MY FIRST DEER HUNT

(photo courtesy of www.tomjonesbuckeyephotos.com)
Most kids love Christmas and I was no exception. I still love Christmas but these days more for the fact that it’s my Savior’s birthday and it still seems to bring a peace to most folks’ attitudes - at least for a few days a year. When I was a child Christmas meant so many things. Vacation from school, presents, visiting family members from far and wide, big meals with dishes we didn’t get very often, decorations both inside and outside the house, and just that special feeling in the air that things were sort of different. About the only way I can explain it is that a lot of other crap just got set aside for a couple weeks each year to make room for Christmas. Dad used to pile us into the car and drive around town to look at the Christmas lights. One of my mother’s most famous quotes (and there were many) came from this activity. One night we drove down Maple Street and most all of the houses were well decorated. Then we turned onto Center Street and there were hardly any lights to be seen. Nonchalantly, Mom said, “Well I guess Maple does and Center doesn’t.”

In rural counties of western Pennsylvania deer season is a lot like Christmas. Kids get the first day of the season off from school. It wasn’t always that way but after years of having about 50% reduced attendance on that day (just about all the boys were gone) school administrators started building the first day of deer season into the calendar as a holiday. In later years they did the same with the first day of doe season. Like Christmas I always began looking forward to deer season well in advance.

Unlike the hunting we did for birds, squirrels, and rabbits, deer hunting was a short season that required a lot more preparation, equipment, and normally a trip to hunting camp. All this made it more exciting. Preparations went something like this – pull the rifle from the gun cabinet and clean it. Next spend a few hours looking through the scope at the backyard (imagining a deer walking into the crosshairs). Practice pulling the gun to your shoulder quickly for a running shot. (I don’t know who I thought I was kidding, I would have enough trouble hitting a deer that was standing still while I leaned the gun against a tree, let alone a quick running shot.) Then it was time to find a vinyl carrying case from the basement into which to slide the fully prepared weapon. Sometimes we went out to the Sportsmen’s Club rifle range to “shoot our rifles in” but often we waited until we got to camp to do so. Now it was time to prepare the hunting apparel. As I have mentioned previously, I never owned any piece of new hunting clothes until I was an adult. Everything I had was at one time my brother’s, my father’s, or some friend or distant relative who may have outgrown something. My first “hunting boots” were five-buckle galoshes that I wore over a pair of old dress shoes. Later I would graduate to olive drab rubber “gum boots”. I must have been in my early 20s before I ever had a pair of real leather hunting boots. Of course the rubber boots did not breath and so any perspiration for the day remained inside and felt like it turned to ice after an hour or so on the deer stand. Note that I used the word “exciting” to refer to my deer hunting experience. The word “comfortable” does not describe any aspect of it. After laying out shoes and boots it was time to figure out how many pairs of socks might be needed. If I wore an old pair of my dad’s dress shoes (ones he wore in the workshop or to mow the grass in) I could wear up to three pair. (We always felt that more clothing layers would be better.) Long underwear was next. Now this was not the high tech, miracle, breathing fabric, black stretch stuff on the market today. This was the ‘50s style white waffle fabric that maybe kept your body temperature about 2 degrees higher than it would be without it. The long underwear shirt and pants I would lay out had been used by my brother the last few seasons and my dad before that. The elastic was pretty well stretched out and there was an odd hole here and there but these garments were a mandatory part of deer hunting in late November and early December. A pair of jeans to go over the long underwear had to be somewhat loose. All denim was loose at that time. This was before the era of tight pants. If a boy wore tight jeans in those days he wasn’t hunting for deer but perhaps a “dear.”

As I would lay out my clothes I would long for the garb that I saw “professional” hunters wear. By professional in those days I mean seasoned veterans who had been at the sport long enough to acquire quality clothing. When you saw a man in the woods with matching black and red checked Woolrich pants and coat on you somehow knew that he would be dragging a 12-point buck behind him. These guys weren’t necessarily rich – these were not new clothes. A Woolrich suit could easily last a lifetime and by the looks of some of these haggard veterans of the woods, they were getting close to being handed down. Nobody in our family had ever had such clothes to hand down. Eventually my dad bought a light-weight Woodrich coat with the large red and black squares but that didn’t put him into the “professional” category. My brother and I both wore old tan canvass field coats that I’m not sure who had originally owned. They may have been 20 to 30 years old at that time. They were not built for warmth but thankfully they were large enough to allow for several sweaters underneath. Mom, being the worrier that she was, had sewn large patches of red material on the backs of our coats (as I’ve mentioned previously, these were the days before mandatory orange attire). Our coats had elastic shotgun shell sleeves inside the pockets but they were of little use for 30-30 cartridges. I was fortunate that my ammunition had come with a plastic belt holder for ten shells. I placed one of these in my pocket. The thought of shooting more than 10 times at a deer was ludicrous. People who claimed they had must have been lying.

