Walt -- At the Woodward Farm

The Woodward place has always been one of my favorite places to hunt. There is a ridge south of camp, and a fairly steep climb up to the top. When you get to the top there is not much there. A clump of trees conceals the foundation and chimney of the house. Another clump of trees hides what is left of the barn. All of this sits in the corner of a small L-shaped pasture. A bit south, along one arm of the L is a narrowing of the pasture, where the forest has grown out into a peninsula and the woods on the other side has grown out a bit to join it. The center of the peninsula contains the Woodward Family cemetery. Across from the peninsula and a bit of a ways in is where I keep a ladder stand.

Today, however, I was thinking of taking a stand in one of the apple trees adjoining the island at the farmhouse. My goal was to give myself ample time to see any sort of storm coming up. The apple trees would be dropping their apples. I could get a good shot at anything coming up to feed. I could also keep an eye on the sky.

I borrowed an ATV from one of McKays, who weren’t going out. It was a nice little red Polaris. I was out on the porch when Phil came back from a trip into town. He said he was going back out in a while, and I told him to keep an eye on the weather. He said something about it being dry front that was coming through.

The road up to the farm had been cut ages ago—remarkably steep. It had also required quite a bit of work to cut into the hillside. This was a bit of a puzzle until you realized that this was also the way to the limestone quarry. In an earlier time, the Woodwards would have driven their team through the woods and out onto the Port Simmons road that ran along the southern boundary of the Association’s land. When I’d been younger, this had just been a just a good stiff hike. Nowadays, I was glad to have wheels under me on the way up. There were a few brief views of the camp through the trees, and a couple more great views of the Beaver Creek before I busted out on top and out into the open pasture. I pulled the quad over to the side and walked the rest of the way.

The stand in the apple tree was a three-sided affair. The platform floated on 2X4’s nailed between three large limbs. Only one screw-in step had been necessary to get from the ground to the blind. The rest was all just knowing which foot to put where. I hoisted my bow up and sat down. Before me was a grand view of the Beaver Creek, the woods that held the camp, and the knobs and hills that rose up from our little plateau and started into the mountains beyond.

In the other direction, the clouds were gathering rapidly. Since mid-morning I had been smelling the Gulf, as moist air came up from the South. Since lunchtime it had been uncommonly warm and muggy. Now I was watching that moisture start to rise, and the wind built at my back, sucking into the clouds that were forming. Dry front indeed. Maybe he meant “dryline” instead. Oh well. It felt good to see one last August thunderstorm, even if this was mid-October.

I really was not expecting any deer. I figured the wind would keep them down. I wasn’t too worried about that. I might get somebody trying to sneak a quick bite before the rain hit. We would see.

Afternoon melted into late afternoon. It felt good being up in this old stand. I had hunted in its predecessors since my first trip to camp. A part of me was still clutching that old Marlin through red woolen mittens. I could still feel the red plaid wool coat weighing on my shoulders and the cold wind on my face that drove the occasional stinging wet snowflake into my ear. The cedars that had hid him were now grown full and beyond, but I could still make out the two conjoined pillars in front of me. He had just appeared. I had been looking right at that spot, and one moment there had only been two small cedars, and in the next there had been a buck standing in front of them. He had stopped to look over his shoulder, before moving out into the pasture. I went to take off my right mitten and it had fallen between my legs and off onto the ground. The buck saw it and at that moment, I had died. Maybe he thought it was a leaf. I don’t know, but when he turned towards me and began to walk towards the tree, I knew what the Grace of God felt like and I knew there was a Resurrection. When he began to angle away from me, I had been graced with a perfect broadside shot. I brought the gun up, pulled the hammer back The click of the hammer made him stop. In my life, I had never been so sure of myself as when the front post of that Marlin settled on that buck’s ribcage. The expanse of hide had seemed enormous.

The gun went off by itself. I had not consciously begun to pull the trigger. The buck put his head down and ran out into the pasture and piled up, his antlers catching on the brush. He rose once, and I realized that I had not reloaded. I took my eyes off him for a second to work the action, and then tried to thumb the hammer again; I had forgotten that the Marlin re-cocked itself. By the time I looked back up he was gone, and I cried because I had failed.

A few minutes later, Dad and Grandpa had shown up on the road. Dad said they had heard my shot, and come to check on me. By this time, I had been weeping uncontrollably and hiding it was not an option. However, Dad and Gramps paid no attention to my grief and started congratulating me. They took me out in the field and the buck was there, dead as sin. He had not taken another step, but rather fallen down in the tall grass and been hidden. They said they had seen it when they came up. At the sight of the buck I fell to my knees. Gramps had my rifle by then, and was in the process of unloading it. Dad helped me up, and I fell against him and hugged him deeper than I ever had before. For once, his massive frame yielded, and I seemed to fall into him, and I felt swallowed and held at the same time. It was the only time in my life I knew us to hug each other like that. We hugged often, before and after, but buried in his field coat that morning was a singular moment. It was a good solid eight-pointer.

