My Take on Hunting....

Woods at the Landslide, Alba, Michigan

When true autumn hits, it's smelled as well as felt. I've always picked fall as my favorite season.  I love cool air.  I don't miss the allergies, bugs or heat of summer.   I've always felt an increasing amount of melancholy, during the change of season, but I just took it for the process of "Hunkering Down" for the winter to come.

Our Woods on Schuss Lane, Gaylord

The Cronan Family, when I was growing up,  were a family of water people.  As a rule, we didn't hunt or fish. We rarely took to the woods, unless it was to cut wood for the winter (out by Cheeseman Road), take a short-cut through the small woods, (to the Convent on the hill, to walk to school), or skiing at Bryce's Hill (I preferred the woods there, so I could grab a tree if I was going to topple over).  We swam, snorkeled, scuba-dived, sailed, rowed or just gravitated to the water to be close to it.  We even camped on the beach in the summer, about 80 feet from the water's edge.

Mom, Looking Out on Lake Huron

The Big Lakes I Could See Across

Until I met Harry Madagame, I didn't like the woods.  I feared what I didn't know.  I feared the vastness I couldn't see across.  The big lakes I could see across, I knew what was in front of me.

  

He didn't waste any time to acclimate me to the woods and open my eyes to the magic it held.   I had to depend on him to navigate, though.  My sense of direction is minimal.  He saw the trees, mounds, old railway roads and always knew the direction he was headed.  It felt safe, so I let my fear go and learned something new, every time we went out to the woods.  

Until I met Harry, I didn't realize the real purpose for autumn, either.  Hunting.  Starting early September, Harry use to get exceptionally efficient at getting things done around the house and yard.  Things he'd put off for most of the spring and all of summer.  It took me a few years to figure out his motivation.  Hunting. 

All of a sudden, the cars were being double-checked for winter.  The lawn was given a good once over for problem areas, and he started on raking the leaves right away.  (This didn't happen in the spring, the motivation didn't seem to be there)  Especially after he retired, he'd make sure the house was stocked with food, there was extra space in our freezers and he made sure to keep the calendar free most of the fall, until after Thanksgiving. 

He'd wax and seal his hunting boots until they glowed.  He'd lay out all his gear, like he was a bride, getting ready to be married.  Each article he set out was crucial for his readiness.  Right down to his belt.  He had his rope (for hauling), his hunting knife (for gutting) and his seat warmer, hanging from a small metal hook.

He started early September, walking the woods where he hunted, long before I met him.   Slowly walking, he'd watch the deer.  Where they crossed roads, which paths they took to go through open areas.  He'd take note of any newly made rubs, scrapes or droppings he found.  He could tell where they were "bedding down" and took note of this, too.  When he saw the does were starting to separate from the bucks, he'd get excitedly anxious.  

This was the time I noticed he'd walk less and sit more in the woods.  He'd pick different areas to sit.  He acted like he was a bounty hunter looking for an escaped convict.  He'd watch, speculate, watch, listen and form his predictions, about the next move the deer would make.  He noticed any other hunters in the area and watched where they were located and entering the woods.

He talked about how he loved the fog and rain.  He said the deer liked the wet leaves, so that they could walk quieter, than in dry leaves. It took more skill to hunt in the rain and fog.

When I'd join him, in these pre-hunting scouting trips, I liked to watch him.  His instincts were so strong.  He taught me to be more observant, more vigilant.  He showed me practical ways to be comfortable in the wind, sun, snow or rain.  One of my favorite things to do was to lie down by his feet and take a long nap, with the warm sun on my face.  I was safe in his space, I knew it.  And we were together.

When I'd wake up, he'd pour us each a cup of coffee and we'd sit together, watching and listening for the deer.  He always had something to whisper to me.  He never failed to tell me he loved me.  And then he'd tell me some things he'd noticed, while I slept.

Harry made his hunting stand out of things from the woods,  except for an old metal classroom chair, with a wooden seat.  He reconstructed his stand every year.  He'd look at all the angles he needed open for an accurate shot and made sure the rest of his stand was protected by pine boughs and small trees growing alongside to hide us.  He rubbed his feet in the soft, brown dirt where he sat.  Eventually, he had a large hole for his feet.  The hole was as smooth as a chocolate cake without any frosting.  He could shuffle his feet to keep them warm, without sound from leaves or small sticks crackling underneath.

A large dead branch sat next to his seat, with a strong fork in it, the perfect height for him to lean his rifle in, when he wanted to get up or shift his position. He had a place in the soft dirt next to him for his large, green thermos.  He obviously put a lot of thought into his space.  He used the same hunting stand for more than thirty years.

Harry taught me to hunt.  It took him two years to find the perfect rifle for me.  An old, used, 32-Special.

He took me to the Otsego Northland Sportsman Club and helped me master shooting.

I learned to keep from freezing during the cold mornings and evenings.  It really worked to have a wool blanket to put over my knees before daylight.  It kept off the coldest part of the morning.  He also had me lean my gun away from me, until daylight (it's amazing how cold a gun can make your legs or hands.)

When I started hunting with him, he made sure I had a seat to the side of him, facing the same open area.  When we walked into the stand, in the dark, I would be the one he'd help get settled, before he sat down.  He always brought his big thermos of coffee with him (with sugar) and usually had something to snack on.  Some of his favorites were cookies, strawberry "Pop Tarts"(in paper toweling), and unwrapped "Tootsie Rolls".  He really loved it when Harry, Jr. made turkey-jerky and he had a stash to take hunting with him.

The older he got, the more he liked me to be with him, while he hunted.  I think it was hard for him to have all that thinking time alone, he worried about so many things.  Being still and thinking wasn't his favorite activity. He had a lot demons he struggled with.

Another reason, unfortunately, was that he started seeing anti-hunters destroying things, making deliberate noises during hunting season, etc.  He worried he may do them physical harm, if he ever came across them, while in the woods.

I was very glad I was with him, the time a small group of guys made a big, roaring fire right at the entrance to our hunting stand.  They deliberately undermined the opening day of hunting. Harry was very angry and frustrated.  We didn't speak to them, walked into the stand and sat down.  Because I was with him, Harry feigned a calm appearance.  I knew he was livid.

Hunting was his time of prayer, respite and calm.  He didn't see hunting as a violent sport.  He saw it as a way of life.  He taught me to appreciate the beauty and skill of being the hunter.

I learned to love venison we ate during the winter.  As I write about this, I realize hunting was one of the few times I truly was practicing mindfulness.  I didn't even know what it was, at the time. No place to go, nothing to do.  Watching each leaf blow in the wind, each crow caw in the woods.  Smell the pine, aspen and oaks. The apples in the deer feed.  Watching snow fall on the branches, my face and eventually covering the leaves on the ground.

My memories are my "take on hunting".  I'm grateful I had an experienced hunter, who shared his time and his love of the woods with me.