Clothing “accessories” to be prepared were gloves, scarves, hats, and such. Dad had always been a big fan of the brown cotton glove. You know, the kind that you can get ten pair for $12 these days. I suppose back then they cost less than a quarter a pair. These gloves could be worn for just about any purpose and Dad seemed to always have a pair on. Because he purchased them in bulk you could normally find a pair most anywhere in the basement. The only thing these gloves were not made for was cold weather – exactly what we wore them in. I tried using one pair overtop the first but that made your hand no more useful than Captain Hook’s. The bottom line for the entire hunting experience was that you just had to get used to being cold. My hat, for example, was an old red canvass one than had thin cloth ear muffs folded up inside. We called them “ear lugs.” I’m not sure about the origin of that term but nonetheless they were useless for warmth. However, they were excellent for reducing your hearing by about a third. Just what you need when you’re listening for a deer sneaking through the brush behind you. Any scarf or neckerchief would do as you would just tie it around your neck and breath through it to warm the air entering your lungs from the ambient 10 below to about 10 above.

There were other accessories to be laid out. These were a length of rope with which to drag a deer. Optimists carried a long piece of heavy rope. I, on the other hand usually carried a ten-foot piece of clothesline cord. I figured the chances of using it were slim and wanted to minimize the weight. (Nobody carried a backpack in those days so everything had to fit in your pockets.) You needed a small pencil with which to fill out your tag if you shot a deer, a twist tie or paperclip with which to attach the tag to the deer, a compass (just in case you got turned around in the woods) and of course a knife. The hunting knife was secondary only to the rifle in importance to the young nimrod. If you killed a deer the key next step was to gut it out. This is the bloody, gooey, smelly procedure that kept a lot of kids from taking up the sport, especially girls. My knife (in addition to my rifle) was not a hand-me-down. One year for Christmas both Johnny and I had gotten hunting knives as a present. They were small (6 inch total length) Case fixed-blade knives with a leather sheath. My knife was very sharp when new and since I never used it on anything, it stayed that way. Most hunters had to sharpen their knives before the season as they had been dulled by last year’s use. Since I had never gutted a deer with my knife, it remained sharp.

Once all preparations were made and all the clothes and accessories laid out it was time to pack them up into paper grocery bags (not suitcases or duffle bags) for transport to hunting camp. I normally had this accomplished at least a month in advance. That meant going back through the whole procedure several more times before the big day arrived.

In Pennsylvania deer season was always set to begin on the Monday after Thanksgiving. This, then, added a whole new excitement to that holiday as well. I can’t ever remember going to anyone else’s house for the Thanksgiving meal. It was always held at our house and normally included aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I always enjoyed the celebration but hunting was usually in the back of my mind the whole time. We had sort of a routine that we got into. Since my dad was off that day, he, Johnny and I would go out pheasant and rabbit hunting in the morning. After coming home around noon and getting cleaned up we had the big meal. Afterward the women cleaned up and the men gathered around the TV to watch the football game. It was always the Detroit Lions against somebody (Dallas, Green Bay, Minnesota, etc.).

The next day at least Johnny and I (and sometimes my dad) would be back out in the field for pheasant and rabbit. That night it was time to do all the last minute packing in order to be ready to head for camp on Saturday. When I got a little older Pennsylvania set its bear season the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Thereafter for several years we headed for camp on Friday night and hunted bear on Saturday. (That’s another story.)

The drive to camp always took too long but this trip seemed to take forever. We used to marvel that most of the cars on the road were filled with hunters. You could see their Woolrich suits and other provisions piled in the back of the car or truck. Many towed trailers filled with supplies for large parties. It should be noted that in Forest County (where our camp was) there were more camps than full time residences. Many of the camps only got used in deer season so some owners were going prepared to do any annual maintenance necessary. We used to get a kick out of the variety of vehicles we saw on the road – old travel trailers, converted school buses, pickup truck campers. You name it and guys would camp in it for a few days of deer hunting. We always took note of the “foreign” license plates we saw. Hunters came from Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, and other surrounding states that had little terrain for whitetailed deer. We resented the fact that these foreigners were here competing for “our” deer.