It was all gone. Dad and Grandpa were both gone. The treestand had rotted away and been replaced twice over. Dad had gotten the buck mounted, and it hung in my bedroom at home until the house was sold. It was now in my den, but the luster was gone from the hide, and it looked sickly next to my other trophies. All that was left was smell of Dad’s coat in my nose and the feeling of his chest giving way and my head sinking in all the way to his very core.

It had occurred to me the year after Dad died, that he and Grandpa had probably driven the buck towards me. They had been the ones who had put me in the stand that morning, and then taken off up the east leg of the pasture in the dark. I had been sitting in this very stand when I all the air had suddenly left the pasture, and I had realized that the whole thing had been planned, and I had been set up. For a brief moment I was suffocated by that thought, and then the grip on my lungs had released. It had been a good hunt; the buck had died fairly. Where was the fault? It had gripped me a second time, when I realized that I had not had realized this twist until too late and both men were dead. Now, even that pain had started to lift from me. I scratched my bristling chin, and realized I was just growing old.

“Wruuunh!”

Busted. I had not been paying attention. The light had begun to fade. Two doe were out in the pasture, and had caught my scent. There was not a whole lot I could have done about it, even if I had been aware, but the movement of my hand to my face had tipped one of them off. One doe was looking my way, giving me the evil eye. She stamped once. The other doe, a younger daughter, came up and tried to see what she saw. Both stood still and judged me ruthlessly. I kept still and tried to empty my mind. I looked away focused on the clouds behind them. After a minute or so, they gave up and went back to feeding.

Twice in a day—I mentally patted myself on the back. It was a good day for an old fart like me when I could make contact with deer twice over. This one was going to be hard, however. I was going have to turn myself considerably if I was going to get to draw down on them. I carefully eased one foot around the bucket I was using for a seat and the other slid out looking for a grip on the plywood to turn. The deer fed quickly and moved on, long before I could get all the way around.

Pulled back to reality, I checked my watch. The sun was already set, and I had about fifteen minutes of usable light before my old eyes stopped being able to see deer and pins at the same time. When the two does disappeared into a fold in the pasture, I finished my turn and looked up at the sky. The clouds were now piling up, and all that was left was a thin margin of lit sky off in the East, just as it had been when Dad and Gramps had left me that morning.

“You stay up here and keep an eye out.” Dad had said. “We’ll come get you for lunch.”

“Don’t go scootin’ off anywhere.” added Gramps. “I don’t want you getting shot.” They had then shouldered their rifles and marched off into the pasture. They too had been lost in a fold of the Earth and disappeared. I wished them all a good evening. There was now utter darkness flowing in the northwest. Black folded into leaden and back into a grey as it all boiled. I realized that what was left of the light had gone yellow, and in that instant, the first flash of lightning hit, and the first rush of real wind turned the late silver maple leaves inside out and bowed the cedars. I knew it was time to leave.

I lit the flashlight as soon as I was at the base of the tree. I wanted off the ridge top, and back to bottoms as quick as I could. The wind was rising now. I stowed my bow on the quad and mounted it. I turned the ignition and another bright flash lit up the sky. I jerked back as if I’d been shocked, as the ATV went from grey to blazing red. It was just a coincidence, however. The flash had happened at just the right time. I heard the engine running, and I was shifting it into gear as the thunder started to roll.

It was a wild ride. I rode down this heaving tunnel of darkness as the lightning flashed and the wind corkscrewed the trees and their overhanging limbs. The headlight fell into nothingness, and it seemed like an eternity before I hit the bottom of the hill. I turned off the road, cleared the creek and twisted its tail through the bottom pasture that led back to the camp. Out in the open I got one brief spattering of rain, but it was like someone had thrown a single bucket of water somewhere on high. I rode up onto the parking apron and got the quad parked in the tractor shed.

I was up on the porch with my bow and my bag before I really took stock of things.

“How’d it go?” asked someone. It was dark, and I did not see who it was.

“Oh, just fine.” I said. “I had a couple of doe come in, but that was about it.” I hung my bow up on a peg in the roof.

“Looks like we’re having some weather.” He said.

“Yep.” I answered. “Everyone in?” I did not pay attention to what he was saying. Down from the top of the ridge, I was no longer able to see the approaching weather. The camp was down in the hollow, up against a hillside. Storms from the North and West would decend on us quickly. I moved off the porch and out into the yard to strip off my coveralls.

“ I said you and Phil Williams were the only ones out! You listening, Walt?”

“Huh? Oh.” I replied. “Phil back?”

“No.”

“So much for a dry front.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” I replied. “Where did he go?”

“He said he’d put up a stand somewhere south of the beaver pond.”

“Okay.” I replied. “I know where that is.”

Walt --- A History Lesson

“You sure press hard,” I said.

“I’m sorry. This has been bugging me.” Phil replied.

