"Next Whitetail season we will have all the wood made, including plenty of dry pitchy pine for kindling". Thus spoke the Swede from St. Paul, and thus he has spoken since the deer season of 1940 when he first came up to match wits with the Whitetail of Surprise Lake in northern Minnesota.
"But the woodpile, in front of the ol' hunting shack will have that same depleted look come next whitetail season," thus spoke I!
Brother John, summed it up pretty well, when he said, "If any seven hunters work harder for their deer than we do, I'd like to hear about them. Granted, we've filled up since the season of '40, but the shooting is the easiest part of this hunting game. It's the Whitetail dragging and uncertain weather of this Surprise Lake country that gets a guy down.
The Swede's annual letter reached us, as usual, about ten days before the opening of Minnesota Whitetail season. As usual, he's not sure the little woman will allow him to make the trip this year, but we know damn well he will be here all dresses up in his Sunday reds. In his letter, he claims, a new sight has been installed on his 30-30 Winchester carbine and he will get those "racks" this time for sure.
The Swede asks, "how about shells and how deep is the snow?" "How's the deer sign and how much of everything should I take with me this time?"
Brother George, invariably sends the same advice, "Bring yourself, your 30-30, and plenty of the other. There's plenty of snow and cold weather up here on the Missabe range, ol' buddy."
I guess our hunting cabin is like many deer hunting shacks in Northern Minnesota. In the first place, it's too small for seven men, but seven is the number come Whitetail season. It's location is across the lake and that means you can't drive to it by a long shot. Some seasons we go in by canoe and boat or hoof across on the ice. Sometimes we have been forced to portage around via an old log jam across a river because of ice conditions. That "around" business, speaking from experience, is really rough!
The Swede's Dodge rolled up in the afternoon of the 12th of November, so we started planning there and then. The Swede and I decided to go up on the thirteenth to ready the cabin and make wood. My two brothers, John and George, were to follow on the fourteenth, in company with Tooner, Harold, and our old timer camp cook, Old Nick.
"Leave your canoe home, you guys. The lakes are all froze across in that territory," I said. That was the advice we heard from all angles, but this particular lake had fooled us before, so the old Liezie kept her "hat", in the form of an eighteen foot Old Town canoe. The "hat" was lashed down firmly with stout ropes to prevent it from leaving the top of the car.
After a very careful grub and gear checkup, we were on our way at last. The Swede didn't have much to say on the way up, except of course, to mention the fact that it would be much more convenient to have a nice cabin to hunt from on the road side of the lake. "Where you can see a redcoat on every stump and high spot waiting for someone or something to shoot at," I added, and that held him for awhile.
The eight mile portage to the lakeshore we made by using the canoe as a sled, and loading our duffle into this improvised snowmobile. There was plenty of soft snow on the ground and the course was all downhill, so we managed most of our stuff in one trip.
The old lake was free of ice except for a thin fringe along the shore in some spots. The waves were hardly noticeable so we put plenty of load into the crafts-being especially careful to secure the proper loading balance. To play safe, we made two trips and had plenty of time to haul numerous loads of sweet scented balsam boughs to the cabin. These springy boughs, if used in sufficient quantity and placed correctly, will not only provide a pleasant odor, but will provide a fairly comfortable cushion for a bunk. By the time darkness hit us, we had the Coleman gas light humming and a roaring fire was beating its wings against the sides of the old reliable camp barrel stove. Last but not least the proverbial coffee pot began to sing an aromatic song for a couple of hopeful deer slayers.
Like most hunters who tell the truth, we got up at the crack of dawn. That is, around ten o'clock or so. Then we both happened to notice that the camp supply of wood was a little low, so the old axe and saw began to raise some sawdust. Old Nick would be "mad like everything" if that wood pile wasn't "high up".
About three o'clock in the afternoon the Swede and I eased the old canoe into the water and headed for the roadside of the lake to meet the rest of the gang and help them with their load. They had the old tin boat, which we keep cached on the roadside, almost loaded when we arrive, and my brothers were about to start across. We transferred some of the gear to the canoe as the lake was beginning to kick up a little. To play safe, it was decided to make two trips with both boats and a final trip with the canoe.
