Grace and Works - A Dilemma for Many Christians

I have decided today, to tackle and. hopefully answer, the claims made by many Christians outside of Mormonism, about our beliefs on the subjects of Grace and Works.

Hard core anti-Mormons will not be convinced, of course, because they are already convinced they know more about what Mormons believe than Mormons know about what we believe. So this entry today is really for members of the Church who have been confronted with this challenging issue and might not know how to respond and for non-LDS who might want to know what we really believe as opposed to the claims made by enemies of the Church.

The dilemma begins with the insistence of non-Mormons who make the claims, that the works cannot save us, no matter how many or how good they are, but that only through Christ's grace, we are saved.

They often misrepresent the Book of Mormon passage that reads: "For we labor diligently to write, to persuade our children, and also our brethren, to believe in Christ, and to be reconciled to God; for we know that it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do." (2 Nephi 25:23); by claiming we believe we can work our way into heaven. Frankly the passage itself discounts that notion while, at the same time, underscores the value and necessity of good works in the lives of believers.

When I have encountered this argument I ask if the detractor believes all he or she needs to do is accept Christ to qualify for heaven. They almost always say yes and I always ask them what Jesus meant in Matthew 7:21: "Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven."

The few who are aware of the passage quickly jump to the 22nd verse wherein it reads: "Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works?"

I then repeat my question, asking what Christ meant in verse 21. They never want to answer the question and insist on focusing on the phrase in verse 22 "and in thy name done many wonderful works?"

It then becomes my job to define what doing the will of the Father might mean. I do this by pointing out several of the hundreds of verses where the Savior commands His people to do good works...

Here I will focus on a couple.

In Matthew 5:16, the Lord commands: "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."

Then later, in the 23rd chapter of Matthew, verse 5, we read: "But all their works they do for to be seen of men: they make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments..."

It seems rather contradictory doesn't it? In one place the Lord commands that His people let their light shine through good works seen of men and in another he condemns the Scribes and the Pharisees for seemingly doing the same thing. So what's different?

The answer lies in the context. Matthew 5 is a list of behaviors that Christians should adopt. They are all selfless and all point to the Redeemer as the Savior of mankind. We know this list as the Beatitudes from Christ's divine "Sermon on the Mount".

Matthew 23 is another list of behaviors; but here Christ is exposing the Devil's sermon from hell. He says:

"Then spake Jesus to the multitude, and to his disciples, saying, The scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat:

All therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, [that] observe and do; but do not ye after their works: for they say, and do not. For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay [them] on men's shoulders; but they [themselves] will not move them with one of their fingers. But all their works they do for to be seen of men: they make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments, And love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues, And greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, Rabbi, Rabbi." ( Matthew 23:1-7)

Thus we see the counterfeit nature of works done for self-promotion verses good works done that entice people to approach and accept the Savior.

The question lingers, however, will even righteous works save us?

Mormons know the the answer is no; not alone they won't. Mormons then should say "But neither will Grace alone save us." Because this is what the scriptures teach.

Our detractors generally underscore Paul's letter to the Galations to minimize the importance and even the necessity of good works within the salvic process.

Paul taught: "Knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Jesus Christ, that we might be justified by the faith of Christ, and not by the works of the law: for by the works of the law shall no flesh be justified." (Galations 2:16)

It sure sounds like Paul is say we can't be justified (made clean from sin) by the works of the law. It sounds like it because it's exactly what he is saying.

That same Paul, however, in writing to the Phillipians said: "Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling." (Phillipians 2:12 - emphasis mine)

Wow! It appears we have yet another contradiction. Yet again, we must look at the context.

To the Galatians, Paul was referring to the Law of Moses or the 640 mandated ordinances or works written under divine inspiration by the hand of Moses designed by heaven to lead the Hebrews to Christ if they were obedient and humble. Of these Paul wrote: "Blotting out the handwriting of ordinances that was against us, which was contrary to us, and took it out of the way, nailing it to his cross; [And] having spoiled principalities and powers, he made a shew of them openly, triumphing over them in it." (Colossians 2:14-15)

So to the Galatians, non-Jews, Paul was explaining that the Law of Moses was nailed to the cross or rather, fulfilled in Christ and that, even for the Jews who had not converted, it held no power or value.

To the Phillipians, Paul was speaking of not only the general good works that are associated with Christian ideals but also the ordinances of the New Covenant which begin with the baptism of water followed by baptism in the Spirit or by fire.