“Okay, “ I replied, “Let me show you a few things.” I got up off the porch and motioned him to come. My first stop was what was left of Strickland’s Folly. It was a pile of old building material that we’d hauled out into the woods just out of sight of the house. It was a few stud walls, with shreds of this and that.

“This is sort of what started it all.” I said. “We had a guy come in here back in the early Sixties. I’m not really sure how he got in. It was a guy named Paul Strickland. Anyhow, he and your Dad and your Grandfather never saw eye to eye. Paul fancied himself an entrepreneur, and was always on the Williams and the Coopers to take this place public. When that didn’t work, he sort of co-opted the whole thing and started building out here. I guess he figured if he made enough improvements he could get the rest of the Association to go along with his plans. He built a shed. He built a bunkhouse. Finally he started building this big addition to the main building. The problem was that first off it was sort of a screwy back handed way of taking over, second it was all done in the off season when no one was here, and third, it was really shoddy, and it started falling apart as soon as it was put up.”

I saw Phil nodding, but I hadn’t really gotten into the meat yet.

“To make matters worse,” I continued, “You had Ernie Schnurman, the guy who was watching the place for us-- Paul roped him into helping. Ernie was never the brightest bulb in the pack. Paul also was running out of money, trying to finance this all himself, and he got himself a bunch of fiberboard siding. We all show up for Opening Week, and here’s this huge ugly addition on the building with the Strickland Family moved in. Mona Strickland’s re-decorated in all sorts of gawd-awful ways, and gone and painted some of the interior walls bright yellow.

“Oh, we had bodies everywhere that weekend. Those were exciting times. You’ve never seen such a mess. Your Grandpa had a heart attack right in the middle of it all and they carted him off in a meat wagon.”

“He didn’t die.” Phil said. “I know that.”

“No,” I replied. “He eventually got back on his feet. But, I’ll tell you that this place wasn’t the same after that. “

“I can imagine.” Phil said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think you can, but it was enough to make your Dad want to never come back. Anyhow, after Paul Strickland died, the big addition he put on started to fall apart immediately. That fiberboard was just like cardboard. Within two years, all we could do was tear off what was left and patch up the big hole in the wall. The Stricklands never came back, and we sent Mona back the membership bond. At first, we painted over the yellow, and then later we paid someone to come in and sandblast it all off the logs and we revarnished them. I remember my Dad calling up yours to invite him to the grand re-opening party. He didn’t come. He paid his dues every year, but he never came back. Your Grandpa and Grandma came. They dropped in and blessed it, and then went back home, and we never saw your Grandpa again.”

“Grandpa died back in 1980.” Phil said.

“He was a grand old man, your Grandpa.” I said. “I still see him at the campfire now and again. “For a little while, I just sat there thinking about that. “It’s funny,” I said, “It’s been thirty years, but this is just like that weekend. The weather was kind of muggy and weird like this. I suspect we’re going to get the same kind of weather too.”

“What kind of weather is that?”

“Thunderstorms.” I replied. “Sort of fitting too—you coming back and all.”

Walt-- Showdown at the pond

I woke up way too early and found myself sitting alone in the dining hall, killing time before I headed out for the beaver pond. Phil Williams showed up and grabbed a quick bite before suiting up to leave.

“I thought I’d get out and do some scouting this morning.” He said.

I put him on to a few places by showing him on the big map. I also showed him the stand locations that were probably going to be used by the guys already here.

“Duff usually heads over this way.” I said. “I was floating around before you guys showed up, but I may hit the beaver pond this morning and then scout this face of the ridge before coming back for lunch. If you drop by the pond around eleven, I can show you a few spots.”

“I’d like that,” said Phil.”I brought a couple of stands.”

“The beaver pond is a good spot to leave one.” I said. “Walk out with me, leave the stand, and then it will be there when you come back from scouting.

That was how we left it. Phil grabbed a metal hang-on stand and a bag of screw-in steps and his bow and we headed off towards the pond. Fifty yards before the pond, I stopped and showed him a good spot to break off and start scouting. He left the stand propped against a tree and I continued on. Phil sat on a stump and waited for the light.

I settled in at the pond and watched the morning slowly appear. This was not a real good stand for watching sunrises or sunset. It was nestled in a bottom between two ridges. Instead, the light was slow to come and quick to leave. I liked that it meant the deer could linger longer in the morning and come earlier in the evening. It did not take long for the pond to start coming alive after the sky started to brighten. I heard Phil take off, but never saw him.

It had been dry for several weeks, so there were not many places to water. At the far end of the pond, a fox came out and wiggled through the cattails. In the gloom, I could not tell if it was a red or a grey. A momma coon followed shortly thereafter, with two noisy young in tow. The wood ducks left, a couple of mallards came in. The beavers came out of their den, and the squirrels started making a serious ruckus.

