This is a tale of perseverance and Thanksgiving, that of octogenarian Richard Phelps, known to his family as “Ritt,” Vermonter to the core, a throwback from way back.

Phelps claims he’s applied for a Vermont moose permit every year since they became available “and they finally gave me one at prit’near 90.” Or, at least, that’s how he put it to me on the phone this week. He described his good fortune a little differently to daughter Patricia Knight of Jamaica, Vt., telling her, “They waited till I was prit’near dead before givin’ me one.” Phelps is 88.

Well, the permit may indeed have come a bit too late for the average Joe. Problem is there’s nothing average about ole “Ritt,” who daughter affectionately describes as “quite a character.” No sir. Ole Ritt knew exactly what to do with his long-awaited opportunity. He capitalized, put healthy, lean, wild meat in his freezer. Yes, less than an hour into that opening-day hunt, he jumped a 4-point, 412-pound bull and took it down with his .308 caliber rifle. Now it’s all cut up and packaged, providing tasty, salubrious fall and winter fare, high in protein, low in cholesterol. Just what the doctor ordered for an old codger, one with centuries-old Massachusetts Bay Colony blood flowing through his streams.

Phelps admits moose “aren’t as hard to hunt as deer,” but said he was happy to get one on his first try. “This one’s very good eatin’, too,” he said. “The big ones are tough. This one’s tender, very good eatin’.”

No stranger to hunting, Phelps has been quite the deerslayer over a long and storied southern Vermont career. The 10-point buck he shot 20 years ago in his hometown of Readsboro, Vt., scored 146.7 Boone & Crockett points, good for No. 52 on the all-time Vermont Big Game Trophy Award Program record book. Asked what that animal weighed, he couldn’t recall, but he thought it went over 200 pounds. “I’ve shot so many I really can’t remember what that one weighed,” he said. “It was the nicest deer I ever shot,” is mounted on his wall. He was 68 at the time of that kill, no spring chicken.

Phelps spent most of his life in Readsboro before moving to his current address in a neighboring Deerfield Valley hilltown called West Dover. Although he didn’t know the Northeast Kingdom territory where he shot his moose, oldest son Gordon did, because he owns a hunting camp in nearby Sheffield, Vt., where they bunked for their extended-family hunt. “An old fella told us there was moose in there,” said Phelps, “so that’s where we went. He didn’t steer us wrong.” Phelps described the site of the kill as “just above Concord, Vt.,” which means he was hunting in or along the periphery of Victory Bog, a veritable moose haven where the density of the Cervidae beasts may be greater than anywhere else in the Green Mountain State.

Once the animal was dressed out and ready to remove from the heavily logged-off wood lot, Phelps’ grandson drove his pickup truck to within 100 feet of the carcass and his tribe dragged it to the truck and hoisted it onto the bed. “Four of ’em put it right up on the truck,” Phelps proudly recalled. “Didn’t seem to bother ’em much, just got it right up there.”

Phelps had ridden a rocky road this year leading up to his eventful day. First his beloved wife of 65 years, Myrtle A. (Ellis) Phelps, passed away on July 2 at the age of 86. Then he suffered what his daughter called “a mild stroke” about a month later, on Aug. 4, to further complicate matters. Determined to get back on his feet and participate in his first moose hunt, Phelps diligently rehabbed at Physical Therapy Plus in Wilmington, Vt., and took the time to target practice with son Howard of Colrain every Sunday leading up to opening day.

The Phelps descendants accompanying the patriarch on his memorable hunt included son Gordon, grandson Douglas, and great-grandsons Stephen, Brian, Nicholas and Ryan. That’s something most can only dream of: four generations of a family sharing hunting camp. A fifth-generation male is due soon. Stephen Phelps’ wife is expecting a baby boy in February. So maybe ole “Ritt” will have a chance to imprint his love of hunting in his great-great-grandson’s soul, too.

Phelps credits the departed member of his family for delivering him his moose. Yes, he will go his grave convinced that late wife Myrtle “was looking after me” in the woods and at the annual lottery, maybe even guided the hand that pulled his card.

I dare anyone to prove him wrong.