Within all of us is the power of change. When motivated
accordingly, the human spirit can accomplish great things. We can move
mountains. “Change is good”, some say. Others fear change, author included.
Maybe it’s not so much as fearing change but more so being comfortable in
established routines. I like the way it’s always been.
And then a summer breeze changed things.
Aesop wrote a fable about the Great Oak tree that grew by the
river. Proud of its size and strength, the tree boasted that it couldn’t be
bothered. One day, a fierce wind howled and although it had always been
stronger than the wind, this day the Great Oak tree was bested. The wind tore
the tree from its roots and sent it crashing to the ground amongst a clump of reeds.
The frail and slender reeds were unharmed by the anger of the wind. The Great
Oak tree had faced the wind, head on and failed. He could not understand how
the reeds survived. The reeds replied, “You were too stubborn, Great Oak. You
stood and fought the wind, although it was stronger than you. We reeds knew
that we were weak and frail, so we bent with the wind and let it pass
harmlessly over our heads.”
Sometime in the past few months, a
summer breeze strengthened and blew across the Lost River swamp that some have
called the Kirby State Forest. That stiff wind toppled a few tamarack trees
that dot the swampy landscape. Unfortunately, one of those trees was tied to
Poppa Tom’s tripod deer stand, and the whole kit and kaboodle is now a tangled
mess of its former self. The picture came via text on October 20th.
It seems the Winds of Change were blowing through the Kirby Deer Camp.
About the same time that Logan and I
were brainstorming creative ways to cram 500 pounds of deer hunters in to a
200-pound sack, Tyler joined in on the conversation. Logan’s big brother was on
the brink of accepting a new job, which in turn, meant that he’d be severing
ties with his current employer. Finding himself with a little extra time on his
hands in the coming weeks, Tyler began to inquire about rejoining a hunting
party that he’d been astray from for almost 10 years.
This was fantastic news but
presented some new problems. Ya see, swamp brush, encroaching neighbors and No
Trespassing signs have enveloped the public lands that we’ve hunted for close
to 30 years. With the passing of every rifle season, it seems as if we’re
getting choked out. There are only a few accessible stands and even fewer
friendly ways in and out of our little piece of tax forfeited paradise. If we
added Tyler to the hunting party northwest of Warroad, we’d be trying to place
5 hunters along the Demars trail that has just 3 dilapidated stands to offer. The
math wasn’t working, and Grandpa Tom was about to bow out when his brother offered
a solution.
Move Kamp.
Uncle Tim lives in a slick little,
Father-In-Law, bachelor pad just a stone’s throw from his grandkids. Even in
the age of CORONA, he was sure that he could convince Aaron to open his home and
hunting grounds. Together, they would
work on Arica. Not being one to self-invite, I called my cousin to test the
waters. Aaron excitedly rattled off the location of enough deer stands to host
a bigger hunting party and eagerly offered up sleeping quarters on the floor of
his dad’s new place or in the cramped confines of the fish house parked in his
driveway. That fish house parked in his driveway turned out to be a brand new 29-foot
American Freedom Ice Castle with room to sleep seven. When Logan heard the news
that Deer Kamp was relocated to an Ice Castle, he was all in. Rogue, straight-line
winds toppled my dad’s deer stand and limited the capacity on our traditional
hunting grounds along the Canadian border, but those same winds gave us an
opportunity to bring the family back to hunt together again, albeit in a new
location.
So, it was
set. Deer Kamp 2020 would be at the corner of Spencer and Buzzle Roads, just
west of Highway 89 near Bemidji.
Maybe change is good.
Distance Learning has come with plenty
pros and cons. Obviously, I’d rather have my children in school and as a
teacher, I’d rather be building relationships with face to face, student
interactions in the classroom. With kids on the opposite end of an internet
connection, I have diligently created and delivered my content videos and
navigated the new world of Schoology. Logan and Emma have adjusted to new
learning styles as well. Emma is knocking out college level classes like a
champ and Logan is balancing a flexible school schedule with as much hunting as
he can muster. What this all really means is that, thanks to Distance Learning,
we were able to point the truck north and head for Bemidji much earlier on
Friday afternoon than we had previously anticipated.
