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MY LAST DEER?
Another of my recent letters to Buck: November 24, 24 Buck, I may have harvested my last deer. Now, hear me out. We’ve got to go back to the early years and see where we started and where we’ve come.
You and I both know what it was like in the late 50’s to late 60’s growing up where we did.
Times were tough. Admittedly, more difficult for you than me.
Most families around us were in the same shape as us. When we came of age, deer hunting was the ability for our families to have more canned venison in the pantry and steaks and roasts in the freezer. Though it was just you, your mom and your sister, we were a family of eight, and when it got late in the winter, times could get hungry. Two deer went a lot further than one. By the time I started to hunt, we now could get three.
I ‘spose it could almost be considered a chore. As youngin’s we helped split and carry firewood.
Pickin’ rocks and weeds out of the garden were expected from me and my siblings. When late summer came, we had a regular assembly line of divided responsibilities from huskin’ corn and pickin’ beans all the way from the garden to sealed glass jars in the basement. Picking blueberries and raspberries was a family affair.
As the oldest son, it was my job to keep the yard mowed. The girls fed the chickens and gathered eggs. Dad almost bought a cow one year, but Schjenkens down the road sold us milk cheaply enough. Saved me a bunch of work! On top of that, fishing would keep the fish plate from getting empty and hunting grouse and ducks were always a treat.
The biggest thrill was adding venison to our fare at the end of fall.
That hunting and fishing business left a different flavor in my mouth compared to the rest of the “chores”, however!
There was an excitement to the hunt. Carrots couldn’t get away from you, but northern pike and deer could easily evade if you didn’t learn how to find and harvest them. There were bragging rights in play when you’d get back from opening weekend and compare stories with your buddies at school. Your vocabulary would expand to adult words such as “tracking” and “the rut” and “8-pointers”. It was time to grow into spinning reels instead of cane poles and 30-30’s instead of .22’s and BB guns. We didn’t have any subscriptions, but copies of “Outdoor Life” and “Sports Afield” could always be found and told exciting tales of chasing all kinds of game. The histories and mysteries and lore of pursuing game in the wild were well established before I came along. I longed to be part of that culture.
I could hardly contain myself as the days leading up to the fishing opener, grouse opener and the beginning of duck season took their sweet time in arriving. I remember once when I was 10 and the second Saturday in September broke to a beautiful morning. The sun was barely up, and I looked out my bedroom window and saw a grouse feeding on the clover in our yard. I ran downstairs to my parent’s bedroom, swung open the door and yelled “Get the gun out!
There’s a partridge in the yard!”
For some reason my dad wasn’t nearly excited as I and growled at me to “get back to bed!” I loved duck hunting with a passion and had a hard time understanding why he didn’t want to get out before sunrise every morning in October.
All that changed as the deer opener approached. MEA weekend was the time for repairing old stands and making new ones.
Guns were taken from the closet, cleaned, oiled and sighted in preparation. Opening morning was sacred. Who was going to this stand and that stand, and how the drives would be done were gone over like battle plans.
Dad’s knowledge of the land and deer haunts and habits came from decades of experience hunting behind Snaptail Lake. To be honest, we were meat hunters. We talked of numbers of deer, not points on a rack. Success meant plenty of venison meals for the winter.
Then, things took a different direction about the time I went to college. Being from “Up North”, all the farm boys from around Mankato and the city boys from Minneapolis were impressed by my telling tales of catching fish and hunting deer. They expected nothing less. By my junior year my roommates from Hastings begged to come up deer hunting with me. Herbie, Duff and Sandkamp were as excited as I was when I was 10!
Financially, times had gotten better for the folks. Venison was still a favorite at our table, but its necessity had diminished a bit and hunting for hunting’s sake started to replace need. It was nice to not feel pressure to get a deer and start to enjoy the comradery and experience more.
Years have passed by. My goals and reasons for hunting have changed. Getting into the forest, reading sign and trying to outsmart what I was hunting took precedence over shooting something. I arrived at a point where I didn’t need the table fare. I’ve harvested lots of game and other aspects of hunting became more important to me. Twenty years ago, I started doing some hunting with a camera. I could employ the same skills and knowledge that I used to harvest game and find grouse and deer to capture with my camera. I would tell people that I sometimes practiced “shoot and release”. I haven’t stopped hunting with a gun altogether but spend more time with my Canon in hand than with my Winchester. Ethics have always been important to me. A fair chase.
Following hunting and landowner laws. Harvesting cleanly and eating anything I take have been solid rules my whole life. Lately, another ethical question has been rolling around in my head.
I’ve read for many years that ancient cultures – more in tune with the natural world – would spiritually interact with their harvest. If successful with a hunt they would feel remorse for taking a life. They would apologize to a deer, or a moose or a buffalo and explain that the sacrifice was needed for their family to survive. Sometimes they would give an offering such as tobacco. I understand that more so now late in life than when I was young. It explains some of the ambivalence I feel these days when I take to the field, gun in hand. I will not renounce hunting. There are too many great aspects to it. But I am more aware of if I will take aim and fire, than absolutely knowing that shooting is a given.
That brings me to this year.
As you know, I shot a nice buck opening weekend. It’s the first deer I’ve taken since 2016. The years in between have not been a waste. I don’t need venison to make it through the winter. I don’t need a trophy to hang on the wall. I have thoroughly enjoyed dozens of days traipsing through the woods. Also, spending quality time with my family – especially the grandkids. The culture and excitement is carried to another generation.
Will I take another deer? I certainly don’t have to. I won’t feel I have failed if I don’t. Each day brings its own circumstance and only time will tell. For the last twenty years of my dad’s life, he would be adamant that “I’m not going to buy a license this year.”
Yet, every Friday before season he did, “just in case”. I’m kinda close to that stage of my life.
I will say though. It’s been long enough that I forgot how much I like the taste of venison!
Food for thought.
Hoops
