Drizzt
Member
More important than the hunt
PHILLIP THOUIN
ST. PAUL
So there I was, east of The River, south of Jackson's Field. Deer season. That long-anticipated three-weekend holiday opens much the same way each year: Six o'clock in the woods and the approaching glow of Camp Blight through the trees.
My dad and brother had left behind a Friday of work and school, and I, too, at the tender age of 14, had abandoned the woes and strife of eighth grade for a weekend of chasing whitetail. We added our pickup to the collection of vehicles and stepped out into the soothing drone of the Plant, generating light through the windshield of our temporary home. Grampa's ancient decommissioned school bus had all but two of its seats removed, and in their stead were the most civilized of amenities -- bunks, heater, range and one yellow table.
From the outside, The Bus appeared to have been stuffed with blaze orange coats, the intimate and cozy atmosphere being one of the many perks of Camp Blight membership. The final walk to that door, like the steps to the awaiting bus on a first day of school, asks a man to reflect on his past year and prepare his wits and ambitions for the new season. The meat pole had been raised, expecting delivery of the trophies it would bear.
As I paused, collecting my nimble middle school wits, an explosion of mirth shook The Bus' windows. This was no place for the meek. My previous rookie year had ended in enthusiastic disappointment -- deerless but addicted. I aspired to soon change the former but knew it was a game of luck and probabilities, where even the creased-faced heroes of generations before mine could run the occasional dry spell. Even so, we all get a feeling now and then -- a quiet assurance from somewhere that big things are about to happen.
We clomped up the short flight of stairs into the loaded bus, greeted by a rapturous and rowdy salute, "Aaay!" The whole crew was there, and more, for it was and still is customary for our worthy and esteemed nemesis of nearby Camp Perfect to make a brief though bold appearance Deer Opener Eve to exchange oaths and taunts about the upcoming harvest.
Grampa ushered me to a coveted chair at the table and dumped a handful of peanuts before me. As a licensed and accepted sportsman in this realm of machismo, the shells had better be crushed in the vice of a single finger and thumb and casually discarded to the carpet below.
Late evening, as by tradition, the senior hunters would bestow upon us "younguns" an education in history, humor and vocabulary attainable by no other means than deer camp. These conversations were supplemented with scraps of poetry, anecdotes, advice, and argument, most of which were appended with the cautionary "... but don't tell that to your mother."
Grampa had been a kid in these woods, farmed and raised cows, hunted here, too. He had seen the place grow up, fields fill in with trees, stands of wood clear-cut away, trails form and fade, and he'd seen and hunted how many generations of deer. He could recount an event for any landmark worthy of a name: the Moose Stump, the Bike Trail, the Blueberry Patch, Balsam Island, the Engineers' Camp, the Whistle Stop, the Rosebowl, the Haymeadow. So much wisdom and experience in his time, so many chance happenings and unusual circumstances. It filled a little guy with awe at the fortunes of this man and what he had done and seen. It makes you wonder whom you would've become if not for the words passed over a can of root beer and a tin of sardines in mustard sauce.
Before hitting our bunks, Grampa would inquire our morning stand of choice. As a new and specially privileged hunter, I chose the lucrative Chickadee Stand.
Night was still upon us when I awoke. Choking, gurgling, buzzing sounds emitted from bunks. Frosty air waited patiently just beyond my down sleeping bag, ready to freeze me solid before the wool clothes could take over.
"Daylight in the swamp!"
I loathe and love that phrase.
"It's almost shooting hours."
My dad used guilt to goad us from our comfy environs. Wiser men than me had stowed long-johns above the heater before turning in. A flashlight broke the gloom and then it was on. The mad scramble to be faster than last out the door. The newer hunters obviously needed organizational training, as they dashed up and down the bus, frantically demanding the whereabouts of a stray glove or ammo dump.
An important morning strategy is to time your final readiness with another hunter of similar experience, preferably your younger rookie-year cousin. Despite being armed to the teeth, wielding a new Remington 20 gauge and almost enough slugs for a lifetime of deer hunting, not to mention the folding knife, folding saw, flashlight, waterproof matches, lighter, candle, space blanket, doe tag, binoculars, grunt call, emergency ration of peanuts and compass, I was hesitant.
The trail to the Chickadee Stand was formidable at a predawn hour, probably because of its inhabitation by a plethora of crazed and wily beasts that would slink along its edges, often out of sight, though never especially conscientious of their hideous yelps nor of their stump-cracking footsteps.
