He’s such a good kid. An old soul. Probably born a
generation or even a century too late. He’s “from a different cut”, they say.
The Bear to some…but not a big, stubborn, mangy old bear. More like a strong,
steady, peaceful and observant bear.
Michele and I took the kids to a major pop concert this summer in
Minneapolis. The hits played to an eclectic crowd of somewhere between thirty
and forty-five thousand in the friendly confines of Target Field. We rode the
Light Rail in and sat in the nose bleeds amongst the music lovers with lighter
pocket books. Our family stood and sang along at all the appropriate times. The
whole while we could sense that Logan was enjoying the ice cream and the music
but was struggling with the proximity of drunkenness and debauchery in the
masses.
Late in to the night, with the last note long gone and after another
crowded train ride, we prodded our children for reactions. Emma loved it, but
she’s a big city kind of girl and this wasn’t her first rodeo. Logan, on the
other hand, offered that given alternatives he would have most likely chosen
alternatively.
Michele pressed on. “What didn’t you like?”
It was the people. The sheer number of them. Crammed in to one place to
spend excessive amounts of money on beer and to pretend that they knew the
words to every song. Too many people that looked different then him. It was the
people he watched being fake. Putting on a show inside the show. Mom reminded
him that it’s good to get out of Pine City sometimes. It’s good to get a little
culture.
“I can get culture in the Boundary Waters,” Logan retorted. He wasn’t
being rude. He was being honest.
“It’s good to experience new things and see different kinds of people,”
Mom reminded our tuckered out little Bear.
“I don’t need to see different people. I can see animals in the
Boundary Waters.”
Seems our boy is a little more country and a lot less city
than we knew.
Born to fish. One of my college friends even referred to him
as a “fishing savant”. He has Championship Bass League experience under his
belt at the age of 12. With the patience of a Saint and the determination of a
bull, Logan will outlast and ultimately out fish anyone lucky enough to fish
alongside of him.
He can shoot too. Logie, recently outperformed a fellow
outdoorsman, two years his senior, on a round of sporting clays. Grandpas, as
well as peace officers, have watched and scrutinized video of Logan knocking
over targets on the pistol range as if he were classically trained. When
“citiot” friends visit, Logan doesn’t just tag along, he’s an instructional
part of their Redneck stay.
So on Saturday, November 3rd at 7:47 am, just 9
minutes in to the legal shooting hours of Opening Day, when I got the text “Big boy done”, it came as little
surprise. Oh, don’t get me wrong. The shot startled me. I just didn’t expect
the snap of the 30-30 that early in the hunt. Uncle Todd later reported that when
the shot pierced the morning air, he threw out half a cup of perfectly good coffee.
Without knowing much more, the immediate realization that Logan had capitalized
washed over me in a blanket of pride.
But it came as little surprise. He was born to hunt.
At first, I questioned my son’s word choice….done? Who? You,
the Big boy? Or the deer is a Big Boy and he’s done? Did he mean “Big Boy
Down”? Or did he mean that he was done?
We know that spelling is an emergent skill of Logan’s. To
hold him grammatically accountable in such a big moment of his young life
wouldn’t be realistic. I replied with a text.
“Seriously??”
Ya
“You? How Big?”
Drop him (Again, in the aftermath of such a monumental moment and I’m expecting
conjugated verbs and punctuation)
For the next ten minutes, my son fired off text messages in
one-word retorts to his uncle, his grandfather and me. Having medicated and
hobbled my lame leg in to the stand closest to the road, I wanted to get out
and run to my boy’s side. Knowing that wasn’t reasonable, I tried to settle my
beating heart and salvage the potential for my own hunt in the prime time of
early morning.
10 minutes later Logan wrote…
Uncle Todd is coming
I’m shaking.
The excitement was too much for me to handle. I sent my
brother a message seeking confirmation. And moments later when my brother
replied – “He will be hard to beat!”, I almost fell out of the Taj Mahal. Logan
shot at 7:46 and by 8:25 I was inbound. I’m actually a little surprised that I
was able to hold off that long.
A crippled leg caused by a herniated disc topped off with a
corneal abrasion has left me a shadow of my former self. My list of ailments this
Fall reads like an application for the Lakeside Manor for the Elderly. But by
this point, the jolt of natural adrenaline was more than compensating for the
diminishing effects of the early morning oxycodone. I picked my way through the
trail that connects us. The narrowing tag alders and tussocks of swamp grass
would have made foot travel difficult for any able-bodied hunter. Undeterred by
the shockwaves of pain misfiring in my sciatic nerve, I pressed on like a
leopard meticulously picking his way through the jungle.