Paul wrote to the Romans that at the final judgement, God would "render to every man according to his deeds..." (Romans 2:6). He continues to reaffirm the absolute necessity of good works in 2 Corinthians 5:10 and 2 Corinthians 11:15. James, in Chapter 2 of his book underscores the value of good works and explains that without them, faith is dead. In 1 Peter 1:17, the chief apostle says the same thing and the same doctrine appears three times in the Book of Revelation; 2:23, 20:12-13 and 22:14.

With only two exceptions, the passages in the Bible that indicate that works have no merit all refer to the works related to the ordinances in the Law of Moses. There are 9 of them. In the two exceptions we find the sentiment and doctrine taught in the Book of Mormon; that our works alone cannot save us but the Grace of God makes it possible.

Someone somewhere summed it up very well. She said that Christ baked the cookies and set them on the porch for all who want them but we still have to climb the steps to have them.

Another Day Older and Deeper in Debt...

I am not made of mud but I do carry ample muscle, blood, skin and bone; a lot of fat too. Hopefully my mind is stronger, in the ways that matter, than is my back, with all due respect to Merle Travis who wrote it and Tennessee Ernie Ford who made "Sixteen Tons" famous.

Not only am I another day older, however. Today I celebrate the completion of another year in mortality. Given the illnesses and accidents I have had, a number of the same which I have narrowly escaped and a lifestyle during part of my existence that invited tragedy, completing 57 years is a small miracle.

The world, of course, isn't aware of my existence outside of a few souls who have had the misfortune - some say -to run into me and the few that I have loved and who still love me, even if it's in their own way.

I arose today realizing I don't feel a bit different than I did when I was 56. I then remembered having that exact same thought on every one of the anniversaries of my birth. I pondered the possibility then, that I don't feel today, any different than I felt on my 18th birthday, or my 30th or my 45th. Logic, of course, and the number of medications I take daily, dictate that I am crazy to even consider such things.

What really concerns me is that my thought processes have not matured even if my body has. Inevitably this led me to the "if I could only live my life over again" comment, complete with the "knowing what I know now" caveat.

I determined that I would probably commit fewer sins - at least serious ones - but that I would also be less adventurous. I might practice more on the piano at 9 years old but to what end? All the practice on the planet would not transform mediocrity into genius. I am sure I would be nicer to people but I might be meaner to people who I knew - from my previous life - were going to screw me over. In my teens I would target only the girls who I knew would go out with me and who would not break my heart. But then I would miss the joy a teenager feels wallowing in rejection.

Clearly I would plan better for my mission knowing that my previous last-minute decision was not the most prudent for me or my family financially or spiritually. But I then would miss the adventure of both learning the Gospel and learning to love people of another culture and language because I would be too focused on what I would think is the singular message of missionaries. I certainly would not have won the crown as the champion capirucho player of all time.

I might wait a little while longer to marry after my mission to miss the struggles of poverty but I would sacrifice the experience of struggling with the woman I love even if it was impossibly difficult.

I would not jump out of the security of the Church for a wild ride in the world but I would then miss learning how to live the gospel while repenting, in quiet, lonely ways where my service was unknown even to those I served. I would not get to appreciate the divine rescue of a soul so rebellious and proud as mine.

In the end, repentance allows us to begin again, which in my mind, is far better than a do-over. Stronger is the person who heals than he or she who is never wounded.

There are two events that occurred on May 15th, aside from my arrival into mortality, that have always impressed me. In 1252 Pope Innocent IV issued the papal bull, which authorized, but also limited, the torture of heretics and in 1829 John the Baptist appeared to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery and restored the Aaronic Priesthood. Neither of these two events are related in anyway and I am not really sure why I think they make the day special.

I share this birthdate. although not the year, with several notables. Tenzing Norgay is one and so is Trini Lopez. George Brett and Emmett Smith are also on the list. Most notorius is probably Richard Daily whose son now holds the office he held all those years in Chicago.

I end this post with a poem I happen to like (and I don't like many). It probably has nothing to do with anything heretofore written but I don't care. I like the poem and it's my birthday!

Spring Pools

Robert Frost

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect

The total sky almost without defect,

And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,

Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,

And yet not out by any brook or river,

But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.

The trees that have it in their pent-up buds

To darken nature and be summer woods --

Let them think twice before they use their powers

To blot out and drink up and sweep away

These flowery waters and these watery flowers

From snow that melted only yesterday.

Mount Olympus, Blisters and Dancing in Pain

I have a reoccurring corn on the on the side of my left foot just under the little toe.