Speaking of foreigners, the camp next to us (Camp Dot) was owned by the Koblinsky brothers from Michigan. During deer season it was always occupied by 20 to 30 “Polocks” (political correctness has no place at deer camp). They were a wild bunch who carried far more beer into camp than food or other provisions. The afternoon before the season started was filled with the boom of their rifles as they shot randomly into the creek below, across the creek, over the road, or just about in any direction. I recall we used to fume about having to put up with their drunken antics. Routinely one of our group would shout, “I’m going to go over and confront that #@&#@ bunch of drunken Polocks”, only to realize that would be a no-win situation. After all, we weren’t even sure they spoke English and they were always heavily armed with both booze and guns – a bad combination when attempting reason.

We normally had our own “foreigner” in camp. He was a Pennsylvania resident but not a family member. The minister at Dad’s church was an avid hunter and always seemed to weasel an invitation for the first day of deer season. Early on he came alone but in later years he brought along his son. What bugged me most about the guy was his success. I suppose I should have figured that God was blessing his measly efforts at hunting with an early buck but I still resented it. The guy had to run the youth program on Sunday evenings so he never got to camp before about 10 PM. We were mostly in bed by that time so he just snuck in and sacked out on the couch. The next morning he would roll out in time for breakfast and head for the woods with us. Many times we would recommend a place for him to sit that we had considered the day prior but passed on for a better location. Upon return to camp that afternoon we would generally find a note that said something like, “Shot a 4 point about 9:30 and headed home after lunch.” The nerve! I recommended one time that we have him bunk with the Polocks. It would get him out of our hair and perhaps he could convert one or two of the loathsome bunch. Of course my father was always gracious to the preacher and our complaints fell on deaf ears.

When we finally reached camp and opened the front door we were greeted by that unmistakable smell of a cabin in the dense woods that has been closed up for months at a time. Musty and damp to be sure and with a hint of lingering wood smoke but there was always something so comfortable about that smell. Like our final destination had been reached. Dad had named the cabin “Greenbriar” after a trip to the resort of the same name in White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia. We all thought the name much classier than “Camp Dot” next door. The building was small, consisting of three rooms (two only separated by a curtain). The front door opened into a living room, dining room, kitchen combination that must have been about 18X20. The most prominent feature of the living area was a wood-burning fireplace. On its mantel were a menagerie of odd and unrelated items – a kerosene lamp (for the oft-times that the power went out), a small trophy from GM that my dad had won in a salesman’s contest, an ash tray for when the rare guest was a smoker, a pressure gauge from a gas well that dad had turned into a paperweight, an old bait-casting reel with a bent crank, a compass, a snake bite kit, and a Joni lighter. Above the mantle was an old framed painting of a sleeping fisherman and a bear making off with his stringer of trout. I remember sitting on the worn down couch alternating my gaze between the blazing fire and that old picture. I could almost paint it from memory. Beside the couch was a magazine rack with dozens of old magazines. We never subscribed to any hunting or fishing magazines (Reader’s Digest was the only one I recall) but many issues had been left there by the previous owner. We loved to explore the pages of the Pennsylvania Game News, Sports Afield, and Outdoor Life. It seemed that the articles opened up a whole new world of the sporting life and we would spend hours reading and dreaming about casting for the big trout or waiting for the buck with the huge rack.

The remainder of the cabin consisted of a small kitchen and two bedrooms. Note that I did not describe a bathroom. There wasn’t one. In the corner behind the entry door was a small sink without a faucet. There was a stainless bucket by the sink that was kept full of water for washing hands or face. A path outside led to an outhouse. We carried water in five-gallon cans from the spring several miles down the road or from the neighbors’ camp across the road which had the luxury of running water. These were nice folks from Butler, PA (not far from our home in Slippery Rock). Ed Downing and Bob Cradle were co-owners of the Mountain View Lodge. They normally stopped by to say hello the evening before deer season. Ed always had a pipe in his mouth and a story on his lips. He was one of those hunters who wore a Woolrich suit and had been there and done that, or so he would tell you. When I was younger his stories enthralled me. The older I got the older the stories got.

