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OpinionMy husband, the great deer hunter
My husband got three deer over the rifle hunting opener weekend. Sounds crazy, doesnít it, but he just had that kind of luck. Michael left town Thursday night and headed to his fatherís shack in Little Fork ñ what my husband believes is the Promised Land. Each time he takes the long journey north, Michaelís spirits lighten and the load on his back seems to give a little. He finds peace in Little Fork, as much as I donít like it. Itís a tiny little town near International Falls where much of Michaelís extended family lives. The trips afford him the chance to commune with nature and kill things ñ pastimes for which I generally have little patience. Just after leaving the area, Michael called me on the phone to report a conversation with his youngest brother who lives in Rochester. Turns out Karl, who never hunts, got an 8-pointer, Michael said. I pondered that for a few minutes and finally realized he meant Karl got the 8-pointer with his car, totaling both the car and the deer. After picking up his other brother in Duluth, Michael made one last phone call to me to check in. All was well and they were on their way to hunting happiness. On the way back, as soon as Michael was south of Nashwauk (conveniently nicknamed ìThe Gateway to North of Nashwaukî) he called with the weekend report. The camp took a total of 7 deer, including the large 8-pointer in the back of Michaelís truck. After dropping off his brother, Michael again called to check in. Caffeinated beverage and dead, skinned animal in tow, Michael was finally on his way home with his trophy. I was crocheting away trying not to ruin the second attempt at a scarf when the phone rang about 45 minutes later. It was Michael. A very upset Michael. A very loud, upset Michael. He had hit a deer full on just north of Moose Lake on I-35 southbound. He wasnít injured, but after expending the breadth of his cursing vocabulary, Michael decided he needed to take whatever he could off that deer, too. So, he asked me to call state police and get a trooper out to his location. Fourteen phone calls later to nearly every state police outlet in the greater metropolitan area and nearly every sheriffís office in four counties, I finally got to the right trooper dispatch station. The trooper, pleasant as he was, told me state police really werenít concerned when there were no injuries. He said to call the Department of Natural Resources game warden and get a report from him. I made that phone call, leaving my vital info on the answering machine and called Michael back. Michaelís assessment was that the truck seemed all right. He actually was highly impressed at how well our pickup withstood the impact of the four-pointer. So, the accident had turned from tragedy to truck bragging rights. He then commenced the journey back to the relative deer-free safety of our home. About an hour later the phone rang again and I made a quick comment that I wouldnít be surprised if he called to say he hit a second deer. ìHello?î ìI hit another &#@*!! deer,î he yelled. I burst out laughing. I couldnít help it. There was no way that was possible. Michael continued to tell me about how he was at Harris and driving in the right lane going about 60 mph when ìitís pitch black there by this really long guardrail and all of the sudden I see this doe coming over the guardrail.î It was like slow motion, he said. The doe wasnít even on the ground when Michaelís truck smashed into that poor deer, too. ìNow theyíre falling out of the sky at me,î he said. He said his original deer, in the bed of the truck, was surely going to be bruised from bumping up against the inside of the bed each time Michael hit another deer. We decided against telling the state patrol about the second deer because, as Michael said: ìIf you tell them, thereís no way theyíll believe you. Theyíre going to think Iím drunk.î Michael made it home safely, but warily watching for other deer. So now we get to explain the accident to our insurance company, file a claim and get a new grille and bumper. Maybe weíll get one with a scope on the front for better aim next time. Another successful Minnesota outdoors sports season has left Barbara Brown busy on the phone with the repair guy. Sheíll have to get back to you later. She can be reached at barbara.brown@ecm-inc.com. ©ECM Post Review |