I have removed it numerous times using corn pads and ointments, but after a few weeks, it returns, a little angry that I am so eager to get rid of it. My wife says it’s the shoes I choose to wear almost everyday; but I apparently like the shoes more than I hate the corn.

The funny thing about the corn is that it never hurts while I am actually walking for standing but only after I sit down after walking for standing. Last night I was sitting on the couch whining to my wife about being out of both corn pads and ointment. She quietly suggested I go to the office in the rear of the house and look for the backbone I had apparently left there under a pile of junk mail I never seem to discard. It was then I reminded her that I have very sensitive feet because of the damage I did to them in the summer of 1968.

Although she has heard the story enough times to be able to tell it herself, I haven’t told it here… until today.

In late June of 1968, a month after I had turned 17, some of the men in our ward invited some of the young men on an adventure; an 80 mile hike to Elk Meadows which was located at the base of Mount Olympus on the Olympic Peninsula, and back again.

Most of those invited were between 14 and 15, with one deacon just shy of 13 and my friend Don Sampson and me who were both approaching our senior year in high school.

My invitation came late – just a week and a half before the scheduled departure – so I had to rush to get ready.

Each of the 4 men and Don and I would be carrying backpacks weighing over 50 lbs. The 14 and 15 year-olds would carry between 30 and 40 while the lone deacon would carry 25-30. I did not own a backpack what would handle that kind of weight nor did I own hiking boots appropriate for hard, uphill, backpacking, even if the trails were well trod and readily marked. I had a job and, therefore, a few bucks. When I told my boss I was going away for a week, I lost the job and later spent the few bucks on a large, external framed pack and a brand new pair of heavy-duty Vasque hiking boots, a straw cowboy hat that matched the one my friend Don bought and the freeze-dried meals recommended by the organizers whose names, with the exception of Don’s dad, Brother Sampson, I do not remember.

I did not mention to my parents that I had lost my job at Sambos, where I was the fastest cook on their staff… at least I had been the fastest cook on their staff.

My father, always the soldier, suggested I wear the hiking boots everywhere for the week before we left, just to break them in. I do remember considering his advice but rejecting it because there was no way those boots looked cool to girls.

We loaded the vehicles on a Sunday evening and headed for the Olympic National Forest where we camped at a family park at the base of the trail that lead to the park’s namesake mountain and Elk Meadows at its base. We have no tents because of the weight it would add. This was not a real problem because there were lean-to shelters with stacked cot frames for camping.



Shelter was, of course, important when camping in North America’s only official rain forest.

Early Monday morning we arose and ate the last real breakfast of the trip, packed up and shouldered the packs and headed up the trail… The next day at about 10 in the morning and forty miles later, we arrived at our base camp.

There was a small glacier lake in the meadow that, I had been told, held voracious trout.

I am convinced that one of the reasons I was invited at all was my ability to catch fish when others cannot. I didn’t care, however, because there is little I like more than catching fish.



In fact, I would have been in heaven on earth were it not for my aching feet. I clearly should have listened to my father.

By the time we had reached the meadow, I had gone through all the moleskin in the 1st Aid Kit and still had developed 17 major blisters. The bottoms of both feet looked like nothing but a big blister and they hurt like hell with every step.

Fortunately, I had packed some of those rubber flip-flops we used to call thongs before thongs came to mean something else. I wore them the entire time at camp except when I wore no shoes at all.

I found a little relief when I fished, so I fished a lot. I would wade out into the lake a little and let the ice water numb my feet. When I couldn’t feel them at all and they were blue, I stepped out and continued casting until the pain returned and I repeated the ritual.

On the first afternoon in the meadow, I caught at least 40 trout and everyone feasted at dinner. I continued feeding the group for two days as I soaked my feet in the lake.

My socks, which had become red with blood during the hike, were washed and hung to dry in one of the shelters. They never lost the bloodstains, however. I kept them for a long time as a reminder of my stupidity then I threw them away when I realized I had all kinds of other evidence that wasn’t bloodstained.

By the time we were ready to descend and return home, some of the blisters had begun to heal but, despite the bacitracin ointment, several had become infected.

There was no moleskin left so I clinched my teeth, pulled on the socks and the boots, laced them, shouldered the considerably lighter backpack, and whistled my way through the pain, down the mountain trail.

Descending with light backpacks was easier and quicker than was the assent. Though we had to walk a little in the dark, we made it to the cars that evening and headed for the ferry and then back to Seattle. I arrived home after midnight on a Friday night. My parents were asleep and I didn’t wake them.