If we arrived on Saturday we might take a hike with a shotgun in case we jumped a grouse but mostly our time on the weekend before the season was spent scouting for the best hunting place and preparing that place for Monday morning. I know many hunters who religiously go back to the same tree or rock every year. Not me. I have always figured that someplace new might just be a little better than the year before. I’ve never been real scientific about choosing a spot but I do consider field of view, elevation, proximity to cover, and the direction other hunters will be coming from to drive the deer toward me. Predicted weather (that we received via the staticy Warren AM radio station the night before) played an important role in site selection. If rain were predicted a rock overhang would provide waterproof shelter. If snow was a factor a large hemlock tree would catch most of it before it hit the ground. If sub-zero temperatures were forecast a good wind-break and a supply of dry firewood were a good bet. Once the best site was selected the process of preparation began. First point of order was a stump or log that could serve as a seat. Next, one needed to clear away litter from the forest floor where you’d be standing so as not to crunch anything that would spook a deer. Finally came the process of breaking off dead tree limbs that might get in the way of a shot. These were normally piled nearby to serve as firewood.

I was about fourteen when my first chance came to experience all this for real. All of the years before I was just “along for the ride.” This year I would be carrying a rifle and, hopefully, dragging home a buck. So much about the experience impressed me. Dad had stopped by Curly Martin’s butcher shop before coming to camp and bought some T-bone steaks. We never had steak at home. This Sunday supper was the first time I had ever seen one, let along eaten one. It was decidedly different tasting than a hamburger. Dad also made his specialty – home fried potatoes. For dessert he had bought some Dumitrus fruit pies. These were small individual pies that, in Texas, would be known as “fried pies.” They were a delicacy normally reserved only for your lunch on the last day of school. If Mom had been along the menu would have been much different. I loved my mother but this was one time I was glad Dad had planned the meal. After we helped do the dishes, played a few hands of cards, and stocked up the fireplace, the electricity went off right on schedule. The power grid in the middle of the national forest was not nearly sufficient to handle the peak load when all of the out-of-state interlopers all turned on their lights, stoves, and heaters at once. We normally tried to be all ready for bed when the lights went off. Sleep didn’t come easily this night as so much ran through my mind – could I survive the cold? Would I even see a buck? If I did could I bring myself to overcome “buck fever” and shoot at it? Could I hit a deer with my rifle? If all these came true how could I gut it out and drag it back to camp? Might I get lost in the woods and force the local volunteer fire department to mobilize a search party? Most kids were asleep dreaming about shooting a 12-point and here I was worrying about all manner of things. I guess I had too much of my mother in me (and still do today).

I must have slept some as I was sound asleep when Dad woke Johnny and me at 5:00 AM. Dad was already dressed and starting breakfast. We jumped out of our beds (I was in the top bunk and Johnny the bottom) and immediately began dressing in our rehearsed layers of socks, long underwear, jeans, sweaters, etc. Dad’s shopping spree at Curly’s had included breakfast sausage (another delicacy Mom never bought) and the smell of it wafted into our bedroom. Breakfast tasted great but my mind was still racing about the new experience that lay ahead. Dad checked the thermometer outside the window and announced, “Ten degrees, better put on another sweater.” Little did I know then that ten would be the high for the day. Cold temperatures had never been a problem for me when I was ice skating, sled riding, making snowmen or having snowball fights with my buddies. However, I was about to see just how cold ten degrees was when you were bored stiff and trying to hold still waiting for a deer to walk by.

Those who were first to suit up stood out on the porch and waited for the slowpokes. It was too warm inside to stay very long with all those layers on. When everyone was assembled outside Dad locked the door with a finality that meant there was no turning back now. Of course I knew where the spare key was inside the outhouse but I was determined not to be the first one back to camp, unless I was dragging a buck. It was amazingly dark outside despite the few porch lights that glowed at the surrounding cabins. The further we walked up the hill and into the woods, the darker it got. The snow also got deeper as we walked out from under the large hemlock tree in the front yard. It had snowed several inches the night before but we hadn’t seen it out the window because of the tree. I hoped my galoshes would be high enough. Our flashlights picked up a light snow that continued to drift to the ground as we went.