Thus, the high value of a wingman for such perilous travels. We headed down the trail to greatness and glory. All too soon, my cousin turned off to the Bus Stop, a ground blind on the border a spruce slough, while I carried on to King's Road alone, a dreary passage through brush and charcoal pines. By the moment the foggy gray clearing and skeletal silhouette of the Chickadee was in eyeshot, I had concluded beyond doubt that whatever had been following me the last half-mile was rapidly gaining ground. It was going to be close. I hastened the pace and hit the ladder at a velocity worthy of the finest of speed walkers. With feet flailing in reach of the beast, my left wool glove propelled me up the rungs, the right grasping the opened shotgun. Oh, sweet sanctuary. The crazed apparition conceded the pursuit and faded again to mere figmentation. A crick in my conscience, I clicked shut the action, recalling fervent lectures of firearms safety instructors and fathers and grandfathers on the topic of climbing deer stands with loaded weapons.
The sapling jackpines had been green, not charcoal, for a quiet two hours. The chickadees, with their light chirping and hopping right around me, had gone from incessant to mildly exasperating. Distant booms echoed of others' better fortunes. An ambitious hunter would have sat out the morning, although I knew what was warming back at The Bus. Never has a day of deer hunting transpired, that I can recall, without the delectable hyper-thin beer-battered pancake breakfast of James S. Brown, my Grampa. When it's about the only decent food consumed until supper, thank goodness he's a good cook.
In keeping of tradition, with breakfast concluded, the morning report was analyzed to predict the present whereabouts of our quarry. A drive was hashed out in a language of terms and places I have yet to fully comprehend, though I was to be stationed at the familiar Gunther's Stand. We sitters left first, to quietly take position along Kermit's Road. Drivers would spread out abreast and push noisily towards this road from the north, pressuring any creatures within to vacate the area. Gunther's stand was low, surrounded by thick jackpine, but in view of a strategic lane heading north several dozen yards. There had been deer sighted in this swath of woods earlier, and they were likely lying low in the thick somewhere.
Four slugs in the magazine tube, one chambered, eyes tensed, and waiting. Fallen leaves scuffed, dead branches cracked under the weight of careless squirrels. They sure sounded big. But the commotion kept my attention and hopes for something bigger. Over an hour passed, and I began to wonder if the drivers had forgotten to pick me up. The woods had become silent, the squirrels had ceased their scampering. Even the birds had shut up.
Unmistakable footsteps now, steadily and slowly from the north, approaching. I reassured my grip on the shotgun, ears trained to pinpoint the prowler, trying to sneak past. Into the open lane beyond the stand, stepped blaze orange. He wore a flat-brimmed cap, tattered coat, black rubber boots, and he carried a short lever-action .30-30 in his fist.
"Well, whatdjya see?"
I stood up to tether and lower the shotgun. Grampa told me to just open the chamber, he could grab it. I got down on the deck, and handed the stock towards him. As he took it, a presence yet unnoticed watched our exchange from the end of the narrow clearing.
"We're starting a new drive, better get you to a stand," he remarked.
I was about to descend the ladder, when -- did it shift, or did we finally sense its critical eyes? We both turned to see the deer, a doe, ears pressed towards us, poised to bolt, stone still. Grampa calmly pushed the shotgun back into my hands. The world became slow motion. I rocked onto my knees, then rose to a half crouch, steadied the sights in the direction of her heart, mine unsettlingly pounding. Short shot, but a chance to make Grampa proud. Her tail flashed white. I slid the action closed, a little too quickly. Vanished, thumping away. We exhaled, then shrugged, then chuckled.
That's how it goes at Camp Blight. It might not be perfect, but it keeps me coming back. Sometimes all you can do is laugh at yourself, because sure as hell the rest of camp will have a good laugh when they hear what happened.
It's been a decade since that particular day, and I still don the deerless title. I attest it's only a dry spell, ready to be dispelled this November, but that's not what deer camp is really about. Some seasons go by without a carcass on the pole, but big things still happen. Traditions keep an annual outline, dependable as winter in Minnesota, but unusual events and heroic feats color every deer season. Even if you aren't Hunter of the Year, in a place like this, you can tell a story from most anything. Meat or skunked, snow or none, even if the furnace fails, I know I have great fortune, hunting in this camp.
And for hosting Camp Blight, for his generosity and wisdom, for countless breakfasts, I want to thank the bus driver, a mentor and gentleman, my Grampa. Without his efforts, we would only be deer hunting. It's more important than that, and so year after year, on the pretense of deer, we'll be there, east of The River, south of Jackson's Field.
http://www.duluthsuperior.com/mld/duluthsuperior/news/local/13013538.htm
PHILLIP THOUIN
ST. PAUL
So there I was, east of The River, south of Jackson's Field. Deer season. That long-anticipated three-weekend holiday opens much the same way each year: Six o'clock in the woods and the approaching glow of Camp Blight through the trees.