On Saturday morning my mother saw my feet and had a hissy fit. My dad took me to the dispensary at Sand Point Naval Air Station where the medic who treated me told me that I would have been court martialed if I had been in the service and allowed my feet to get in that condition. My dad, to his credit, suggested the medic treat the feet and leave the lecturing to him.

Though he could have, and I don’t have a clue as to why he didn’t because it was certainly in his nature, he never said a word that sounded like “I told you so”.

That night there was a tri-stake youth dance at one of the stake centers. My mother told me I would be stupid to go and my dad said that, if I did go, I should not dance. I listen ignored my mother and made a mental note to take my dad’s suggestion seriously… and I did… for awhile.

I sat at one of the tables that bordered the gym floor, with a few friends who didn’t feel all that bad about leaving me alone when they danced. My feet hurt but the pain-killers helped.

An hour or so into the dance a girl I did not know came and sat with me. I suppose one of the stake leaders who didn’t know me sent her my way as I looked lonely and rejected. She was cute enough and seemed genuinely nice. She asked me to dance.

I thought about what my dad said and then considered telling her about my feet. I lost both mental arguments and we danced the rest of the night.

Fortunately it was not unusual for white boys to grimace during dances. She must have thought I was a particularly angry dancer because she gave me a bad phone number at the end of the dance.

It took two weeks for my feet to heal but something was different. Every time it got cold outside, my feet would ache.

Years later I asked a doctor about this after telling him the story and he was convinced I had caused the problem when I soaked my feet for several hours for three days in a glacier lake. Perhaps he is right.

It has now been 40 years since that adventure. I might have forgotten it except for my aching feet. Perhaps it is true that all clouds are lined with silver.

Memories I Wish I Had

After the entry yesterday I spoke with my brother-in-law who reminded me of the tales my dad would tell of deer camps in Northern Michigan with the Alpena branch of the Quantz family; his cousins.

This branch of the family was headed by Patriarch John Quantz who was born in Canada in 1837 and died and was buried in the Spratt County Cemetery in 1924, next to his wife Catherine who died in 1917.

His grandfather Melchoir, called Michael by his neighbors, left Hamburg, Germany in 1772 – some say under duress from a pursuing constabulary – and joined the English army that fought against the American rebels in the Revolutionary War. When the war ended, he returned to England where his son Frederick, was born. At some point after that, he returned to the New World and settled in Philadelphia but left for Canada with one William Berczy, known as the founder of the town of Markham, Ontario, Canada.

After establishing the town, Berczy left and lived the rest of his life in Montreal.

At some point after Berczy’s departure, someone in the Quantz family decided to change the spelling of the last name to a more anglicized Quance. Melchoir died – I am not sure when – and is buried in the Buttonville Cemetery.

The area settled outside of the town of Markham by the Quantz family became known as Quantztown, despite the new spelling of the last name.

Over the next few years the several of the children migrated to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan seeking work in the iron mines. When the mines played out, John Quantz went south and homesteaded a farm near the Alpena area of Michigan. One of his sons, my grandfather, William Robert Quantz, left for Iowa when he was in his early twenties to work as a hired hand on a farm. There he met my grandmother, Alma Christiansen, who was working as an indentured servant to pay off a debt her parents made while she was a little girl in Sweden.

My grandfather kidnapped her and they were married and had a daughter and a son before they moved to Comstock, Michigan on the banks of the Kalamazoo River in southwestern Michigan. Their only son, William Robert, Jr. was my father.

The Alpena branch of the family was legend in ours. They were really primitive people. I remember once, when I was seven, we visited their home where we had to use an outhouse for our business… even at night… when it was dark and spooky. I seem to remember their lamps were all oil lamps but I could be wrong about that.

There were stories of moonshine and murders and at least one suicide in that group. These tales made for goose-bump nights when my father told them. Mostly though, he talked of deer camps with his dad, uncle and cousins.

Although I don’t remember many details I do remember a seeing in my mind’s eye, thin, bearded men, who chewed and spat through stained teeth with gaps between them. I saw red wool shirts with green trousers, also of wool and pie pans with beans heated on a campfire; the same fire that heated cast iron pots full of thick, tar they called coffee.

By the time I would have been old enough to go to this sacred camp, most of the Alpena Quantz men were either in or just out of the state penitentiary or found hanging in the smokehouse. My dad had also become Mormonized to the point he would not have wanted me to hang around that kind of riff-raff. What a shame…

What a damn shame.