We normally took the path of least resistance to our stands early in the morning – an abandoned oil well road that angled up the side of the mountain. Johnny dropped off on his stand first. He had chosen a spot about mid-mountain. I separated from my father near the top of the mountain. The day before I had purposely laid a log across the path so I would know where to head up hill. In my naïve youth I had actually made an arrow out of the log and two branches but the branches were covered with snow. Dad would take the roadway a thousand yards or so on ahead and be close enough if I needed him. I struggled to climb what seemed to be straight up through the snow-covered leaves. I was pleasantly surprised how warm the air felt as I clawed my way up the hill. I was actually toasty. Not much to this deer hunting in the cold business! That is, not until I made it to my prepared stand and sat down for a couple minutes. All that sweat I had worked up was now ice. This was going to be a miserable experience unless I could find a place out of the wind and snow.

My stand was right on the edge of the hillside where I had a great, fairly open view of the terrain below. To my back was a mountain laurel thicket. I couldn’t seen into it but I had figured if deer got pushed off the top I’d hear them coming through it in time to turn for a shot. The good news was that the thicket acted as a windbreak. I sat down under a large hemlock that had already kept most of the snow from reaching the forest floor. I hoped it would continue to do so throughout the day. I pulled my scarf up over my face and tried to shrink myself down inside my various clothing layers for warmth. It was about 6:30 and I had about a half hour to contemplate my surroundings before the season started. I would do my very best to stay here all day. I had heard that the most successful hunters did that. If they were in a good spot along traveled deer trails it was sure that, at some point, a buck would happen by. I had also heard all the stories of hunters who had just moved to a new location when a whole herd of deer ran past their previous stand.

I was amazed at the way sound carried up the mountain from the valley below. In the early morning quiet of my perch I could hear the Tionesta Creek babbling through its various riffles. I could hear the traffic picking up on the road where few, if any, cars were headed to work but late rising hunters were driving to their stands. And even though it was well before there was enough light to shoot I heard the muffled sound of a distant high powered rifle. I wondered if someone had stumbled on a deer in the dark, tripped and shot themselves, or were just smarting off. Likely the latter.

All was quiet around my stand save for the random cracking of the trees as they were stressed by the cold and wind. As dawn approached though, the woods began to come alive. Chickadees flitted and scampered around in the snow looking for seeds. A large black squirrel (a color phase of the gray squirrel) haltingly emerged from a nest high in an oak tree and darted down the trunk to begin its pre-winter search for nuts. About 30 yards away my eye picked up some movement along the ground. It is so much easier to spot an animal moving when there is the contrast that a blanket of snow offers. I have always preferred to hunt almost anything when there is snow. I pulled up my rifle to view through the scope a porcupine coming directly toward me. It waddled along slowly and purposely in the pre-dawn light. As it drew closer it resembled a steelworker who had just punched out and was returning home from the midnight shift. I could imagine a lunch pail under his arm. It turned out that “home” to this porky was under a boulder about ten feet behind me. He shuffled past me by about five feet and disappeared into his den under the rock. It was interesting to see him up close and I was impressed that I was able to be still so as not to spook him at that range.

All of a sudden the hemlock branches above seemed to explode, showering me with a blanket of snow they had held. It seems a wild turkey was roosting about 20 feet above my head. I am not sure if the porcupine startled it or it was just time to get up and fly away. It scared me to death and I had no idea what had happened until I saw the dark form of the turkey in the distance as it fixed its wings and glided into the valley below. My heart was pounding now but at least I no longer felt the cold. It was turning out to be a great morning in the snowy woods of the Allegheny Plateau! Now all I needed was a buck to wake up. I wouldn’t have to wait long.

As 7:00 rolled around I began to hear more and more shooting in the distance but nothing close by. At 7:30 I heard a shot from the valley to my left. I thought there was a good chance it might be my brother. It ran through my mind briefly that I should walk down the hill to see if it was indeed him. After all if he had shot a deer he’d need help to gut it out. I could use the experience as all I knew about the procedure was what I had read in a Field and Stream magazine the night before. Not only that but a walk down the hill would get me warmed up which I certainly needed about then. I fought the urge to move remembering what I had heard about the real hunters who stayed still all day. I determined that I would stay put for at least another half hour.