At exactly eight thirty, I spied a doe that came from out of the cedars across the pond and carelessly stood in the water and drank her fill before wandering off. It was probably a forty or fifty yard shot—maybe thirty-five at her closest approach. However, the intervening cover of cattails made it impossible. She had nearly left when she looked over her shoulder and stamped. At first I could not figure out how she had winded me. Then a funny feeling hit me on the back of the neck, and I knew why she had been looking my way.

The bunker was good cover on three sides and open to the rear. I had put up a stool in one corner, and my attention had been kept along the length of the bunker and over the pond. That had left my left side open to the woods. Something was looking at that vast open expanse of camo. It honestly hurts to try and send your eyes that far into their corners. I took shallow breaths and slowly moved my head. There, beyond the corner of my glasses, stood a buck. He was not very big, and he had a spindly rack of seven points that was quite uneven. He was about 20 feet away, and totally unaware of my presence. He was focused on the doe.

I thought about trying a snap shot on the buck, but decided it was not worth risking. As things developed I might try to take him, but my guess was they would not. The buck was smitten with the doe. The doe seemed quite perturbed by his presence. The buck lowered his head and stepped towards the doe, for a moment passing behind a cedar tree and letting me turn a bit on my seat. I brought myself to half draw and began angling for a opening. In another step, the buck was now past me and in the open. I came to full draw and held, while I tried to figure out how to get an extra six inches of height to shoot over the side of the bunker. By shifting my weight and moving one leg, I figured I could become semi-erect. It would not be a classic posture, but I could probably get a shot.

I looked over at the doe, who was still unaware of me. I made my move and at the same time came to full draw. I held on a spot between two saplings where I expected the buck’s foreleg to appear next. It did.

I now was in the unlikely position of having two deer, one buck and one doe, in shooting range. Both were now presenting me shots, and both seemed absorbed in each other as if I really did not matter. To make matters worse, I really did not need or want either deer.

“You know, “ I began, as I let down my bow and sat back down. “You guys really need to get your priorities straight. I’ve been counting coup on both you, and you seem utterly oblivious.”

The doe was smart and made a beeline out of there. The buck, on the other hand, turned toward me and eyed me.

“Is there a problem here?” I asked. “I just gave you a pass, brother. I suggest you take it.”

Now you have to understand that I have been talking to deer most of my life. Some deer run, some deer just stand and let you ramble on for a while. This one gave me a look I did not like. To make matters worse, I realized I was in the corner of the bunker and I had no way to get out.

“Shoo! You four-legged bastard!” I yelled. I drew myself up to my full height and made myself as big as possible. The buck bolted and withdrew about ten yards and then stopped again.

“You heard me.” I said. “Vamos!” That convinced him and he trotted off after the doe.

Another small doe came by a couple of hours later. She did not drink at the pond, but rather moved through hurriedly. Five minutes later Phil showed up. I was still trying to make sense of my morning.

“Interrupt anything?” Phil asked.

“I’m hunting from a treestand from here on out.” I said.

Walt -- Shaken at the Fire

I had just settled in with Craig at the fire when an unfamiliar car pulled up into the apron. Craig and I were reminiscing about the good old days and I was really starting to feel the scotch.

"It's funny, man." I said. "I'm looking at this fire and all I see are faces. It's like they never really leave."

"Yeah, I know." replied Craig. "It's been ten years since Dad left, and there are days it still makes sense to me to pick up the phone and call him to ask what he remembers about such-and-such a case."

"I can look out past the fire, to the other side of the ring," I went on, "And I see them."

"Yep."

"Do you see them?" I asked.

"Yep." said Craig, "I've got another crazy piece to add to all this. I'm now certain that human beings only have just so many faces they can remember. I think I hit my limit around thirty-five."

"Yeah." I said. "I'm following you."

"So now I everyone I meet looks like somebody else." he said. "Like I see this little high-schooler at McDonalds the other day, and I swear it's a girlfriend from high school, except she's thirty years too young. Dead ringer. My brain just keeps recycling faces."

"Spooky," I said. "Just plain spooky." It was getting a little spooky. The sounds from inside were voices I'd known all my life. Little murmurs of this and that just added to the effect. In the flicker of the fire it was easy to get lost and see and hear men that had been mouldering in the ground for sometimes thirty years. In a way that made me feel good-- good that they were still roaming around, if only in my mind. It felt stronger than that though, especially tonight. I took another draw from the cup and stared into the fire, and felt warm.

I heard a familiar voice as someone came up to the fire. He greeted us. I think Craig said something. The guy sat down on a log next to me. I finally turned and looked at him. There was Buck WIlliams, one of the old guard. I hadn't seen him since. . .

"Howdy, Mister Williams." I said. "Good to see you." I realized that I was slurring my words a bit, and it dawned on me I had best shut up until the scotch had had time to wear off. Buck had always been good friends with my Dad, even though there was a good twenty years between them. Buck had sons of his own, but they hadn't taken an interest in the camp like Dad. Buck had been dead since Seventy . . .

