The Season Has Begun

On April 30th, the Michigan trout season opened but alas, it was on a Wednesday and I was working. I have not found any free time since either and it makes me grumpy.

For some of the things I love, it's the idea that is the most romantic; like deer hunting.

I used to love hunting deer, or better, the society of deer hunters. There is something deeply stabilizing that occurs around Autumn campfires where old men tell stories of the giant deer of yesteryear when they were boys at the heals of their fathers and grandfather.

My first deer camp took place when I was 12. My dad and I had been invited by the Ferron twins to hunt big Mulies somewhere in the mountains of Utah. It was in November of 1963 and our family was en route from Hawaii to my dad's new duty station at Fort Hood, Texas.

The Ferron twins were mostly responsible for my parent's reactivation in the Church five years earlier, also at Fort Hood, Texas where they had both been stationed after being drafted immediately after they served their missions. This was the old "Senior Aaronic" priesthood days and my dad was still a teacher when I was of the age for baptism so Alvin baptized me and his twin, Calvin, confirmed me. They have remained friend since and it was natural for my parents to visit them as we passed through Utah in the Fall of 1963.

I remember riding up into the mountains with Alvin and my dad the day before the opener and meeting with a number of the Ferron clan already camped at the base of a mountain horse path that lead to a large meadow that was legendary for holding trophy mule deer.

Most had campers but a few, like us, had a tent. That night we sat with Alvin around our own little campfire and ate hot dogs. One of Alvin's cousins, however, had brought his wife and they made steaks that smelled delicious. I jumped at what I had perceived as a offer from the wife. My father whispered to me that it wasn't really an offer to us and I felt as embarrassed as I had ever felt before. I remember and re-create the feeling now, just by writing the memory down.

What little sleep I got that night was ended abruptly as I was rousted from my sleeping bag long before dawn. We ate a sandwich and went to the horses.

There were 6 of us and only 4 horses so I and Calvin's 16 year-old brother-in-law walked behind the men on horseback. It was a steep trail littered with steamy piles of horse crap into which I was destined to step frequently... too frequently.

I remember being terrified that I would step off the trail and careen down a 1000 foot cliff that I was certain bordered both sides of the narrow trail.

When we finally arrived at the sacred place, I was told to stay with the young man with whom I had been walking. and sit on a flat rock that overlooked the lower section of the meadow.

At 12 I was too young to legally hunt deer in Utah but even if I had been old enough, my dad would not have sprung for the out-of-state license. The brother-in-law - whose name escapes me - had a beautiful rifle. It was a Savage, .300 magnum. I know now it was way too much gun for the occasion but when I was 12 it was just right. I envied him.

As the sun rose and it became legal to shoot, I looked around and saw what seemed to be hundreds of deer, peacefully walking in the meadow, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Then the first of a battery of shots broke the stillness of the crisp, morning air. I saw large bucks fall and others run off with puffs of dust from missed opportunities in the dirt behind them. My hunting partner had not even raised his rifle to peer out of the scope. I was confused.

When I asked him about it, he told me, essentially, to shut up and that he was waiting for a big buck. I shrugged and shut up.

Within minutes of that brief exchange I saw a very, large buck and pointed it out to him. Apparently he agreed so stood up and began firing away... and missing.

The buck didn't seem to notice and kind of stood there looking around. Why someone else didn't drop him I'll never know, but when I looked at my partner all I saw was that he was literally shaking with every shot.

The deer was between 80 and a hundred yards away, standing on the edge of a small grove of Quaking Aspen. I quietly suggested that he try shooting from the prone position but he ignore me.

I can't be sure, but he had to have fired 10 times. I know he reloaded once and fired a couple of times after that. Still the buck didn't seem to notice. I suggested again that he either lay down or sit down to shoot. This time he because angry and said something stupid.

"If you think you can do any better, then prove it." He handed me the rifle.

I should preface the rest of this part of the story with some informational detail.

A few days prior to the deer hunt, Alvin had taken my dad and I to some wilderness prairie in the southern part of Utah to sight in his 30.06. We all sat on the side of a foot hill while Alvin shot at jackrabbits below. It seemed a good way to sight in a gun.

When it was where he wanted it, he handed the rifle to me and asked if I wanted to try. It would be the first time I had ever fired a caliber larger than a .22. I shot 5 times and killed 5 jackrabbits. My dad even complimented me; but he really deserved the credit as he had taught me how to shoot straight with a .22 and the concept was the same although I never shot a .22 with a scope.

