Happy Hunting Season (and Thanksgiving...)

Other than remarkably similar capitol buildings, the world I grew up in is entirely different than the Madison-world where I now live. Comparing the Northwoods to the Capital city is like comparing fried venison sausage to a vegan tofu sandwich, and I love them both for their strikingly different characters.

The locality where we grow up shapes us in profound ways, and as much as we might sometimes try to shed it, the character of our hometowns becomes part of who we are as individuals.

The antique guns that hang on the wall of my home office and the lamp with deer antlers that sits at my desk provide some proof that we may leave our hometowns, but our hometowns never leave us.

Last week my counts were still a little too low to begin treatment, so we decided to wait until this upcoming Monday to give it another shot. This actually worked out brilliantly as it allowed me to come home for Thanksgiving and spend time with family and friends.

This year I certainly have more to be thankful for than ever. Most of all, I am thankful simply for being here this Thanksgiving, and to have the opportunity to spend it at home with family and friends.

Driving around the Northwoods, one cannot escape noticing how different it is culturally from Madison. Hunting season up here is celebrated as fervently as religion. If you think I am over-exaggerating, I would urge you to enter a grocery store in Rhinelander the Friday before the opening of hunting season. Not only will the store be busier than any other time of year, but also 9 out of 10 of the shoppers will be wearing at least 3 articles of blaze orange clothing.

As we drove up, I laughed as I realized that nearly all of the messages on motels, restaurants, resorts, and other highway business signs read "Good Luck Hunters," and then included "Happy Thanksgiving," almost as an afterthought.

Hunting in the Northwoods is a holiday, a tradition, and a rite of passage so intimately tied to our culture that I cannot imagine life up here without it.

As I write, I notice that we have now moved from Thanksgiving Thursday to the aptly named Black Friday -- The largest retail shopping day of the year.

Every year, Americans get injured or even killed as mad mobs rush into Wal-Marts and Best Buys across the country in a rush to find the best sales.

I don't want to be overly critical, but what does it say about our society when in other cultures people may get trampled in religious pilgrimiges and in America we trample each other to death in a mad rush to purchase reduce-priced consumer goods.

While some may argue that Christianity is the most common religion in America, I might argue that it is in fact Materialism.

I hope that's not true. But, unfortunately, it's how I often feel.

Now, as avid readers of this blog will know, late-night consumption of sugary breakfast cereals is a guilty pleasure of mine. In fact, sugary bowls of Life, Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, and others often fuel me as I write for this blog.

Well, this Blog Strong blog post was fueled by Cocoa Krispies, and as I poured the box I couldn't help but read a big banner that explained "Helps Build Your Child's Immunity!..."

All of this time the answer to raising my neutrophil counts was right under my nose -- Looks like Monday I'll be eating Cocoa Krispies for breakfast...

I hope you all had a delightful and fun-filled Thanksgiving.

Sam

And finally, a poem to freak out my Madison friends...

“Opening Weekend”

I.

On this foggy 40-degree morn

in Northern Wisconsin

the swift snaps of rifle-fire

continuously pierce the morning air,

sending me back years

to the old hunting camp.

Suddenly, I am once again the

twelve-year-old boy lying on

the 20-year-old couch, warmed by

a scratchy army-surplus wool blanket,

the night before my first day of hunting season.

Too excited to sleep, I lie awake until

3am, fully knowing that I must rise

at four-thirty to beat the dawn to the

tree stand constructed years before

by my father and grandfather.

I load and shoulder my

bolt-action Remington 243,

and walk through thick trees

in darkness, trying to contain

a strong feeling of fright.

There is something about the

deep woods in darkness that

closes in on even the most

seasoned outdoorsman,

especially an Imaginative

outdoorsman.

II.

After getting to the stand, I

shiver in the dark, and sleep

soundly for two hours.

When I wake up, two deer

stand at my bait pile.

As the blurriness of

sleep leaves my eyes,

I realize that it’s Erick and Amil,

two twin yearling bucks that I

recognize from bow season.

I sip coffee as these twins

crunch away on the corn and

apples of my bait pile.

I utter some comments

as if they can comprehend.

“Are you two as cold as I

am on this crisp morning?”

(I’m sure most hunters do such

strange things; it can get quite

lonely out in the woods alone.

Most, however, likely would

never admit to such

bizarre behavior.)

At 8am I unload my rifle

and scurry down the

wooden ladder of my stand.

Time for breakfast.

I laugh as I walk by

Erick and Amil crunching corn,

looking back at me

lacking any trace of concern.

“The big bad hunter has hunger,”

I explain.

“You know, you two

should really be a great

deal more careful, or

you could get shot,”

I say as I laugh

heartily by myself.

III.

The smell of sweet rolls

baking, as well as

camp eggs and turkey sausage

sizzling in cast iron pans

meets the smell of pancakes

and maple syrup, providing an

unparalleled olfactory experience

as I enter the warmth of the

steamy-windowed tar-paper shack.

Dad was the cook and always

the first back in the morning.

I was always second,

Grandpa third,

with Skubie and Josh

trading the fourth and

fifth positions.

(Coincidentally, this also seems to

rank how seriously each one of us

took deer hunting.

On second thought,

Perhaps that’s no coincidence at all.)

After the nearly endless layers of jackets

and insulation were removed,

we’d sit and wait patiently but hungrily

for the morning’s meal at the square

wooden table.

The sweet scent of kerosene from

an old lantern placed in the

center of this table would

weigh the warm air of the cabin.

When all was ready and warm,

Dad would bring pan after pan of

delicious steaming food.

The hunters would relay the morning’s sightings,

then bull-shit about where the big

bucks might be, as we gorged ourselves

on the breakfast Dad had prepared.

IV

After breakfast, my day became divided

equally between reading on the couch

in the cabin, taking naps, and hunting.

I rarely shot anything.

This might be the result

of Grandpa’s and my

affinity for naming deer.

It wasn’t only Erick and Amil.

There was “Old Thumper,”

“Merdle,” and the aptly-named

“Three-Legged Leroy.”

In years of hunting,

I only shot one doe,

and only did so then

because I had a strong

craving for Venison.

V.

Our hunting camp broke

all of the stereotypes.

After dinner, the five men

spent nights chatting,

reading, playing chess,

and building card houses

under the warm glow of

the kerosene lantern.

In my many

years of hunting,

I cannot remember

anyone ever having

so much as a single drink.

VI.

We sold the hunting land

and the cabin some time ago,

but the memories made there

will forever live in my mind’s eye.

I don’t miss hunting,

but I do deeply miss

our hunting camp.

Today the square table where we sat

for all of our camp breakfasts

sits in my apartment’s dining room.

The kerosene lantern that provided

the warm light for so many chess matches

and the construction of so many card houses

still sits atop that table.

Every time I catch the

sweet scent of Kerosene

weighing the air of our apartment,

I can’t help but find myself once again

back in the cabin during hunting season.

And this morning, as I awoke in Rhinelander

to the snapping sounds of rifle-fire,

I found myself once again a young boy

lying awake on a 20-year-old couch,

excited about his first hunting season.