Stumbling with my smartphone, I tried to film short snippets
hopeful to catch the emotion of the moment. When I came upon my brother and my
son, I anticipated hugs and high fives but the two of them were elbow deep in
the necessary biology lesson that follows the shot. The buck to which they were
attending would be impossible to beat.
9 minutes in to his first solo hunt, my Big Boy put Big Boy
down. He had prepared since an early age. Lessons in marksmanship and teaching
him how to be a steward of the land were not ignored. When preparation met
opportunity, Logan capitalized with a disciplined and well-placed shot. As he
searched the gut pile for the heart of his quarry, my son began to recount
every minor detail of a moment we’ll want to remember for ages.
********
First light brought first movement. To his east, Logan
caught sight of a deer pushing the extent of his visibility. Bear said that he
figured the deer would walk in to my shooting lane but was surprised when it
turned left and walked straight west, towards him. For the next few minutes, as
a right-handed shooter, Logan tried to spin quietly to his right. He said that
his feet hung up on the small bag that was on the floor but he was able to get
around far enough, pointing the barrel down the lane and mounting the gun. In
the grey of the morning swamp, still unaware of the size or even the gender of
the deer, Logan looked through the iron sites.
What took less than 10 minutes probably seemed like an
eternity to our young hunter. However, when fishing and hunting, there are two
things you can count on with Logan - patience and determination. As taught, he
tried to regulate his breathing and calm his beating chest. Logan told me that
he had practiced a shot long before he ever recognized it as a buck. With the
deer advancing with its nose to the ground, I’m sure it was difficult to
decipher the puzzle presented. My son said that when it approached the 50 yard mark,
he saw main beams and brow tines. At that point, it could have been just a fork
horn for all he knew. No matter, he eased the hammer back and readied for the
shot.
He anxiously waited for the deer to turn broadside but it
never did. Logan later admitted that he fully expected a turn and bounce in to
the brush. That didn’t happen. Before he knew it, the buck was inside twenty-five
yards and sniffing the air in an attempt to pick up the scent of a stranger in
the woods.
That was his fatal mistake.
When he faced my son and stuck his nose to the wind, a single
120 grain 30-30 round entered his body just below the white patch on his neck.
That shot cost my brother a cup of coffee. That shot was the one I knew could
be no one else besides the Bear. That shot was the one that he had prepared
himself for and patiently waited so long for.
On public land, Minnesota has placed restrictions on the use
of ATV’s during prime hunting hours. I’m not sure that it was quite yet 8:30 am
by the time we rehashed the excitement of morning. Prayers of thankfulness spoken.
Pictures taken. Any deer within a country mile had listened to our early
morning rendezvous and by now, would have crossed in to Manitoba. Yet, we all agreed to climb back in to our
respective stands and wait it out before calling in Poppa Tom and the Honda.
Mid-morning we met grandpa at the truck with handshakes and
hugs. The high sun helped paint a proud picture for the Kirby boys. The four of
us wore smiles from ear to ear as we headed back in for the 8 point buck.
Although my right leg was starting to scream for relief, I insisted that my old
man ride in on the four-wheeler with Logan. I couldn’t make out the content of
their conversation but I could sense their shared excitement over the puttering
engine. I skipped behind them as best as I could, hopeful to be in range when
the downed buck came within sight.
Big Boy Down.
Grandpa was all smiles. The Bear was as proud as a peacock.
I became the paparazzi, again trying to document as much of the moment as I
possibly could. To be honest, I didn’t want that moment to end. End, it did –
we loaded the buck and the wheeler in to the back of the truck in a package
deal. A couple of pickup loads of jealous onlookers passed by before we turned
the wheels toward Warroad. Uncle Todd and Poppa Tom headed south towards the
airport road while my boy and I finally had a moment alone. Logan’s best day
ever just kept getting better when we decided to take the long way around the
block only to come up on a ruffed grouse insistent on testing himself against
the Bear. Back at the homestead, the beautiful colors of the grouse added to
the next line of photos before we strung the buck up in the garage to be skun.
A phone call to mom, some lunch and a well-earned nap followed.
