Truth be told, this is a deer hunting tale. So those squeamish when it comes to embellishments and gross exaggeration should avert their eyes to the following. No lie — at least not the baldfaced, but the blaze orange variety.
Around 4:30 p.m. this past Saturday, the fates brought together my nimrod self and a Field & Stream fall issue cover model. Talk about aligning the stars, moon and the muzzle of a bolt action 30.06 rifle. As luck would have it, this falls under the plain or dumb category for either of us.
The annual sojourn into the woods to practice poor hygiene and tell tall tales about whitetails — otherwise known as deer camp — started off on an awkward foot this year. However, it had nothing to do with an overloaded backpack and everything to do with poor parental planning on my part. So on opening day of the 2007 deer season I found myself not in a hunting blind, but visiting the Burnishes. This would be the doll house family that takes up residence in my five-year-old daughter's bedroom.
Thankfully, fatherhood has taught me that male insecurity is an unbecoming character flaw. Yeah, that's me driving a minivan to ballet class with VeggieTales blasting from the stereo — you gotta' problem with that?
Better late than never, I packed up every available wool sock in the house Friday morning and traveled 200 odd miles to the family hunting lodge; or what the uninformed might refer to as a shed. Built during the Lyndon Johnson administration, the red shed is nestled among family acreage near the Huron National Forest. The plywood and rusted tin metal roof abode screams rustic charm.
Unfortunately, the outhouse draws the same verbal reaction — especially on subfreezing mornings.
As a young buck hunter — toting a borrowed lever action .30-30 rifle that probably last saw duty on a stagecoach — there was no red shed deer camp. Instead, I trudged out to a deer blind with my father in the faint light of dawn and fading fast flashlight batteries. Sweating, swearing and stumbling through the forest, we lugged out enough provisions for Patton's Third Army, while managing to step on every bone dry stick in our path.
Despite our best efforts to frighten away every animal in a three-mile radius, deer would still cross our way. I guess they had a morbid curiosity, or figured we would be staring at the back of our eyelids by 8 a.m. The first time a spike tested this theory, however, I was wide awake; perhaps too wide-eyed. After all, my hand never went for the trigger, or any other part of the gun, despite repeated nudges from my dad's elbow.
I treated this first bout of buck fever by swallowing my pride along with a ham sandwich and a handful of potato chips.
Eventually the lure of a warm bed drown out the call of the wild. So my father hung up his Remington rifle and hung out on the couch to watch football. Although it was a bit of cold comfort to endure yet another elusive animal: a winning Detroit Lions team.
While red shed deer camp has always been about good friendship, bad for you food, and an elaborate excuse not to shave, this year there is a big buck tale. It's the kind of story that with each retelling distances get a little longer, surrounding trees wider and the tracking terrain rougher. Naturally as the story length increases, so do the vital statistics.
However, it's just a few ounces of fabrication on 160 pound, 12 point reality.
During the call home from deer camp, I told my wife exactly what transpired that afternoon down by the old Christmas trees and across Smith Creek. Thrilled would be a hard pressed verb to use in this case, but she was happy to hear my deer story. However, she only asked that any other "reminder” of this story not hang over the fireplace or in our bedroom.
I'm fairly sure she was joking about the second stipulation.
Just to make sure, I'm thinking garage all the way — right above the old snowmobile brought home under dubious pretenses. Then again, the outbuilding would make a good spot, or at least an interesting tale for the next door neighbors.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com