With enough food, ammo and supplies
to take over a small country, Tyler, Logan and I pulled into Aaron’s drive about
4 hours later. It was just after sunset
and a pleasant surprise to see Poppa Tom wander over from Tim’s place, as I wasn’t
expecting him until the next day. Hugs and handshakes flew as the innkeeper
showed us his new digs. The 8-hole ice house wouldn’t produce any walleyes that
weekend but it was more than ample room for the boys and I to stretch out and
comfortably have a place to call our own. We laid out sleeping bags to claim
our bunks. Filled the refrigerator with beer and sandwich meat. We staged our
hunting gear in the adjacent garage for our early morning rendezvous and then headed
in the big house for supper and one of the best burgers on record.
Crispy bacon, lightly toasted buns,
delicately melted cheeses – Pepper Jack for some, American for me, and the
juiciest hamburger patties you can imagine… it was a perfect complement to the
family fellowship surrounding Aaron’s handcrafted dining room table. Dinner was
chased down with a few beers and plenty of laughter. When things got serious
and someone questioned our morning assignments, I produced black and white,
aerial photos for our host to mark up with stand locations. Aaron dotted the
maps and passed them around to those of us that would be walking into
unfamiliar woods in 10 short hours. He gave a few specifics about the quality
and type of stand at each dot. We listened patiently while our outfitter shared
stories of solo deer hunts long gone. With a poker face, Tim played his cards
close to his chest and instructed us to pick our spots. Knowing Aaron’s
tendency to hang small platform stands scratching the heavens, I was most
comfortable putting each of my boys in ladder stands. Tyler choose the double
to the west, leaving Logan with the single across the gravel pit to the east.
Aaron suggested that he could drop each one of us off with his wheeler, thus
putting him to the east with Logan and me to the south in a small portable.
Uncle Tim was left with the last pick but the cushiest digs, in a box stand
that he could walk to from his condo. Poppa Tom elected to sit this season out
and offered up words of encouragement and a sharp knife when needed. Aaron
broke out the trail camera pictures to get the blood flowing and more family
fellowship followed under the watchful eyes of a giant elk in the trophy room.
The stories eventually gave way as we retired to our own quiet places to scour
social media and rest up for sunrise.
The unseasonably mild weather and
the temperature controls of the Ice Castle afforded me the comfort of sleeping
in basketball shorts atop the full-sized bed I previously claimed as Head of Household.
Tyler and Logan squeezed into the bunks at the other end of the “fish house”
and let the glowing lights of their cell phones lull them to sleep, their
alarms set for 5:30 am. A few hours later, as is often the case, I was awake in
eager anticipation waiting on the boys’ alarms to sound. Alarms that signal the
official start of the most festive of days – Deer Opener. Not as bright eyed
and bushy tailed but equally excited, the boys soon joined me. We wolfed down a
few chocolate chip muffins and some may have whizzed in the yard. Regardless,
the hunting party assembled in the garage to gear up in blaze orange and break
out the heavy irons.
Tim’s stand was a leisurely walk
from his front porch, so he was left to his own timeline. Our departure time
was set for 6:15 and right on schedule, the four of us mounted Aaron’s Honda. 4
Cowboys on 1 Pony is always a thing of beauty. With Aaron at the helm and each
of the boys sitting behind him atop a wheel well, unloaded guns were pointed skyward.
I mounted the front rack and clicked on my headlamp for added piece of mind as
we motored off into the obscure darkness.
After we dropped Tyler off at his morning post, I moved to
the left side wheel-well, alongside Logan. The flat, farmland trail that we had
just crossed was no problem for the heavily loaded 4-wheeler but now we were on
the rolling trails of the Beltrami County Highway Department land. On a shallow
incline, the Honda groaned, begging for a lower gear. Aaron obliged and I
almost went ass over teakettle off the back. Luckily, the guide grabbed my legs
to keep me onboard. I think he felt obligated because I was holding both of our
rifles. My youngest son, however, offered no support but laughed at the sight
of his old man struggling to stay upright in the moon lit morning ride. In no
time, we parked along side the gravel pit and scurried off to our hand-picked
hunting stands.