The Season Has Begun

On April 30th, the Michigan trout season opened but alas, it was on a Wednesday and I was working. I have not found any free time since either and it makes me grumpy.

For some of the things I love, it's the idea that is the most romantic; like deer hunting.

I used to love hunting deer, or better, the society of deer hunters. There is something deeply stabilizing that occurs around Autumn campfires where old men tell stories of the giant deer of yesteryear when they were boys at the heals of their fathers and grandfather.

My first deer camp took place when I was 12. My dad and I had been invited by the Ferron twins to hunt big Mulies somewhere in the mountains of Utah. It was in November of 1963 and our family was en route from Hawaii to my dad's new duty station at Fort Hood, Texas.

The Ferron twins were mostly responsible for my parent's reactivation in the Church five years earlier, also at Fort Hood, Texas where they had both been stationed after being drafted immediately after they served their missions. This was the old "Senior Aaronic" priesthood days and my dad was still a teacher when I was of the age for baptism so Alvin baptized me and his twin, Calvin, confirmed me. They have remained friend since and it was natural for my parents to visit them as we passed through Utah in the Fall of 1963.

I remember riding up into the mountains with Alvin and my dad the day before the opener and meeting with a number of the Ferron clan already camped at the base of a mountain horse path that lead to a large meadow that was legendary for holding trophy mule deer.

Most had campers but a few, like us, had a tent. That night we sat with Alvin around our own little campfire and ate hot dogs. One of Alvin's cousins, however, had brought his wife and they made steaks that smelled delicious. I jumped at what I had perceived as a offer from the wife. My father whispered to me that it wasn't really an offer to us and I felt as embarrassed as I had ever felt before. I remember and re-create the feeling now, just by writing the memory down.

What little sleep I got that night was ended abruptly as I was rousted from my sleeping bag long before dawn. We ate a sandwich and went to the horses.

There were 6 of us and only 4 horses so I and Calvin's 16 year-old brother-in-law walked behind the men on horseback. It was a steep trail littered with steamy piles of horse crap into which I was destined to step frequently... too frequently.

I remember being terrified that I would step off the trail and careen down a 1000 foot cliff that I was certain bordered both sides of the narrow trail.

When we finally arrived at the sacred place, I was told to stay with the young man with whom I had been walking. and sit on a flat rock that overlooked the lower section of the meadow.

At 12 I was too young to legally hunt deer in Utah but even if I had been old enough, my dad would not have sprung for the out-of-state license. The brother-in-law - whose name escapes me - had a beautiful rifle. It was a Savage, .300 magnum. I know now it was way too much gun for the occasion but when I was 12 it was just right. I envied him.

As the sun rose and it became legal to shoot, I looked around and saw what seemed to be hundreds of deer, peacefully walking in the meadow, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Then the first of a battery of shots broke the stillness of the crisp, morning air. I saw large bucks fall and others run off with puffs of dust from missed opportunities in the dirt behind them. My hunting partner had not even raised his rifle to peer out of the scope. I was confused.

When I asked him about it, he told me, essentially, to shut up and that he was waiting for a big buck. I shrugged and shut up.

Within minutes of that brief exchange I saw a very, large buck and pointed it out to him. Apparently he agreed so stood up and began firing away... and missing.

The buck didn't seem to notice and kind of stood there looking around. Why someone else didn't drop him I'll never know, but when I looked at my partner all I saw was that he was literally shaking with every shot.

The deer was between 80 and a hundred yards away, standing on the edge of a small grove of Quaking Aspen. I quietly suggested that he try shooting from the prone position but he ignore me.

I can't be sure, but he had to have fired 10 times. I know he reloaded once and fired a couple of times after that. Still the buck didn't seem to notice. I suggested again that he either lay down or sit down to shoot. This time he because angry and said something stupid.

"If you think you can do any better, then prove it." He handed me the rifle.

I should preface the rest of this part of the story with some informational detail.

A few days prior to the deer hunt, Alvin had taken my dad and I to some wilderness prairie in the southern part of Utah to sight in his 30.06. We all sat on the side of a foot hill while Alvin shot at jackrabbits below. It seemed a good way to sight in a gun.

When it was where he wanted it, he handed the rifle to me and asked if I wanted to try. It would be the first time I had ever fired a caliber larger than a .22. I shot 5 times and killed 5 jackrabbits. My dad even complimented me; but he really deserved the credit as he had taught me how to shoot straight with a .22 and the concept was the same although I never shot a .22 with a scope.