******
Going back out for the evening post, three generations of
Kirby boys each had a definite spring in their step. It's always easier to hunt
when you’ve got fresh venison hanging in the garage. Admittedly, the spring in my step required
another dose of over the counter drugs. It was a mostly uneventful evening. On
the Demars’ trail of old, it’s possible that the same doe visited all three of
the youngest of our hunting party. None of us fired. By the time that the doe
stood broadside at 60 yards in my north lane, the sun was quickly setting. As
darkness fell, she snorted and wheezed her way in a full circle, lucky to live
another day. Back at the truck, we waited for Poppa Tom.
In complete darkness, I began to wonder why my Dadd had not
made it in from the minimum maintenance road. I left my brother and son at the
trailhead and swung the truck down to the intersection to look for headlights.
With none in sight, I checked my cell phone to see the message that my dad was
on a faint blood trail. I hurried down to grab Logan and Todd. As they piled in
to the truck, Logan confessed that he swore he heard grandpa shoot at last
light. We made our way for the thickest part of the swamp, scurrying for
headlamps and flashlights.
By the time we reached Dadd’s Jeep, the adrenaline was
flowing again. Hurriedly, we shed layers and started packing knives. Just as we
crossed the ditch into the edge of the swamp, Tom sent out a text and called
off the search team. I chose to ignore the order and sent in the hounds. For
us, even navigating the marked trail in the dark proved difficult. We met
grandpa at the first intersection near his stand. There he shared, as excited
as we might be to track another buck, none of us wanted to spend a starry night
turned around in the tag alders. I have hunted many seasons in that tax-forfeited
property. I’m generally comfortable throughout the extent of our claim. The
sincerity in my father’s voice confirmed what we learned on the way in. It was
dark. It was easy to get turned around. My dad was confident in his shot. It
would be a cold night. We agreed to pick up the trail in the morning.
Back at the ranch, the elder Kirby rehashed his lowlight
standoff with the deer. Despite being unable to tell just how many points the
buck was sprouting, my father was sure that he fatally struck him in the boiler
room. While grandma fired up some supper, we passed the time checking the SD
card from the trail camera. There were a few pictures of some decent bucks
roaming by in the past week. We were elated to find pictures of Logan’s deer on
the hoof from the prior Thursday. In the meantime, Logan ate half a loaf of
buttered bread, dunked in Grandma’s canned venison stew and before long; we
were ready to hit the sack. We would finalize the attack plan in the morning.
Day 2 we hit the woods knowing we already had one deer in
hand and potentially another in the bush. Poppa Tom figured he would post for a
bit and maybe by mid-morning, around 9:00, pick up the trail of the deer he
shot at the evening before. What he could not know was how quickly things would
turn from a good morning to a great morning.
Gone are the days of hearing a shot in the distance and
playing the guessing game of direction and caliber. Gone, too, are the days of
handheld radios turned on and tuned in only when shots are fired. No more
waiting game to find out who shot what. Nowadays, a cell phone is just as much
part of the gear list as toilet paper. Another buck came to play and 7:50 am I
got a text from my old man –
“Different buck. Hit
him hard! Should be close by - going to give it a minute.”
Could it possibly be that we had another deer in the hand?
In just over twelve hours, Tom had confidently fired at two bucks. By way of
text message, Logan was practically begging to go help grandpa. My dad held off
the 6th grade recovery team, stating that he didn’t want us to give
up our hunt too early. By 8:12, barely 20 minutes after he shot, doubt was
starting to creep in. The thick swamp compounded the fact that, like me, my dad
is colorblind. He asked for more trackers. Via text I rallied the troops. We
pulled out from the Demars Trail at 8:30 and were on our way to help when 8
minutes later, Dadd fired off a celebratory text. He found the buck from that
morning and knew that he was looking at his biggest to date, maybe even bigger
than Logan’s.
Yep, Big Boy Done.
The news made our walk in from the north seem like a stroll
in the park. Logan, Todd and I openly visited, excited to see another mature
deer down. We spotted my dad about 60 yards to the northwest of his stand,
picking his way through waist high swamp grass. He told us that he had already
found the buck from this morning and was now trying to relocate the faint
traces of blood from the night before.