Logan and Aaron escorted me to the south cut but I rambled
down the fence line alone, carefully searching for my assigned post. It was as
I imagined, a small discreet portable, staged high in a cluster of three
equally small red oaks. I took a deep breath and headed straight up. The
climbing sticks held. I eased into the Lone Wolf stand and slid a live round in
the .30-06 with just a few minutes to spare before legal shooting light. Those
few extra minutes afforded me a moment to familiarize myself with the territory
and to say a prayer of thankfulness not just because I safely reached the stand
but because our family was back together in the woods again.
My pre-dawn, deer stand prayers tend to be long, like the
written words here. I usually start with giving thanks for my loving wife and
the health and happiness of her and the kids. I figure that takes a good fifteen
minutes or more. From there I move to praise for extended family and friends
and ask for their safety and the watchful eye of the Lord over them all while I
know many are crawling into their stands across our far-reaching state. Another
five to ten minutes typically pass in prayer with very little mention of giant
deer and only a little outright begging. I do what I can to stay alert in the
darkened treetops and prayer is what gets me through. And like every opener
that has come before – my prayers are interrupted by that FIRST shot of the
morning. This time was no different.
Well, I take that back. Things were different. We were not in
the swamps and sloughs that we’d become accustomed to. The family hunting party
had gathered 120 miles or so south of the Lost River in the open farmland and
gentle rolling hardwoods or Aaron’s little slice of Heaven. The first shots
fired abruptly ended my prayer and signaled that business was open and by the
sounds of the ringing in the hills, business was good. After losing track of
just how many shots were fired, Tyler and Logan later surmised that there
wouldn’t be a buck left standing in the county. Shots came from every direction
possible but none that were taken by our kin. At one point, Tyler text me that
it sounded like the 4th of July. The warm weather made it feel like
the summer holiday too. That warmth kept us in the stand longer than usual.
For me, the morning was eventful. At about 9 o’clock, I had
three does scoot from west to east. I practiced my aim as each one carefully
looked behind with no buck in follow. An hour or so later, another small deer
infiltrated my perimeter and played around within bow range for a while. I tried
to snap a picture as it walked off in Tyler’s direction. And at about 10:45 a six-point
buck slipped in with a Hall Pass. I took video to later share on Social Media
to prove that I had him within 20 yards and to also prove that letting little
dudes walk, produces bigger dudes next season. I watched the young buck leap
the fence and knew if he walked within gunshot range of Tyler, that he’d be
eating lead for lunch. The deer did not and crossed back over the fence and
disappeared safely to the south. Logan’s morning report was filled with
gobbling turkeys. Tyler talked about kissing chickadees. Aaron and Tim were
also blanked. At about 11:00, we retreated to the house for sloppy joes.
The evening hunt produced more close encounters with the
turkeys. Logan got face time with a doe and Tyler had an unfortunate mishap
with the cap of his scent bottle. On the darkened drive out, the 4 cowboys on 1
pony spotted a couple of deer in the field that sparked some interest in a
backup plan from my boys. After grilled pork chops, a killer pasta salad and a
few suds for dinner, we rolled some dice and smack talked amongst family. Although
the oldest brother swore that his fate was doomed by this decision, Tyler and
Logan agreed to switch stands the next morning. Day 1 ended peacefully, without
a shot fired from the Kirby Krew.
Day 2 of our hunt started out with much less fanfare and far
fewer shots in the distance. The quiet and warm peacefulness of the woods
comforted and convinced us all that we could handle more than three hours
afield. Restlessness hit the youngest of the tribe first. After his morning nap
was interrupted by a roughed grouse, Logan text me trying to arrange a shotgun
delivery from Poppa Tom. Back at the ranch, Grandpa agreed to a little
adventure. At about 9:30, he mustered up a twenty gauge and some blaze orange
and hoofed it out to meet up with his grandson. By then the grouse was gone so
the two meandered closer to the gravel pit to stand overwatch from the highest
ridge. Shortly thereafter, Tyler began texting his thoughts on pulling the plug
on our morning hunt. He suggested that an early lunch today would help us
return to the stands earlier in the afternoon than we did yesterday. Without
having seen any deer on Day 2, I agreed and said we could start rounding
everyone up at 10:45.