Sometimes, if you're not careful with your scotch, you can have two lines of thought that get put on the same piece of track only going in opposite directions. Neither one really thinks much about the other until they both round the same curve and there you have it. In my case, the jolt was so sudden that I screetched, turned violently, thinking that I'd just seen a ghost, and darn near fell off the log when I looked and saw nothing, where a moment ago there'd been a man. In the next instant I realized I was falling off the log, and where I'd been looking was skyward and as I completed the roll, my head finally did turn and there really was Buck Williams, plain as day, and he was reaching for me as if to pull me into oblivion with him. I heard myself shriek a bit, and then something caught me by the jacket and I turned and it was Old Man Steinholtz who'd grabbed me and helping me regain my balance.

I jumped up and in an instant I was cold stone sober, and scared out of my wits. I looked to confront my ghostly attackers, and there was Craig Steinholtz, grandson of Carl. There was also Phil Williams, Buck Williams grandkid.

"Buck? . . . er. . .Phil?" I said. "Phil Williams?"

"Hi."

I reached over and shook his hand mightily. I was still terrified, but it had already sunk in what had happened. I felt rather sheepish, but I took it nobody much knew or cared what had just happened. In the dark, Phil was the living breathing reincarnation of Buck WIlliams, only younger than any time I had direct recollection of him.

"Walt Cooper." I said. "Boy, am I glad you're here. You know Craig? This is Craig Steinholtz. Have a seat."

Craig pulled out another coffee cup and handed it to Phil. I waived off-- I'd had enough. We sat back down and started talking. Soon others poured in and sat down and the first good campfire of the season was off and running.

Walt Cooper -- At the Fire

Originally Posted - 03/04/2005 : 12:23:03

It never goes the way you think it will. I'd just finished my steak and was thinking of turning in when the headlights started showing. Pretty soon the parking apron was full.

I guess what was eating me was that for some reason I thought I should be orchestrating the whole thing-- not that I could, or not that I wanted to. In the past, there had always been someone there. Gramps or Pop or someone was divvying up the chores, suggesting bunking arrangements, getting food stashed. For some reason, it felt like it should have been me this time, but it wasn't.

In the space of 10 minutes, three carloads pulled up. One was a Cooper. The other two was the first load of McKays and a Steinholtz' Beamer. Craig Steinholtz had just come out just to say hello. The next thing I knew there was pandemonium. Then little Jackie flew into my arms and we were spinning around. I carried a couple of bags in for folks and then it was over. It all had pretty much arranged itself without me. It was even someone else that that remembered to turn on the parking apron floodlights.

Jackie hopping on Jack's bunk was a surprise. My first take on it was to help Joe move him to another bunk, but then I realized it was just fine the way it was.

Dad had made the ideal aloof patriarch. Jack had been the perfect comic foil. Once Dad was gone, Jack had managed to keep the twosome going in a way, just by always referencing the same old schtick in everything he did. Now both voices were silent

I'd have to get comfortable with the idea that it was me now, and that I'd have to fall into my own way of dealing with camp with the others. While folks settled in I went out and dumped the grill into the firepit and laid in a faggot. While it was coming up, I tepeed a few nice ones so we'd have a good bright fire. I then shut off the lights over the parking apron and sat watching the fire.

In a bit, a big paw wrapped itself around my shoulder and shook it.

"Good work, Walt," said Craig, "Still keeping the fire going." As he lumbered around I noticed how huge his silouhette was. No wonder they'd always hired these guys as lawyers. This was a guy you did not want to see in a dark alley.

"Oh, Craig!" I replied. "Good to have you out. You want a steak?"

"No, I just wanted to come out and see things get started."

"You hunting?"

"Naw. At least not this weekend. I've got a deposition cooking out on the coast, Monday. I'll be back, though."

"Everything cool with the Association?"

"Nothing that can't wait until the December meeting. We're catching flak again on the sanitary."

"We're grandfathered in. Cheeze and Rice! We could still be running everything directly into the creek. Why? What are they saying."

"It's more of the same. They're questioning capacity."

"Tell them that if they don't leave us alone, The next time Ernie pumps out the tank, I'll have him leave it on their lawns."

". . . as I said, nothing that can't wait. Good to hear that old Cooper roar again."

"Yeah." I said. "They know we'd do it, too. Does this go down as billable?"

"Naw." Craig chuckled. "I'll put it down as entertainment expense and bill it to the firm. . . along with this." He produced a paper bag and two enamel coffee mugs from the kitchen. In the bag was a bottle of Glen Fiddich.

"Ach no!" I exclaimed "Craig, no wonder y'aint havin' any fun. Laddie, ya picked the ugliest one in the flock. Come 'ere and try mine." I poured two stiff ones and handed Craig one as he swung himself over the log.

"Here's to lost souls."

"Everywhere."

The Story So Far

Shaman here. I brought over several posts from the forum to get this BLOG caught up with where it was when we moved here. I'll make a couple of more postings like this. Enjoy.


