I had missed a trophy 12-point while hunting on the island at Cook’s Bend in Alabama a few weeks before with my old .30-30 lever action, and Pop made it clear that I wouldn’t be taking that rifle to the woods again. He let me use his .270 Weatherby on our next hunt, and I didn’t waste any time putting it to use on this young buck. Sometimes the memories are much larger than the deer, and I remember this hunt just like it was yesterday even though it was yesteryear.

“…and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

The buck made his way stealthily from the canebrake and as he slipped silently along the trail that crossed the slough, I eased the rifle to my shoulder. The heft of the weapon certainly felt different in my hands than my .30-30 lever action.

A few weeks earlier, I had awakened in the same stand from a mid-morning nap to behold a trophy buck feasting on the abundant acorns that littered the leaf-covered humus of the slough. At the time, I remember thinking that I was dreaming, however, after my second shot and subsequent miss, my dream became more of a nightmare.

I could only watch as “Old Mossy Horns” bounded away and I dreaded having to tell Pop what had happened. “How did you miss twice?” he asked, with a puzzled look on his face. Actually, his words were a bit more seasoned, and as we made our way back downriver to camp, he began to advise me on exactly what I needed to do.

“You need to get rid of that brush gun and get a real deer rifle,” he said with a laugh. G and I were just starting out and, needless to say, a “real deer rifle” wasn’t within our means at the time. Pop knew that as well and, as he always did, he set out to solve the problem.

When we left the camp that week, he took my rifle with him. He intended to take it to the range to see just how off my scope actually was. After he finished checking the rifle’s zero and dialing it in, he stopped by the house to show me the target.

The pattern on paper looked more like a connect the dots puzzle than a “tack driving” rifle pattern, and he made it very clear that the next time that I went into the woods I would be taking one of his rifles. In fact, we actually met at the range that week so that I could shoot his rifle and familiarize myself with it.

He had selected his custom .270 Weatherby. Without a doubt, it was the finest weapon that my hands had ever held. I settled the crosshairs of the Kahles riflescope on the target, squeezed the trigger, and beheld a perfect bullseye. Just to make certain that my shot had not been a stroke of pure luck, Pop had me chamber another round and repeat the process.

The second shot cut just enough paper adjacent to the first hole to reveal that I had made two near perfect shots. With that he smiled, reminded me of the value of a good rifle, good optics and good ammo, and we headed out.

When the buck paused in the middle of the slough to feed on the acorns, I settled the crosshairs just behind his shoulder, let out about half of my breath which lingered like fog in the cold, crisp air, and squeezed the trigger. He dropped instantly.

I hadn’t thought about that morning on the island at Cook’s Bend or about Pop’s rifle until this past weekend. Our nephew Billy is graduating from high school this week and his Nana wanted to give him one of Pop’s guns as a graduation gift.

I can think of no better or more fitting gift for the young man who is his grandson and namesake and who, like his Pop, loves hunting, fishing and the outdoors. However, as my wife will surely attest, decisions of this magnitude do not come easily for me. When Nana asked me to help her pick out the gun, I could really think of nothing else.

Opening Pop’s gun safe is, for me, like opening a window into the past. As I stared into it, the memories associated with each gun and, in turn, each hunt with Pop, came rushing back. I had, at that point, decided which gun that I thought Pop would most want Billy to have at this point in his life, and when my eyes landed on it, they filled with tears.

Through those tears, I could see me standing over the buck in the slough behind the lake that cold morning smiling as I beheld him, and I could see the smile on Pop’s face when he pulled up in the boat to see me alongside the buck with his rifle rested across it.

I could also envision Billy resting the crosshairs of that Kahles rifle scope on a big buck as he stepped into a food plot this season here at home or someday steadying himself and breathing as he settled those crosshairs on a giant bull elk as he stepped from the aspens into an open park in a Colorado meadow.

Sunday, my eyes were again clouded with tears as Nana presented Billy with Pop’s rifle. Through those tears, I saw a familiar smile, the same smile that had greeted me that day from the boat at Cook’s Bend. I knew, without a doubt, that I had chosen correctly.

Until next time, here’s to graduations and new beginnings, here’s to the giants that shape us, their heirloom rifles, and the hunts to come, and here’s to you B. Uncle B and Titi are so proud of you!

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.