My dad and brother had left behind a Friday of work and school, and I, too, at the tender age of 14, had abandoned the woes and strife of eighth grade for a weekend of chasing whitetail. We added our pickup to the collection of vehicles and stepped out into the soothing drone of the Plant, generating light through the windshield of our temporary home. Grampa's ancient decommissioned school bus had all but two of its seats removed, and in their stead were the most civilized of amenities -- bunks, heater, range and one yellow table.
From the outside, The Bus appeared to have been stuffed with blaze orange coats, the intimate and cozy atmosphere being one of the many perks of Camp Blight membership. The final walk to that door, like the steps to the awaiting bus on a first day of school, asks a man to reflect on his past year and prepare his wits and ambitions for the new season. The meat pole had been raised, expecting delivery of the trophies it would bear.
As I paused, collecting my nimble middle school wits, an explosion of mirth shook The Bus' windows. This was no place for the meek. My previous rookie year had ended in enthusiastic disappointment -- deerless but addicted. I aspired to soon change the former but knew it was a game of luck and probabilities, where even the creased-faced heroes of generations before mine could run the occasional dry spell. Even so, we all get a feeling now and then -- a quiet assurance from somewhere that big things are about to happen.
We clomped up the short flight of stairs into the loaded bus, greeted by a rapturous and rowdy salute, "Aaay!" The whole crew was there, and more, for it was and still is customary for our worthy and esteemed nemesis of nearby Camp Perfect to make a brief though bold appearance Deer Opener Eve to exchange oaths and taunts about the upcoming harvest.
Grampa ushered me to a coveted chair at the table and dumped a handful of peanuts before me. As a licensed and accepted sportsman in this realm of machismo, the shells had better be crushed in the vice of a single finger and thumb and casually discarded to the carpet below.
Late evening, as by tradition, the senior hunters would bestow upon us "younguns" an education in history, humor and vocabulary attainable by no other means than deer camp. These conversations were supplemented with scraps of poetry, anecdotes, advice, and argument, most of which were appended with the cautionary "... but don't tell that to your mother."
Grampa had been a kid in these woods, farmed and raised cows, hunted here, too. He had seen the place grow up, fields fill in with trees, stands of wood clear-cut away, trails form and fade, and he'd seen and hunted how many generations of deer. He could recount an event for any landmark worthy of a name: the Moose Stump, the Bike Trail, the Blueberry Patch, Balsam Island, the Engineers' Camp, the Whistle Stop, the Rosebowl, the Haymeadow. So much wisdom and experience in his time, so many chance happenings and unusual circumstances. It filled a little guy with awe at the fortunes of this man and what he had done and seen. It makes you wonder whom you would've become if not for the words passed over a can of root beer and a tin of sardines in mustard sauce.
Before hitting our bunks, Grampa would inquire our morning stand of choice. As a new and specially privileged hunter, I chose the lucrative Chickadee Stand.
Night was still upon us when I awoke. Choking, gurgling, buzzing sounds emitted from bunks. Frosty air waited patiently just beyond my down sleeping bag, ready to freeze me solid before the wool clothes could take over.
"Daylight in the swamp!"
I loathe and love that phrase.
"It's almost shooting hours."
My dad used guilt to goad us from our comfy environs. Wiser men than me had stowed long-johns above the heater before turning in. A flashlight broke the gloom and then it was on. The mad scramble to be faster than last out the door. The newer hunters obviously needed organizational training, as they dashed up and down the bus, frantically demanding the whereabouts of a stray glove or ammo dump.
An important morning strategy is to time your final readiness with another hunter of similar experience, preferably your younger rookie-year cousin. Despite being armed to the teeth, wielding a new Remington 20 gauge and almost enough slugs for a lifetime of deer hunting, not to mention the folding knife, folding saw, flashlight, waterproof matches, lighter, candle, space blanket, doe tag, binoculars, grunt call, emergency ration of peanuts and compass, I was hesitant.
The trail to the Chickadee Stand was formidable at a predawn hour, probably because of its inhabitation by a plethora of crazed and wily beasts that would slink along its edges, often out of sight, though never especially conscientious of their hideous yelps nor of their stump-cracking footsteps.
