I got invited to go on the Big Deer Hunt again. It was the same gang plus one—a housemate of one of them who’d never gone hunting.
Once again we had the deluxe food and drink courtesy of our own chef (or two) and of the generous fellow who owns the high-end food store…oh yeah. I pitched in in a small way but as best I could by sharpening everyone’s knives.
We ended up getting several deer. And our new hunter shot his first. I was with him when he did. After the shot and a long settling-down period, I found the first blood a ways away and stepped back to let him do the tracking. It was cool seeing him spot the downed deer. I’m a little rusty on the field-dressing but we got it done smoothly.
It’s a bit of a foody campout with a little hunting thrown in—but most of us went out every morning and evening. I did notice, though, that when someone got a deer their ability diminished to wake up the next morning to go out and try to fill the rest of their tag. (French dinner below: rabbit and kraut, celery tort, herbed-seared shitakes.)
I saved the heart from one of the deers and brought it home and cooked it up last night and, holy smokes, it was good (pic below). I’ll volunteer to cook the heart up north next time. Neither the Indians nor the French would overlook such a central and tasty meat.
In driving the rugged two-tracks up there I learned an amazing thing. One guy had a big 4WD truck that had a hard time making some of the terrain. But one time we ended up needing to use a regular street-type Subaru mini-wagon. Regular tires, low normal street clearance, mild “all wheel” drive. I was a bit concerned about getting stuck or highsided way back in the boonies and asked about tow-loops and such. Man, that thing went perfectly! 3X the traction of the big truck! It made me remember the old days when we had better luck with a 2WD 2-door Plymouth Colt than we did with our big Blazer—it was so light we could always push-trot it out of trouble.
I had further memories sparked on this hunt. When my crusty old uncles first took me deer-hunting we used the clan’s big old WW2 canvas wall-tent and wood stove with pipe thru the wall. We sawed a tree over the road after us when we went back into the family’s traditional state land territory. There was a lot of red-checked wool and pipe smoking in those days. (I’m bringing it back.) But the oldest uncle there, the Camp Boss—-was the same age I am now.
Once, as I walked back to camp last week I realized that the hat and vest I was wearing were the same ones I wore back when I was 15, hunting with my uncles.
Yeah, the generational stuff is coming to me these days. Before I had kids the generations didn’t occur to me much. I looked up to them, is all. Then when our kids were really little I was occupied by their cute little needs and surprises as they grew. Now that they’re a bit older we have a bit of a quiet spell—and I found myself looking forward and back for the first time a few weeks ago.
Like, when my dad was my age I was already done with all my highschool years of row-cropping, trapping, huntin’ and fishin’, and even done with my first big month-long bike tour. I was off to college. And he was the old man. Now I’m the old man, eh?
It even occurred to me much later that if I’d had kids right after highschool like some of my peers that my kid would be the age of the new hunter who I helped get his first deer.
I didn’t shoot a deer. I passed up a couple. No bucks. I got caught in between. I wanted fresh deer meat for the year but the thought of spoiling a good morning’s sit with a gunshot made me hesitate. The thought of the hours of cleaning and butchering made me hesitate—even though I always enjoy it once I start preparing the cuts. The thought of shooting a cute doe who had a yearling nearby made me hesitate. The thought of shooting a regal buck might’ve made me hesitate, too. Well, I usually give the first couple deer I see back to the Great Spirit. The one that shows up near the end of a hunt is the one who should worry.
(“Worry” is a strong term. For those who don’t hunt: if you shoot a doe with yearlings they usually go on browsing and wander off, ignoring and leaving their mother. Often a shot deer will run but the others just stand, not even minding the gunshot.)
The weather was great. We had it all. I could just sit in a blind and watch weather and be happy. Near the end we had snowfall. The snow coming down against the dark trees made me think of Jeremiah Johnson. I know I’m old because no one there had seen that 70’s movie. It made me wish for a way of hunting that wasn’t in a blind—where I could walk real slow with my Hawken rifle and a wool coat in that first snow. But the terrain is so tight and cedar-swampy that walking just spooks em. Most shots are about 40 yards.
And I still don’t have a favorite rifle to show off. My Model 94 is pretty, thankfully. It has sweet wood. But I need to tool up a nice leather sling for it instead of the corny nylon strap it has. Maybe a .50 Hawken would be better sometime. No, what is really waiting in the wings for me is that my out-west uncle hasn’t gone hunting in decades and says he’ll give me his Sav 99 if I just come out to get it. We might drive out next summer again, so who knows maybe I’ll end up with a multigenerational piece, after all.
There was a little bit of “worlds collide” on this trip, like before. The local guys who have hunted the land for years do a lot to get things ready for deer season. But to them the best gun is a new-fangled one with plastic stock and stainless barrel. I generally take an old-style approach, as do the other “downstaters.” I think we all agree that new-style guns are rugged and accurate and that old ones have more character, but still we tease each other a little. I hope it’s taken in good nature. We all work to get along and be accepting of our differing ways. You always have tension when you’re building bridges, right?