As soon as he pointed out a speck of blood on a single blade of grass,
it was as if Todd and Logan were shot out of a cannon. The bloodhounds were on
the trail. My dad and I became spectators as the boys picked apart the puzzle
of a twelve-hour-old blood trail. If they were leashed, I couldn’t have held
them back. The two colorblind fools stood by in awe as the trackers’ pace
quickened. When I knew that contact was imminent, the Marine in me dispersed to
the right to provide covering fire if needed. Todd and Logan continued nose to
the ground. My father trailed, beaming with pride, watching his boys do the
dirty work. I scanned the woods and was the first one to spot the distinct
white belly of our third deer.
Big Boy Done.
This fork horn had traveled no more than fifty yards from
the time the .270 flashed in his direction. He took his last Earthly breath
just footsteps past where my dad decided to pull out and play it safe the night
before. No matter, this was another big-bodied deer and marked one of the most
successful opening weekends we’ve had in the Lost River. Hugs and high fives
followed. Not to downplay our appreciation for the fallen deer, but we took no
pictures. Choosing instead to get on to the business of bigger buck.
Poppa Tom directed us to the small tamarack tree that the
buck was getting to know better when he met the business end of the left handed
rifle. There was no blood in the immediate vicinity but having watched it smash
through the underbrush, my dad had a general idea of its direction of travel.
Again, the colorblind hunter was only able to spot a little blood and he took
us to that spot. From there I paused the group. Knowing that my dad had already
found the deer, I thought it was a great opportunity for Logan and Todd to
practice. Again, the bloodhounds were on the trail. It seemed as if they had
been working crime scenes like this together for years. In no time, they were
high stepping it through the thickest part of the Lost River. My Dadd reached
over and held me back. Within 10 yards of the downed deer, it was so thick that
no one could see it. Confident that the sign pointed in the direction of
tangled mess of low hanging branches, Todd and Logan ducked and entered.
What they found was a beautiful, mature, thick, 8-point
buck. Logan rushed to hold it in his hands. Todd circled around to get a better
view. My dad came along side, smiling from ear to ear. I took his weapon,
leaned it against a clump of brush together with mine and then tackled him in
to the tall grass and spongy peat moss. Todd joined in the dog pile. Logan wouldn’t
pull himself from the antlers. For a long time, we all just sat there admiring
the buck and enjoying this cozy little hidden opening in the bush. The final
resting spot for my father’s biggest deer was barely big enough for the four of
us to stand next to each other. For Happy Snappys, we took turns kneeling with
my dad and his trophy.
Eventually, the extraction process would have to begin.
Logan helped his uncle and grandfather gut the big buck. Tom
and Todd marched off to start on the day-old-deer while the Bear and I
retrieved more machinery. Even with the Honda, it would be no small task. The
roots and stumps, along with the tussocks, told a logging story of long ago.
What was once Tamarack and Popple trees is now a quagmire of tangled tag alders
and willow clumps. The flagged trail my father tried to maintain was barely
wide enough for the four-wheeler. Logan steered the machine as best as he could
while I peeled back and tipped over any nagging branches.
The pride in hard work helped ease the shooting pains in my
leg. The pride in knowing we’d experienced a special harvest convinced us to
keep working, one deer at a time. The forkhorn was loaded on to the rear rack
and tied down as best as the rigor mortis would allow. Bit by bit, we took what
the swamp would give us. The lashing held and eventually Logan, the deer and I
were to the road where we dropped of the deer at the pickups and grabbed a
Powerade, mindful to leave some to share with the Kirby men still in the woods.
My brother and dad did their best to pull the big buck out in to a more
manageable area, a place where the wheeler could get to it. Even with that
little drag, they were worn out. The Powerade was a welcomed treat. At the
start of our second extraction, Poppa Tom was already contemplating purchasing
his own ATV. With a deer of this caliber, this was not something he imagined
doing again without machinery of his own.
After nearly two hours of work on two separate deer, the
venison caravan finally hit the gravel road facing a new problem. There wasn’t
enough room in the pickup for the harvested deer and the 4 wheeler. Logan came
up with a great solution and in minutes, he and I were gearing back up for a
triumphant victory lap in to town on the ATV. After Logan put on his helmet, I
enjoyed the ride on back while he jockeyed us all the way home. Todd drove my
truck, loaded with our dad’s best 12 hours afield. And dad? I’m not sure how he
got home… he may have just floated.
Back at civilization, we paused for
more trophy shots. Logan’s deer was already skun out and hanging but we were
able to take its skull and compare antlers with Poppa Tom’s side by side. With
three shots, Logan and Dadd had put down three magnificent deer. Weeks later,
it all still seems like the dream of a perfect hunt.
Big Boy Done.
