Hub & Walter

As a young man, I always enjoyed the movie Secondhand Lions, which highlights the adventures of two brothers, Hub and Garth, from their youth. In short, their nephew is left in their care, practically abandoned. At first, the old men are rather cold to the young man, Walter. But as he grows curious about their past, they start to embrace his presence. They shared tales of their days as war heroes in the deserts of Africa, captivating tales of beautiful women who could steal any man’s heart, and treasures beyond measure. These were men’s men, the real deal. In the movie, they even raise a lion and take on a gang of rowdy young men causing trouble at a local restaurant. They lived on their own plot of land, doing what they wanted, when they wanted, and how they pleased.

In my adolescent years, I was awestruck by the movie, but my idea of grand adventures and untold treasures were all based around the outdoors. I wanted to climb every mountain in search of trophy bulls and survive on nothing but what was in my pack for weeks on end.

It never crossed my mind while watching this film that I would walk into the life of my own version of these adventurous brothers.

Fast forward a few years, when I turned 16, I gained access to a whole new world. My dad and I split the cost of my first truck, and I was off–spending weekends hunting and fishing wherever I could, always making it back home Sunday night in time for school on Monday (a rule my mother strictly enforced). Eventually, the stack of cash I had saved up from small jobs, birthdays, and holidays was all turned into fuel, which burned way too fast in that old truck.

After spring turkey season during my freshman year of high school, I realized I needed a new way to earn some money. I’d heard about a farm nearby that grew fresh berries and hired hard working high schoolers for fieldwork. A classmate gave me the phone number of the lady who ran the farm, and I set up an ‘interview’ to see if I was a good fit. She invited me and my neighbor, who was my age, over one evening to meet her and her husband. When we arrived, she motioned for us to sit at her dining room table, where she explained the job expectations and the details of the possible summer job.

As I made my way to the table, I noticed a figure sitting off to my right in a room that looked like the inside of a hunting cabin, added onto the house. Though small in stature, the man sitting in the corner commanded the room with his quiet, ever-watching presence. His expression was stern–like an enforcer, if you will. My eyes traveled from him to the walls around him. He was seated in his kingdom, surrounded by North America's greatest big game trophies: elk, moose, pronghorn, whitetail, mule deer, and even a bighorn above his television. My face lit up with awe at the sight of it all, as he sat on his throne of his leather recliner, I saw his stern gaze soften. His eyes smiled, as if in that split second, he knew we shared the same obsession.

I couldn’t resist detouring into his room before making my way to the dining room table, where I was supposed to be making a good first impression for the job. As I stepped inside, the man rose from his chair and extended his hand. “I’m Steve Lucas,” he said. I introduced myself, and he smiled, looking up as if encouraging me to take another look at the trophies lining his walls. Without saying much more, we began swapping tall tales. That was, until his wife, Evelyn, stepped in and reminded us why we were really there. Steve just called out, “They’re hunters, Evelyn; hire them.”

I spent every summer of my high school career working on that couple’s farm. I worked alongside Steve and his coon dog, Hunter, as Steve taught me the basics of carpentry, how to operate all the implements for his tractor, and his favorite rule for tackling big projects: K.I.S.S. – “Keep it simple, stupid,” he’d say with a grin. I still whisper that to myself from time to time, along with some of his other favorite sayings. They worked us hard, but also rewarded us with much more than just our wages. Evelyn would start our days with fresh-baked goods and always sent us home with jams and jellies for our parents.

Steve would reward me with as much time as I could sit still in his cabin room, recounting his life full of hunts while I sat, mesmerized by the adventures this old man had lived. He’d tell me about mountains so steep that he stood at the base, trusted 7mm Remington in hand, trying to calculate the best route– when out of nowhere, the bull moose he’d been pursuing strolled right past him on an old logging road. He’d recount days following elk herds across a ranch where the owner, half-drunk, would good-naturedly tease new hunters about the size of their kill. But my favorite story was always about his bighorn ram. He was very proud of drawing the once-in-a-lifetime bighorn tag for Washington State. He described the hike high above the pines, where the sheep lived. He and his buddy had spotted a group of rams heading their way and hunkered behind two boulders, Steve ready to shoot and his buddy spotting for him. His friend told him to shoot the ram at the back, but Steve, thinking there were only two, shot the second one. After the shot, he watched as a larger ram bolted away, spooked by the shot. You could tell he was proud of his ram with very respectable curls, but the thought of the bigger one haunted him from time to time.

As our friendship grew, I would hunt waterfowl with him at his pond until one winter, when he fell ill with a heart condition. After that, I made it a point to visit the farm every day after school, to stay with him for a while so his wife, Evelyn, could have a break. I would sit with him in his kingdom, listening to his stories. He’d tell me about his time in the Coast Guard, his days working on a crab boat in Alaska, and so much more. For four more years, I visited every weekend when I was home from college, but last spring, I sadly lost my dear friend Steve.

These days, I think back on those stories he shared–his hunting adventures, his wonderful wife Evelyn, who was the only woman patient enough to put up with his long absences in the field, and how he was a hero who saved civilians while serving in the Coast Guard. I can’t help but smile now, realizing  I was like young Walter in that movie, running around with an old man on his farm, soaking in the lessons and stories of someone who had lived a thousand lives in the outdoors. Although he may never have known it, Steve was my Hub, and I’ll always be grateful for that. One day I will see my dear friend again, until then he will live through the recollection of his grand adventures through myself and those who read this article.