From: wannatikka

Original Posting - 02/25/2005 : 15:34:14


“Well, that’s just about it” I said to myself as I loaded the last two gun cases into the back of “Old Blue” Don’t ask why we still called the truck by that name because it had long since stopped being blue, although old was certainly an accurate description. The 1971 F100 now looked more like a patchwork quilt of rust, bondo, and primer than anything else. Although she looked her age from the outside, the little 302 engine and three-on-the-tree tranny ran along just fine, even if it did have a penchant for needing a quart of oil every other tank of gas. Even though I had the new RAM, I just couldn’t bear the thought of driving anything other than “Old Blue” to camp. It was our family “deer truck” and I wouldn’t be the one to break that tradition.

I suddenly caught sight of Jackie’s eye through the back window of the truck. He didn’t seem to notice me, but was looking intently back at the bed full of gear. He looked so old now that he was twelve, but the look in his eyes reminded me of a time from the past … when he used to stand at the top of the stairs before making that mad dash down to see what Santa had brought to him and his sister. The wild-eyed excitement of tearing through ribbons and paper to reach the prize hidden inside, the bubbling of conversation as he talked about his new “favoritist” toy, the begging and pleading to go outside just one more time to watch him go down his sled jump, they all seemed so very far away from today.

Jackie finally saw me looking at him and grinned widely. As I walked around to the drivers side and climbed in, he let lose with a barrage of questions. “How long will it take to get there? Do you think Jim will be able to make it? What about my new boots, did you get them packed? Do you think ‘Ol One Eye’ survived the winter? Which stand can I hunt in?

“Hey slow down there, Jackie,” I interrupted, “I haven’t even started the engine yet.” He scowled at me and said, “it’s Jack! – you know I don’t like being called Jackie, that’s what mom calls me.” “OK fine JACK," I said, "let’s get this show on the road.” The engine cranked & puttered to life and soon we were rolling down the road towards Crandon, some 80 miles away. Then it was a long winding drive up state route 13 before we turned down the lane to camp.

“Well, so how’s it feel to be going on your first deer hunt?” I asked my son. He had successfully passed the DNR hunter’s Ed. class during the summer and on his birthday we walked down to Ace’s hardware and he bought his first hunting license with money he had earned mowing neighborhood yards. Of course, he had been going with me for a number of years as he learned to shoot rifle at the club and he even shot trap league earlier that spring. But this was different, it was real, it was hunting.

He bustled with excitement and said, “I can’t wait to get there and go hunting with you and uncle Bud and everyone. I only hope that Jim was able to get leave so he can be there when I get my buck … err, if I get my buck,” he corrected himself. Jim was his favorite cousin and had joined the marines right after 9/11 and had served a tour in Afghanistan and one in Iraq but was currently back in the states awaiting redeployment back to Afghanistan. Jim had been one of dad’s pallbearers this spring along with Jackie and his dress blues had made quite an impression on my boy.

Suddenly I felt a lump rise in my throat and my eyes start to well up. It was tough to think that this would be the first time dad & I hadn’t hunted together in over 20 years. Doubly sad was that he and Jackie never got the chance to share time in camp together. Dad was the last of the old guard from deer camp to go, and even though 7 months had passed the old grief swept over me anew. I shook off those old feelings & went back to creating new memories with Jackie.

The miles passed behind us quickly and our conversation turned back to hunting and tactics, rifles, and hope for the upcoming season. We rode on and on and without consciously remembering making the turn north in Crandon onto route 13 I found myself signaling to turn into the lane to camp. As we drove down toward the gate we both noticed the flicker of flames from the fire pit in yard. As Jackie looked over at me from the passenger seat I said, “Welcome to deer camp.”



From: Buckaneer

Original Posting - 02/28/2005 : 21:47:36

The traffic slowed down coming out of Port Simmons. These narrow, mountain roads create lots of bottlenecks, and when there's an accident, it's usually a bad one. The fire truck from Lake Louise came screaming by, and I knew there was trouble ahead. When I rounded to switchback at the base of Cropper's hill, I came upon the scene. A semi hauling logs had tried to make it around the curve, and ended up rolling down the steep hillside. The driver had somehow survived, but the truck was a mess. As I cleared the scene, and the flashing lights faded away in the rear view mirror, I thought back to the ice storm of 74. There were so many cars sitting at the bottom of the switchback, it looked like a parking lot. I was running a few minutes late, and when I pulled into Centerville, the gunshop was just closing up. This bothered me, as this was a regular stop on the journey to deer camp every year. Jack and Stu always stopped here on the way in, just in case they needed anything. The old gunsmith always had a bottle behind the counter, and a log on the fire. It was a great place to kill an afternoon, just shooting the bull, and enjoying good company. I can't believe Jack is gone. The last of the old guard, he had always seemed bigger that life to me. I was the outsider in this group. When Uncle Jack passed on, I didn't know if I could come back, but some things just need to go on. I would hunt with a heavy heart this year, and dedicate my efforts to our dear, departed friends.