Without mishap, we were all at the hunting cabin just before dark. Old Nick grinned from ear to ear the wood piled "high up".
After a hearty meal of Polish sausage, spuds, gravy. and plenty of coffee, the Whitetail stories really started to fly. As the evening wore on some of the boys even started to brag about how they were going to get those "racks", as we affectionately call the antlered whites. Between these true stories the Swede always comes in for his share of good natured ribbing.
"Say Russ, how about the time you almost ruined the good right arm of brother George when he was about to knock the horns off your big buck, to facilitate dragging him to camp!", I asked. "Yeah, how about the big racks you got the first season you came up?", added brother John.
It seems that brother John gave the Swede an old rasp file. "So you could file some of that hair away to see the two thimbles on your buck's head", chuckled brother George.
Just before the gas light was turned off, I looked outside and noted, with satisfaction, that new snow was falling. This meant the woods could be walked in with a minimum of noise, provided it didn't turn too cold and crust the snow. The boys would, from all indications, have a swell opportunity to fulfill their bragging rights tomorrow on opening day.
The would-be hunters told me to set the clock for an alarming early hour, but somehow, perchance, a mistake was made, and like all good deer hunters we arose when the first gray streaks of daylight were beginning to make themselves visible. This visibility hit our tired eyes at exactly ten o'clock.
On opening day we usually get up late, perhaps to clear the atmosphere of those piled up Whitetail stories. Then, to, we seldom encounter other deer hunters namely because of the inaccessibility to this particular territory and the tough, brushy hunting conditions for one who doesn't know the country. So, we don't have to worry about getting out there ahead of other hunters. Most of the problems facing other deer hunters in overcrowded area are not problems to us at all.
Remember, this gang of hunters has rambled this area in search of Whitetails, with very few exceptions, since the season of '40, and most of us were deer hunters long before then. So it's not exactly a brag when we call ourselves old timers at the game.
To me, knowledge of the hunting country is the prime requisite of a hunter's success. If one knows the country and has enough wilderness savvy to pick his spots slowly, quietly, and watchfully-he has a good chance to get his deer. Listening is very important. Most old timers agree they often hear game long before they spot it.
Russ, "the Swede", likes a 30-30 Winchester carbine lever action. Harold packs a 35 Remington automatic and brother John-a long barreled 32 Winchester Special lever action. Brother George stands pat on his 30-30 lever action Winchester carbine. Tooner swears by his 30-06 and I prefer my long barreled 25-35 Winchester lever action. Old Nick will settle for a frying pan every time-full of deer liver teeming with onions!
Tooner and Harold were to hunt Wigwam point. Brother John and I were to walk the Ol' Tote road to where a trail branched for Big Hill. John said he was going to follow the tote road clear to Beaver Point. As for me, I was to head for Big Hill. The Swede said he would hunt where it would be easy to backtrack! Brother George, who wasn't feeling up to par, said he would help Nick around the cabin most of the day. Imagine a dandy camp cook and helper all on opening day.
The snow which was still falling a little made a perfect setup for still hunting. We saw plenty of fresh sign along the tote road, but we didn't jump or hear any Whitetails up to the Big Hill trail. We split there and as soon as brother John was out of sight and hearing, I began to move very, very slowly along the path toward the big hill. There was plenty of fresh sign, so I paused often to listen and look. When I reached a familiar knoll, I paused atop an old Norway Pine stump to watch awhile. The predominant growth here is tall scattered Jack Pine, so the hunter can see for quite a distance.
No shooting yet from Wigwam Point or Beaver River way. Maybe they weren't moving much. Still, this fresh snow should make it ideal. These thoughts and others raced through my mind as I kept scanning the countryside a good rifle shot away. I began to wonder who would be the lucky hunter to draw first blood then SNAP! Unless my ears had gone bad that was the noise made when a dry twig breaks and it sounded close - very close!