It was almost 8:00 when I heard a close shot on top of the mountain behind me. Then shortly thereafter a noise in the laurel thicket to my back. It sounded like more than just a porcupine. Dad had taught me not to move my body when a deer was close at hand but just to move my eyes in my head. That was going to be tough as whatever was making the noise was directly behind me. I determined I would try to remain motionless until it moved far enough to my left that I could catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye. It was certainly sounding a lot like a deer at this point. I couldn’t wait any longer and turned my head ever so slowly to see if I could see it. As I did the noise stopped. My heart was racing. Had I spooked my first chance of the day? I strained my eyes as far left as they would go and caught the brown form of a fairly large deer against the green of the leaves and the white of the snow. It was about 25 yards away and still in the thicket. Was it a buck? I noticed that it was cautiously sampling the breeze which, to my advantage, was coming toward me. It turned its gaze away just enough for me to move my rifle to my shoulder and squint into the scope. “Damn,” I thought, as my scope looked like a snow bank. I realized that I hadn’t checked the scope after the turkey dumped a ton of snow down on it. I couldn’t see a thing.

I gradually lowered my gaze to the iron sights beneath the scope. Now if the deer would just lower its head a little I would be able to see if there were antlers atop. It seemed like a long time but in just a few seconds he did just that and I saw what I felt sure were two points. It looked like a half rack – the two points on the other side might have been broken off. I had to be sure what I was seeing were really antlers. There would be nothing more embarrassing than shooting a doe in buck season – your first buck season. I imagined that the deer could surely hear my heart pounding in my chest. That was about all I could hear in my ears. I thought I would ease the hammer back on the Marlin 30-30 just in case I needed to shoot. When the hammer made an audible click the buck looked directly at me and those two right side antlers were as plain as day. That look my way was part of a single fluid motion that included a leap over a laurel bush and back into the thicket. All I saw disappearing into the laurel was its tail. Sadly though I also could see that it was limping badly. It appeared that the shot I had heard had wounded it, probably a front leg. I was crushed! Not only had I missed my shot but a chance to put the animal out of its misery. I imagined that it would probably now die a slow, agonizing death.

Disgusted, I got up and walked over to where the deer had stood. It felt good to move and I shuffled my feet to get some circulation back in them. My fears were realized when I saw small drops of blood in the snow beside the tracks. My first inclination was to track the deer to see if I could come up on it again. As I gazed into the tangle of laurel stems I realized that might be impossible. There were a number of tracks that all seemed to run together. I could easily get turned around and lost in the laurel as well. Dejected, I returned to my seat to replay in my mind all the mistakes I had made during the first few hours of my deer hunting career. About an hour later I decided I was not going to be one of those professionals who could stay in the same place all day. At 9:00 I began to retrace my steps down the hill to find my father. I was anxious to tell him about the morning’s activities but a little embarrassed to detail the mistakes I’d made. However, I knew he’d understand. He always did. That’s why I loved him so. I knew he’d give me that classic line of his, “It’s ok to make mistakes as long as you learn from them.” Throughout my life that advice would apply to girls, school, sports, car wrecks, work, family relationships, raising kids – life in general. He was a wise man!

I was glad to see Dad and he was glad to see me. I knew he had wanted to give me a chance to hunt on my own but it seemed he really was glad to spend the rest of the day hunting together. That’s what we did. We would sit awhile and then walk awhile. I related my story in great detail as we sat and talked. Dad also felt bad about the wounded buck with the broken antler. We saw some deer but no more bucks. By dark we worked our way back to the oil road that led back to camp. On the way we passed Camp Dot and saw the Polocks hanging several bucks on the pole they had placed between two trees. It always burned me up to see their success. Dad was always congenial with them and stopped to admire their deer. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a buck with just two points on the right side and the left broken off. “Does that one look familiar?” he said. It certainly did. I mustered enough courage to ask the Polock stringing it up if it had been wounded before he finished it. “How’d you know,” he said, as he pointed to a left front leg broken by a previous bullet. “Shot it over on the back side of the mountain about 9:30 this morning.” I felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. The deer hadn’t suffered for long. I supposed that even Michigan Polocks can serve some useful purpose.

When we got back to camp Johnny was already there. He hadn’t had any success either but he had been inside reading a book all afternoon and kept the fire going. The camp felt so warm inside. Dad looked out at the thermometer again and said matter-of-factly, “I thought it felt cold out there. It’s one below.” There was no time for a fancy supper that night. We had to get packed up and get on our way home. Dad had to work the next day and we had to go back to school. We ate some chili and corn bread and went through the normal pack-up and camp shut-down routine. We were in the car by 8 PM and the traffic seemed just about as busy as it was on Saturday. The heater in the big ’64 Impala felt great and I was curled up asleep in the backseat before we were five miles down the road. The next day at school I would compare detailed notes with my buddies about their hunting trips. It had been quite a day - one to learn from and one to remember!