With an extraction
plan in place, I started to pack my gear for the descent from the treetops of
the trio of red oaks. Through smoke signals or telepathy or some other
unexplainable way of communicating, Aaron reminded me of my 5th
General Order. “To Quit My Post Only When Properly Relieved.” By divine intervention, I decided to stand the
full watch and choose not to prematurely leave the Lone Wolf. Thank the Good
Lord that I stayed.
Minutes before extraction, a shooter buck scurried in from
the east, with a fixed purpose to his gait. I readied my rifle and searched for
his profile through the timbers. The buck weaved in and out of the scope
reticle so fast that my heart rate never had a chance to catch up. He
approached me head on and suddenly took a slight turn towards the northwest
ridge. I quickly decided that might be my only chance as I hastily readjusted
and waited for him to clear the next opening in the forest. When he did, I let
out a guttural bleat in order to get him to stop. He didn’t. The buck slid through
the woods, fast approaching a safe escape into the saplings. The next time that my crosshairs caught up
with the deer, I lit off my 30-.06 and listened to it echo throughout the back
country of Beltrami County. It was 10:42 a.m.
******************************************************************************
The following five hours were filled
with elation, anticipation, and excitement as the blood trail led us into the
thicket. Eventually, the jovial spirit of our tracking team changed to doubt,
fear and exhaustion while the sun warmed the sticks, causing many of us to shed
no longer necessary layers of clothes. After circling back on the last known
spot of clotted blood for a third time, we decided to walk blindly into the
bush – standing 5 abreast. That effort proved to be just as fruitless as the
previous 3 hours when Tim offered to rejoin us on the trail. A renewed sense of
optimism helped refuel our desire to find the next speck of blood and
eventually a fallen deer. Having long since ran out of water and with lunch on
everyone’s mind, our spirits wavered from confident to confused just as many
times as we picked up and repeatedly dropped the same blood trail. Logan kept
score of time spent and miles traveled with the online tracker built into his
phone. Tyler started to see the importance of a marked trail with me leaving
bits of toilet paper hanging from branch to branch. Somewhere, we lost Poppa
Tom back towards the 4wheeler and eventually we ran in to the neighbors as they
returned to their stand for an afternoon hunt. It was that neighbor that led us
to the southwest corner of the property and substantial amount of blood leading
into a small swamp. The Krew decided to back out for a bit and reconvene our
efforts after some nourishments back at camp. Hopefully the break would give
the wounded deer time expire and would give Aaron a chance to secure permission
to continue our search on adjacent property as needed. I hung my head in shame
that it was my hurried and poorly placed shot that had caused this, hours long,
mystery to consume us.
The boys and I scarfed down
sandwiches and rested our aching feet in the Ice Castle. Poppa Tom emerged from
the woods at some point and moseyed over to say his goodbyes. Aaron was on the
phone with landowners and headed down the road seeking permission throughout
the neighborhood. When he knocked on one neighbor’s door, he was cordially
invited in while she finished up her shower. The friendly invite was a case of
mistaken identity, but she did oblige on our request for land access. On a
whim, Aaron pulled over in the vicinity of the southwest swamp and found a
bloodbath splattered across the road. He knew then that the buck was not far
off and hurried home to reassemble the troops. In the meantime, half of the
tracking team was ready for reassignment.
Exhausted of their best tracking
efforts, Tyler and Logan conjured up an evening plan to sit together in the
ground blind across Aaron’s field. Without his whole heart in it this year, my
father pointed his Jeep north. Tim, Aaron and I loaded the pickup and like the
hero in a country western, Uncle Tim quipped, “Ready to go get your deer?” As
long as the last five hours had been, the next five minutes passed in a rush.
The significant blood trail crossed the road and painted a path into Ms.
Garrigan’s property. With firearms at the ready, Aaron and I dispersed with Tim
in tow. Suddenly the buck made one last valiant attempt to get to his feet and
escape out the back door once more. He was met with a volley of rifle fire and
took his last courageous breaths at 3:45 pm. Our diligent search was over.
