who will be the caretaker of the simple hand-made hunting knife, once I am gone. It's not like passing on the family fortune, but I intend to instill upon whoever it might be, just how special it truly is, and that they will be the keeper of its history and a charge to pass it along as well.

I hope that with its use, they remember the legacy of my father, and perhaps a fond memory, or two, of me as well.......