From: Buckaneer

Original Posting - 03/01/2005 : 09:01:21

As I turned down the lane to the camp, the old emotions came pouring back, like the passing of a high tide. Camp would be a different place without the presence of any of the old timers. The torch had been passed, and it was now up to us to keep up the tradition. Jackie came running out to greet me as the Jeep came to a halt. I could smell the wood fire, and the inviting odor of Hoppe's No. 9 wafting through the air. We had the Jeep unloaded in a few minutes, and I started putting away gear in the cramped but friendly confines of the cabin. I didn't go near Jack's bunk-I just couldn't be the one to claim that space. The bunk would sit empty this season as a tribute to our lost friend. The kitchen was all ready filling up-we always bring way more food than we could ever use. Everyone still remembers the storm following the '74 ice storm when we got stranded here for a couple days. That was the only time we ran tight on food.
The work being done now, I settled into the old overstuffed chair to savor the moment and reflect on being here again.


From: wannatikka


Original Posting - 03/01/2005 : 15:21:55

I had barely coasted the truck to a stop when Jackie leapt from his seat and ran back towards the fire pit. He only made it half way there when he was met by a huge bear hug from Ol’ Walt himself. Walt’s family had owned the camp since as long as I could remember and even though he was an intimidating huge bulk of a man, he was one of the kindest and quickest-to-laugh guys I’d ever known. Jackie wriggled loose from his grip and landed with a thump at his feet just as Walt boomed out in a laughing voice, “quick Joe, get the net this one’s a keeper.”

“Mr. Cooper!” Jackie beamed, thankful to be so warmly welcomed to camp. “Is anyone else here yet?” Jackie asked as he looked back towards the fire.

“Nope, you’re the first to arrive. And although you’ve gotten here too late for dinner, you’re in plenty of time to do the dishes,” he laughed. “Well, well, well, if you didn’t go and bring your ol’ man with you,” Walt said as he reached out and took one end of the cooler I was carrying. “Good to see you again Joe,” he said, “and even better to see you bringing up young Jackie with you!”

“It’s good to be here again Walt,” I replied, “and good to see an old friend again.” Between the three of us we had the truck unloaded in a jiffy and the foodstuffs stored in the shiny new oak kitchen cabinets. We’d added those cabinets just a couple of years ago when the kitchen had been unexpectedly redecorated. We’d all been out hunting for the day and somebody must have left the back door unlatched because when we returned that evening we encountered the unmistakable efforts of “Twiddle Dee” and “Twiddle Dum”, our friendly neighborhood black bear cubs. The yearlings had managed to climb into the kitchen and dismantle every kitchen cabinet as they rummaged around for food. They had eventually found Gene’s stash of peppermint Schnapps and one had taken quite a liking to it as we found him fast asleep outside under the bows of the old pine tree – with a bottle of Schnapps lying alongside. It was all we could do to keep Gene from skinning him right then and there, but we eventually convinced him there was a better way. We’d managed to slip a cord around one of the bear’s hind legs to which we tied a couple of empty coffee cans. We’d then roused the bear to his feet just as Gene lit off a string of firecrackers inside one of the cans. That lil’ bear took off running across the field toward the beaver pond like the world was comin’ to an end. We must have laughed for a good half hour before we could bring ourselves to clean up the mess inside. For all we know that lil’ bear ran clear into the next county, because we never saw him again around camp.

I smiled to myself in thinking of all the good memories that camp held for me and had just turned around and walked toward the bunks when I noticed that Jackie had placed his sleeping bag over on Dad’s old bunk. Not that there was a nametag on the bunk, or anything, but we all sort of kept certain bunks “open” in memory of those who were no longer with us. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone to bunk there this season. Even so Jackie had no way of knowing where to put his gear, but he had simply chosen the bunk that was near to the fireplace and had a clear view out the Eastern window towards the open field down in the valley below. That field was the one that Dad always liked to still-hunt along the edge of the pines just as the sun was breaking over Dawson’s Ridge. He claimed that he could go sleep one night and in his dreams just see through that window where the deer would be moving the next morning. As a kid I’d always thought he was joking with me, but more times than not he’d be in the right place at the right time to get his deer. Maybe there was some truth to what he’d said and that bunk was special and was better used than to remain vacant out of some silly tradition. I guess I couldn’t think of a better place for Jackie to sleep in deer camp than Dad’s old bunk.

Just as I was turning to tell Jackie about his bunk, we heard the rumble of an engine down the lane. Jackie glanced up at me and as I nodded approval he shot out the door and down the lane to see who was new in camp.

Walt Cooper: Over at Beaver Dam

I slept in. I was lazy, I know. I could have hunted for a few hours before going into town, but I wasn't in the groove yet. There was something about hunting in weather where the overnight lows were still in the sixties that didn't feel right. The weather had been that way for a week. It wasn't quite Indian Summer. It had never really gotten cold. Fall had stalled in a suspended animation of sorts.

