By Glen Wunderlich
Charter Member Professional Outdoor Media Association (POMA)
For the first two decades of my life, I was oblivious to the nature of opening day of deer season for so many aspiring hunters. In fact, growing up in the suburbs of Detroit, I didn’t know of a single individual who participated in the excitement that came each year on November 15th. My, how that has changed.
I had married into a family that had lived with the tradition of deer hunting back to 1935 in Gladwin County and I was about to enter their world. At the head of my new family was a Finlander and former Yooper from Houghton Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula. Is it any wonder he routinely slept with the window open all year round?
He spoke of past hunts in which getting to camp was more of a battle than dragging a big buck out of the low-lying swampland. The roads were poor and the vehicles of the period were not equipped with the “essentials” of 4-wheel drive and climate control, making for adventurous trips to the North country in freezing conditions.
I couldn’t understand everyone’s excitement, as a light snow began to fall on the road to my first tent deer camp with my new family. Heck, snow meant it was cold and I didn’t particularly share in their glee.
There in that military tent was a kerosene heater – totally useless other than for the light it produced. But, despite the crude, cold camp, everyone would venture out to some secret spot on state land in the darkness with high hopes.
It would be years before I would encounter my first buck afield. But, that Winchester lever-action .30-30 brought down one of the largest bucks ever taken at the historic camp. Once the animal was down, another hunter materialized on scene and claimed he had shot the deer first and had tracked it well into the swamp, where I had perched myself atop a blowdown. (Actually, it was discovered that the other hunter had wounded the lower leg of the buck – certainly not a fatal shot!) We settled the issue with a flip of a coin. As the disgruntled stranger walked away, I field dressed an animal for the first time.
Like others, opening day conjures up a lifetime of events, many of which are not directly related to firing a shot. All the planning and preparation that go into the next opening-day adventure evolve into another chapter of a movie that I am privileged to replay in my head anytime.
The hunts are a connection to my past, even though I’ve never known the individuals from a legion of predecessors. It’s in our blood. Yours and mine, whether it’s acknowledged or simply shrugged off.
Connecting to the past requires one to disconnect from the daily grind. It requires one of the most challenging aspects of a successful hunt to be fully implemented: slowing down. The need to race anywhere is replaced with a desire to become a silent partner in nature’s wonderment.
Passing the merits of sportsmanship of hunting to another generation is an honor we hunters face proudly. It is the common thread connecting us to days gone by.
