Ed Baustian carried on the legacy of his father, with Bob’s 45-pound Damon Howatt Hunter recurve.

I FIRST MET BOB Baustian in 1985 upon receiving permission to bow-hunt a nice stretch of Platte riverbottom in eastern Nebraska where Bob had hunted for a few years. Such a turn of events can often ruffle feathers, upset a delicate balance of power, or begin a competition. Bob never conveyed any of that, and before long I looked forward to the good-natured ribbing that always seemed a part of our visits.

At the time, I was still a fairly serious distance runner and weighed considerably less than now; Bob probably had me doubled in weight. Thus, I’d give him static about sweating in September. In December, he’d return the volley when I’d wear five or more layers and still be shivering.

“Who’s more comfortable now?” he’d grin as the mercury plummeted.

Many times I’d kill a deer early, sometimes before Bob had even started hunting. Meanwhile, he often waited until the last minute -- December 31 on at least one occasion -- to add venison to his freezer.

He often chastised me for climbing too high into the trees, and I badgered him about his low-flying, homemade ladder stands. Funny how things come full circle as I now hunt close to the ground, even employing some ladder stands.

I also find myself often shunning modern camouflage in favor of the old patterns or even flannel shirts with outdoor colors -- the same stuff Bob would wear. And I’m less affected by the cold 20 years later for the same reason Bob could handle the cold.

We both switched over to traditional bows in the late ‘80s and shared a love for simple things that included far more than archery tackle. I never sensed that Bob was out to impress anyone, a rare gift these days. With the exception of his family, he never bragged about anything.

Eventually we lost permission to hunt that property, but Bob and I stayed in touch, and in April 2006, I was shocked to hear that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and had little time to live. In the past several decades of hunting and fishing, I’ve been fortunate to know some stand-up guys and gals, and Bob was one of them. My friend didn’t deserve this fate, and I was suddenly nostalgic for the days we’d shared in the ‘80s.

As Bob’s health deteriorated, his son Ed visited me several times. Ed was struggling. When his father and I first met, Ed, as a kid, was a frequent fixture in the indoor shooting lanes of the local archery club. Even at a young age, the son tagged along with his father, and it was obvious Dad would have it no other way.

That led to 3-D shoots and then bow-hunts together. Before long, Ed had completed one of my Bowhunter Education courses and was climbing into stands of his own, often with his dad just down the fenceline. When Ed arrowed his first deer, Bob penned “A Father’s Pride” for the Nebraska Bowhunters Association news-letter. His feelings were clear.

As Bob’s health deteriorated, he talked in earnest to his now 29-year-old son about something he’d kidded him about for some while: Ed had always hunted with compound bows, but he was a very good shot with every weapon he’d ever tried, including traditional-style bows and arrows. Bob had always felt Ed could do well with a recurve in the woods, and in the fall of 2006, Dad asked Son if he would do just that -- take one of Dad’s vintage bows out and hunt with it during the approaching fall. Bob knew he would not be there to shoot the bow himself.