My mid-morning rushed shot entered
his front left side and exited through the opposite shoulder. It had not
connected with any vitals, but the broken leg coupled with heavy blood loss
would have eventually resulted in his demise but possibly without our recovery.
Through the relentless tracking efforts of my family, we learned another
painstaking lesson in perseverance and proper shot placement. Via text, the
boys asked to come down. As they scampered down the road, we called my dad and
insisted that he reverse course and join us for some family pictures and
fellowship with the 10 point Buck that had truly been a team effort.
Following
an invite to run up to her favorite local establishment to buy my tracking
party that case of beer I promised, Arica was already buckled in the truck when
Aaron came running out on to the porch asking us if we heard the shot. We had
not but apparently, Logan and/or Tyler had shot from the ground blind and sent
deer scurrying for the tree line. I grabbed the binoculars and scoured the edge
of the woods for a sign. Another text message announced that both had shot, and
they were confident that at least one deer had fallen. I wrestled with the
thought of my boys needing my assistance but was reminded by Arica that they
had abandoned me just over an hour earlier when the biology lesson of a gut
pile was eminent. If in fact a deer was down, they could figure it out on their
own. We went to the bar.
In the short time it took to run up
to the place formerly known as Dale’s, the sun had faded, and darkness taken
over. In the distance you could see headlights panning from left to right. The
boys were on another blood trail. Aaron grabbed a high-powered lantern, his four-wheeler
and a couple of kids. I hoofed it across the field on my own, eager to hear the
next unraveling mystery.
At sunset, a doe and a yearling entered the field. Sitting side
by side in the ground blind, Tyler and Logan counted down from three and like
practiced members of the silent drill team, simultaneously fired two shots. It
was evident that the deer Logan aimed at was mortally wounded. They watched it
expire just over the fence. “Didn’t go 20” was the text. Officially it will be
recorded as an antlerless deer, its buttons argued otherwise. Tyler was certain
that he had cleanly missed. Imagine their surprise when a second trail of blood
was discovered. By the time that the rest of the gang had joined them, Tyler
was beginning to understand that he may have connected on a successful shot as
well. Glowing curtains of red covered the twisted alders and scrub brush. All
the signs of a double lung shot amped up the intensity of the search. When the
trail made a hard-clockwise turn, Tyler thought we had lost it and you could
hear doubt creep into his voice again. About that time, I peeled back from the
rest of the group and widened my focus and not 10 yards from us lay the third
deer of the day, a beautiful doe. My two sons and I had successfully taken a
deer on the same day, albeit not without a little drama along the way.
As always, pictures were next. Luckily, we had a 9-year-old
apprentice photographer along to offer professional lighting suggestions to
balance the energy and joyfulness casting a glow in the darkened woods. Much
work followed. Father-son lessons on field dressing. A couple of phone calls
and text messages to Mom and grandfathers to the north and to the south. The
misty fog turned to a cold drizzle while the last deer was lifted on to the
wheeler. The kids and Aaron went on ahead with a load full of venison.
Oblivious to the developing weather, Tyler, Logan and I laughed our way across
the field, pausing a few times to recount, retell and replay it all over again.
That was the moment I lived for.
For a second or maybe a third time, Arica reheated our dinner,
Emma’s goulash paired perfectly with a couple of loaves of French bread. We
comfortably shared another meal in the warmth of the house, while outside, the
drizzle turned to rain and sleet pelted the dining room windows. With full
stomachs, there was more work to be done. Deer to be hung and skinned. Gear to
be cleaned and stowed. As the night wore on, the northwest wind picked up and
announced a change.
Aesop’s Great Oak was too stubborn and fought the changing
winds. This night uncomfortable, biting, wind brought with it a drop to frigid
temperatures. Aaron and Tim would not be hunting on Monday morning as both were
relegated to hammering away at another day’s work. With three filled tags, my
boys and I knew that the stinging winds of change were not to be fought. We
could sleep in and like Aesop’s Reeds – let the cold winds of change pass
harmlessly over our heads.