So, back to the flat rock in the meadow and my hunting partner is a mocking challenge handing me his rifle. I took it.

I laid down on my stomach and rested my left elbow on the rock as I shouldered the Savage. I put the cross hairs where I thought the buck's heart ought to be and squeezed the trigger. KERBLAM!!!

The buck jumped once and then fell. My hunting partner grabbed the rifle and headed down the hill toward the buck. I ran to catch up and when I did, he told me to get back to the rock. This time I told him I wouldn't. I wanted to see my first buck up close. That's when he threatened to beat me up if I told anyone I had shot the deer. He was going to claim it as his kill. I didn't say a word.

My dad had seen me head off the flat rock and he and Alvin met us at the deer. My partner immediately began telling everyone how he had shot it. That's when I decided to risk getting beat up.

I know it was not much of a risk with both my dad and Alvin standing there but I was twelve and not all that familiar with risk assessment.

"Actually, he missed it a bunch of times and let me try. I killed the deer." I said, or something similar.

The kid's face turned red and he clinched his fists; not like he was going to hit me but like he was going to throw a tantrum... which he did. It was a great tantrum too.

In it he claimed I was lying but he also threatened to call the game warden and tell them I had killed a deer without a license, etc. etc.

Alvin and my dad just looked at each other and then at me. "Come on, Scottie," Alvin said, "why don't you finish the day with your dad and me."

As reluctant as I was to leave my deer, I did. As we walked to where they had been sitting, Alvin told me that his twin brother's brother-in-law was somewhat of a spoiled brat who had been given everything he's ever wanted, etc. etc.

My dad was pretty silent so I asked him if he was mad at me. He smiled and assured me that he was not. He did say that I should have refused the offer to shoot the deer only because what I had done was technically illegal. I then began to worry that there would be someone back at camp with handcuffs, but Alvin assured me that the tag on the buck would have my former hunting partner's name on it and that it had been killed with a bullet from the gun owned by the same.

The day ended with Alvin, my dad and me field dressing a medium sized buck that Alvin had shot. I helped by not getting in the way while I watched closely how it was done.

The two men lashed the buck to one of the horses and then we all three walked, my dad leading the second horse and Alvin the one holding his deer, back to camp.

In the daylight, I saw there were no cliffs on either side of the trail but that there was a stream that ran on one side, that looked like it would be loaded with cutthroat trout. I remember feeling as near to being a man as I had ever felt before, walking with these two men and being part of a trio of men who hunt.

When we arrived at the camp, there were about 20 deer hanging from stands but the deer I had killed was nowhere to be seen; nor was my former hunting partner. Apparently he had not made it back yet. I remember thinking that he didn't have a horse and wondered if his reputation had kept the other men from offering to help him; help he would have needed because it was such a large animal.

We broke camp and headed home. The next day was Sunday and there were church services to attend. The day after that my family loaded of the station wagon and headed for Texas.

In Texas I was already old enough to hunt deer legally and the next season my dad took me after the legendary whitetails of the Blue Bonnet State. The Christmas before he had given me the Model .94 Winchester that his father had given to him and in November of 1964 I killed my first legal deer.

Because of the Vietnam War, my dad and I didn't hunt deer together again until the Fall of 1968 when we went with my cousin to hunt the Early Winters area in the Cascades outside of Twisp Washington. We camped and hunted for a week. My dad killed a grouse which we ate for dinner one night and I killed a doe for which I had no tag. We ate as much of it as we could and left the rest for the magpies and crows. I swear I saw antlers before I shot.

That was the last time I hunted deer with my dad. 1968 marked the beginning of a long list of lasts with my dad. Vietnam had changed him and I really couldn't find any direction where he was concerned, except away.

So, what's all this have to do with the opened of trout season in Michigan in 2008?

Nothing really, it was a tangent that grew from this comment: "For some of the things I love, it's the idea that's the most romantic; like deer hunting."

Trout fishing is different. While the idea if great, the doing is better. Perhaps because it is something that is best enjoyed alone.

I never saw the Calvin's brother-in-law again but a few years after Deb and I got married we moved to Utah and we visited Calvin and Diane Ferron at their home in Farmington, Utah. I asked about him and learned he had served a mission, returned and got married and was raising a family as he served in the bishopric of his ward.

I have often wondered over the years, if the head of that giant mule deer could be found hanging somewhere in his house and if he ever felt guilty about stealing it from me.