I had the place to myself, so I took my time. I got the water running, the coffee made, I got may gear stowed, and my rifles up on the rack. There were spots on the racks that no one had dared touch for a couple years, places where no one wanted to be the first to put a rifle. You could still see the wear on the felt left by Dad's Model 70, and Jack's Remington. I'd thought about bringing the Model 70 up and staking the claim to the leftmost spot on the front wall rack, and it just didn't seem right. This year, I figured I'd put my Savage 99 up and to heck with them all. In a year or two, Buckie could have my spot. It settled in nicely. I had two others that I stashed under the bed in their cases. I had the bow case too. It was a tight fit, but it worked.

Town hadn't changed much. The theatre had shut down in July, but we hadn't gone in years anyway. Pickings at the meat counter at the Piggly Wiggly were slim as usual, but I rummaged around and found a few steaks to hold me over.

I finally got out in the afternoon to scout. I made the rounds of my favorite stands-- no problems. The deer had torn up the salt licks nicely, and I found plenty of sign in the wallows around the beaver pond to see that we'd been blessed with an abundance of fawns, and most of the regulars had stayed. Off to one side was a set of tracks of tremendous proportions sunk deep into the mud. At first I thought it might be a stray cow. That got my juices flowing. I remembered why I was here.

The beaver pond had been one of the major factors in the success of our camp. When Grandpa and the others had purchased this place, the farmer had been dynamiting the dam every Spring and planting in the rich mud that collected there. The beavers didn't seem to mind too much. They just took in in stride and slowly rebuilt over the Summer.

Then Bob the Destroyer arrived. Bob had gone on to earn a full ride to Purdue on a Chem-E ticket. He's the only degreed pyrotechnics engineer I ever met. Bob was in high school when he took over the beaver dam detail. I was still just a kid when Bob started using his skills to blow up the dam. He used a combination of nitrate fertilzer and diesel fuel, a stick of dynamite and a blasting cap to blow the pond. That had been THE event at camp. Many of the families came up that weekend to see Bob blow the dam. He would have us dig a pit on top of the dam, and then he'd place the fertilzer in the depression. Then we'd roll a big chunk of limestone over the top. Bob said that would focus the blast downwards.

One year, he had me run the camera. He had this really cool Nikon camera with a motorwind. When he blew the dam, I pressed a bulb and the camera ticked off frames until the blast wave caught it. The results were fantastic-- 8 shots of the dam rising into the air and a shock wave rumbling across the meadow. The second last shot was a blurr of debris and then the last shot was nothing but sky with sticks caught in flight. The camera had been knocked over. Bob's bunker was still there-- a stack of logs built up in view of the dam. Sometimes we used it for a ground blind. The pictures were up on the wall by the wood stove.

Bob stopped doing the blasts long before Oklahoma City put a damper on that sort of thing. Bob had taken a job in Saudi Arabia, and no one wanted to take over. Instead, we got in a backhoe and installed an 10-inch sewer tile to drain off the water from the middle of the pond. For close to 15 years, the beavers had never wised up. They kept their dam tended, and got to live in their now-truncated pond. Meanwhile, fast growing maples and willows had filled in the rest. I think Bob finally got cancer and came back to the States to die.

I wondered about the beavers and Bob. I still wonder if the beavers, in their own way, had a concept of Bob, the great dark force that would come each Spring to visit havoc on their world. Did they worship him? Did they make sacrifice to placate him? Did they scare their young with stories of the great Bob. Bob, the God of the Beavers-- I wonder if the old beavers sit around the lodge all winter telling Bob stories and wondering if Bob would come again. I can see one old beaver, leaning back on his tail and poking a maple shoot at the rest and saying:

"Yep, you can say what you want about ol' Bob, but I say the pond ain't never been the same without out him! If'n ya' ask me. We should get down on our lousy beaver knees and pray for Bob to come back!"

And from that would spring a new beaver religion, with beavers venerating shreds of old fertilizer bags and having grand processions in the full moonlight. Little beavers would carry tiny sprigs of willow and beavers would dot their faces with ashes from campfires, and under the last moon of winter a grand beaver chorus would lift up and call to heaven for the return of Bob. Eventually some crazy beaver would get himself run over crossing the road. When he awoke from his coma, he's proclaim that Bob himself had struck him down and given him the task of spreading the word of Bob throughout beaver ponds everywhere.

. . . at least that was how I had it rolling around my head as I sat in the bunker waiting for the light to fail. I'd brought my bow along in a half-hearted attempt at hunting. Nothing showed, except one beaver out on the pond, and couple of loons. It was still just too doggone hot.

At dusk, I came out and started a fire and cooked one of the little sirloins. Nobody showed, but then I was way early. Camp was getting a bit lonely. I really wished the rest of the crowd would get here.