Thus, the high value of a wingman for such perilous travels. We headed down the trail to greatness and glory. All too soon, my cousin turned off to the Bus Stop, a ground blind on the border a spruce slough, while I carried on to King's Road alone, a dreary passage through brush and charcoal pines. By the moment the foggy gray clearing and skeletal silhouette of the Chickadee was in eyeshot, I had concluded beyond doubt that whatever had been following me the last half-mile was rapidly gaining ground. It was going to be close. I hastened the pace and hit the ladder at a velocity worthy of the finest of speed walkers. With feet flailing in reach of the beast, my left wool glove propelled me up the rungs, the right grasping the opened shotgun. Oh, sweet sanctuary. The crazed apparition conceded the pursuit and faded again to mere figmentation. A crick in my conscience, I clicked shut the action, recalling fervent lectures of firearms safety instructors and fathers and grandfathers on the topic of climbing deer stands with loaded weapons.
The sapling jackpines had been green, not charcoal, for a quiet two hours. The chickadees, with their light chirping and hopping right around me, had gone from incessant to mildly exasperating. Distant booms echoed of others' better fortunes. An ambitious hunter would have sat out the morning, although I knew what was warming back at The Bus. Never has a day of deer hunting transpired, that I can recall, without the delectable hyper-thin beer-battered pancake breakfast of James S. Brown, my Grampa. When it's about the only decent food consumed until supper, thank goodness he's a good cook.
In keeping of tradition, with breakfast concluded, the morning report was analyzed to predict the present whereabouts of our quarry. A drive was hashed out in a language of terms and places I have yet to fully comprehend, though I was to be stationed at the familiar Gunther's Stand. We sitters left first, to quietly take position along Kermit's Road. Drivers would spread out abreast and push noisily towards this road from the north, pressuring any creatures within to vacate the area. Gunther's stand was low, surrounded by thick jackpine, but in view of a strategic lane heading north several dozen yards. There had been deer sighted in this swath of woods earlier, and they were likely lying low in the thick somewhere.
Four slugs in the magazine tube, one chambered, eyes tensed, and waiting. Fallen leaves scuffed, dead branches cracked under the weight of careless squirrels. They sure sounded big. But the commotion kept my attention and hopes for something bigger. Over an hour passed, and I began to wonder if the drivers had forgotten to pick me up. The woods had become silent, the squirrels had ceased their scampering. Even the birds had shut up.
Unmistakable footsteps now, steadily and slowly from the north, approaching. I reassured my grip on the shotgun, ears trained to pinpoint the prowler, trying to sneak past. Into the open lane beyond the stand, stepped blaze orange. He wore a flat-brimmed cap, tattered coat, black rubber boots, and he carried a short lever-action .30-30 in his fist.
"Well, whatdjya see?"
I stood up to tether and lower the shotgun. Grampa told me to just open the chamber, he could grab it. I got down on the deck, and handed the stock towards him. As he took it, a presence yet unnoticed watched our exchange from the end of the narrow clearing.
"We're starting a new drive, better get you to a stand," he remarked.
I was about to descend the ladder, when -- did it shift, or did we finally sense its critical eyes? We both turned to see the deer, a doe, ears pressed towards us, poised to bolt, stone still. Grampa calmly pushed the shotgun back into my hands. The world became slow motion. I rocked onto my knees, then rose to a half crouch, steadied the sights in the direction of her heart, mine unsettlingly pounding. Short shot, but a chance to make Grampa proud. Her tail flashed white. I slid the action closed, a little too quickly. Vanished, thumping away. We exhaled, then shrugged, then chuckled.
That's how it goes at Camp Blight. It might not be perfect, but it keeps me coming back. Sometimes all you can do is laugh at yourself, because sure as hell the rest of camp will have a good laugh when they hear what happened.
It's been a decade since that particular day, and I still don the deerless title. I attest it's only a dry spell, ready to be dispelled this November, but that's not what deer camp is really about. Some seasons go by without a carcass on the pole, but big things still happen. Traditions keep an annual outline, dependable as winter in Minnesota, but unusual events and heroic feats color every deer season. Even if you aren't Hunter of the Year, in a place like this, you can tell a story from most anything. Meat or skunked, snow or none, even if the furnace fails, I know I have great fortune, hunting in this camp.
And for hosting Camp Blight, for his generosity and wisdom, for countless breakfasts, I want to thank the bus driver, a mentor and gentleman, my Grampa. Without his efforts, we would only be deer hunting. It's more important than that, and so year after year, on the pretense of deer, we'll be there, east of The River, south of Jackson's Field.
http://www.duluthsuperior.com/mld/duluthsuperior/news/local/13013538.htm
