After 25 years, it's time to renew an old hunting tradition
GRAND FORKS, N.D. -- It had been 25 years since I hunted deer on this patch of land near the Canadian border, but there I was, watching and waiting, bright and early Saturday morning, Nov. 6.
It felt good to be back.
Looking out the window of the heated stand, which I share with a hunting partner who wasn't even born the last time I opened the deer season here, I think about how little the countryside has changed since that November day in 1985.
I also think about how many things have changed.
As I do every November, I give a silent toast to the "old guard," my dad and uncle Mervin, who were the unofficial leaders of the hunting crew that used to gather for deer season.
Dad died just before Christmas 1992, and the deer license he'd purchased that fall went unused. Mervin followed in 2005, just weeks after he'd shot his last deer at the age of 87.
In many ways, those two old boys were the glue that held the hunting crew together.
Those were the days when hunting deer meant pushing big patches of brush, part of the crew walking through the trees to roust a buck or doe while the rest of the hunters stood "on post" at the perimeter, hoping for a quick shot at any deer that busted from the thicket.
There were eight to 10 of us then, sometimes more, and deer hunting was a social occasion. Friends and relatives still gather, and some drive hundreds of miles, but the hunt today is more of a solitary affair, usually spent waiting in a stand for a deer to come out in its own good time, if at all.
That's not all bad, either, I thought to myself Saturday, grateful for the glowing orange of the propane heater that took the chill out of the morning air.
Then, I flash back to that morning in 1985.
Our crew had already shot a couple of deer when we decided to push a patch of woods -- the same woods my hunting partner and I watched Saturday morning from the window of our stand.
I was still in my early 20s then, not a trace of gray in my hair, and deer hunting was something I could take or leave.
As one of the younger people in our crew, I was relegated to pushing brush most of the time. But on that morning 25 years ago, I had been picked to stand post. My dad was on post at the far corner of the field several hundred yards away.
The hunters pushing the brush had barely entered the woods when I saw them, two large bucks, which busted out of the trees on a direct course for my dad. I watched the whole scene unfold as he raised his rifle.
You can pretty much guess what happened next.
I never fired a shot, but the encounter remains one of my favorite hunting memories, perhaps because it's the last time I hunted deer with my dad.
He was 74 years old at the time, and he made it look easy.
I quit deer hunting after moving to Grand Forks later that fall, deciding I didn't enjoy it enough to shell out the bucks for a nonresident Minnesota license. But I got back into it in 2004, when I joined a friend to hunt his parents' land in northwestern North Dakota.
The next year, I finally tasted success when I shot a big doe south of Petersburg, N.D.
I've shot other deer since then, all in North Dakota. But this year, "coming home" felt right.
No matter where I live, this piece of land will always be home.
And so we waited Saturday morning, my young hunting partner and I, scanning our surroundings for a glimpse of brown to walk into shooting range.
There are no guarantees, of course, but as with deer hunters everywhere, I hope for success.
If it happens, it will have nothing to do with me raising my rifle.
Instead, my hope is that I'll have the privilege of watching a young hunter shoot his first deer -- just as I watched an old hunter shoot two of his last deer 25 years ago.
On this same piece of land.
Copyright 2010 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.It felt good to be back.
Looking out the window of the heated stand, which I share with a hunting partner who wasn't even born the last time I opened the deer season here, I think about how little the countryside has changed since that November day in 1985.
I also think about how many things have changed.
As I do every November, I give a silent toast to the "old guard," my dad and uncle Mervin, who were the unofficial leaders of the hunting crew that used to gather for deer season.
Dad died just before Christmas 1992, and the deer license he'd purchased that fall went unused. Mervin followed in 2005, just weeks after he'd shot his last deer at the age of 87.
In many ways, those two old boys were the glue that held the hunting crew together.
Those were the days when hunting deer meant pushing big patches of brush, part of the crew walking through the trees to roust a buck or doe while the rest of the hunters stood "on post" at the perimeter, hoping for a quick shot at any deer that busted from the thicket.
There were eight to 10 of us then, sometimes more, and deer hunting was a social occasion. Friends and relatives still gather, and some drive hundreds of miles, but the hunt today is more of a solitary affair, usually spent waiting in a stand for a deer to come out in its own good time, if at all.
That's not all bad, either, I thought to myself Saturday, grateful for the glowing orange of the propane heater that took the chill out of the morning air.
Then, I flash back to that morning in 1985.
Our crew had already shot a couple of deer when we decided to push a patch of woods -- the same woods my hunting partner and I watched Saturday morning from the window of our stand.
I was still in my early 20s then, not a trace of gray in my hair, and deer hunting was something I could take or leave.
As one of the younger people in our crew, I was relegated to pushing brush most of the time. But on that morning 25 years ago, I had been picked to stand post. My dad was on post at the far corner of the field several hundred yards away.
The hunters pushing the brush had barely entered the woods when I saw them, two large bucks, which busted out of the trees on a direct course for my dad. I watched the whole scene unfold as he raised his rifle.
You can pretty much guess what happened next.
I never fired a shot, but the encounter remains one of my favorite hunting memories, perhaps because it's the last time I hunted deer with my dad.
He was 74 years old at the time, and he made it look easy.
I quit deer hunting after moving to Grand Forks later that fall, deciding I didn't enjoy it enough to shell out the bucks for a nonresident Minnesota license. But I got back into it in 2004, when I joined a friend to hunt his parents' land in northwestern North Dakota.
The next year, I finally tasted success when I shot a big doe south of Petersburg, N.D.
I've shot other deer since then, all in North Dakota. But this year, "coming home" felt right.
No matter where I live, this piece of land will always be home.
And so we waited Saturday morning, my young hunting partner and I, scanning our surroundings for a glimpse of brown to walk into shooting range.
There are no guarantees, of course, but as with deer hunters everywhere, I hope for success.
If it happens, it will have nothing to do with me raising my rifle.
Instead, my hope is that I'll have the privilege of watching a young hunter shoot his first deer -- just as I watched an old hunter shoot two of his last deer 25 years ago.
On this same piece of land.
Posted in Outdoors on Thursday, November 11, 2010 2:00 pm Deer Hunting
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