So, back to the flat rock in the meadow and my hunting partner is a mocking challenge handing me his rifle. I took it.

I laid down on my stomach and rested my left elbow on the rock as I shouldered the Savage. I put the cross hairs where I thought the buck's heart ought to be and squeezed the trigger. KERBLAM!!!

The buck jumped once and then fell. My hunting partner grabbed the rifle and headed down the hill toward the buck. I ran to catch up and when I did, he told me to get back to the rock. This time I told him I wouldn't. I wanted to see my first buck up close. That's when he threatened to beat me up if I told anyone I had shot the deer. He was going to claim it as his kill. I didn't say a word.

My dad had seen me head off the flat rock and he and Alvin met us at the deer. My partner immediately began telling everyone how he had shot it. That's when I decided to risk getting beat up.

I know it was not much of a risk with both my dad and Alvin standing there but I was twelve and not all that familiar with risk assessment.

"Actually, he missed it a bunch of times and let me try. I killed the deer." I said, or something similar.

The kid's face turned red and he clinched his fists; not like he was going to hit me but like he was going to throw a tantrum... which he did. It was a great tantrum too.

In it he claimed I was lying but he also threatened to call the game warden and tell them I had killed a deer without a license, etc. etc.

Alvin and my dad just looked at each other and then at me. "Come on, Scottie," Alvin said, "why don't you finish the day with your dad and me."

As reluctant as I was to leave my deer, I did. As we walked to where they had been sitting, Alvin told me that his twin brother's brother-in-law was somewhat of a spoiled brat who had been given everything he's ever wanted, etc. etc.

My dad was pretty silent so I asked him if he was mad at me. He smiled and assured me that he was not. He did say that I should have refused the offer to shoot the deer only because what I had done was technically illegal. I then began to worry that there would be someone back at camp with handcuffs, but Alvin assured me that the tag on the buck would have my former hunting partner's name on it and that it had been killed with a bullet from the gun owned by the same.

The day ended with Alvin, my dad and me field dressing a medium sized buck that Alvin had shot. I helped by not getting in the way while I watched closely how it was done.

The two men lashed the buck to one of the horses and then we all three walked, my dad leading the second horse and Alvin the one holding his deer, back to camp.

In the daylight, I saw there were no cliffs on either side of the trail but that there was a stream that ran on one side, that looked like it would be loaded with cutthroat trout. I remember feeling as near to being a man as I had ever felt before, walking with these two men and being part of a trio of men who hunt.

When we arrived at the camp, there were about 20 deer hanging from stands but the deer I had killed was nowhere to be seen; nor was my former hunting partner. Apparently he had not made it back yet. I remember thinking that he didn't have a horse and wondered if his reputation had kept the other men from offering to help him; help he would have needed because it was such a large animal.

We broke camp and headed home. The next day was Sunday and there were church services to attend. The day after that my family loaded of the station wagon and headed for Texas.

In Texas I was already old enough to hunt deer legally and the next season my dad took me after the legendary whitetails of the Blue Bonnet State. The Christmas before he had given me the Model .94 Winchester that his father had given to him and in November of 1964 I killed my first legal deer.

Because of the Vietnam War, my dad and I didn't hunt deer together again until the Fall of 1968 when we went with my cousin to hunt the Early Winters area in the Cascades outside of Twisp Washington. We camped and hunted for a week. My dad killed a grouse which we ate for dinner one night and I killed a doe for which I had no tag. We ate as much of it as we could and left the rest for the magpies and crows. I swear I saw antlers before I shot.

That was the last time I hunted deer with my dad. 1968 marked the beginning of a long list of lasts with my dad. Vietnam had changed him and I really couldn't find any direction where he was concerned, except away.

So, what's all this have to do with the opened of trout season in Michigan in 2008?

Nothing really, it was a tangent that grew from this comment: "For some of the things I love, it's the idea that's the most romantic; like deer hunting."

Trout fishing is different. While the idea if great, the doing is better. Perhaps because it is something that is best enjoyed alone.

I never saw the Calvin's brother-in-law again but a few years after Deb and I got married we moved to Utah and we visited Calvin and Diane Ferron at their home in Farmington, Utah. I asked about him and learned he had served a mission, returned and got married and was raising a family as he served in the bishopric of his ward.

I have often wondered over the years, if the head of that giant mule deer could be found hanging somewhere in his house and if he ever felt guilty about stealing it from me.