By Glen Wunderlich
Charter Member Professional Outdoor Media Association
The pursuit of whitetail deer has been a challenging way to put meat on the table for as long as there have been tables – and, even before that. Of course, in days long ago successful hunters were rewarded with protein-laden venison that was literally life-sustaining; poor hunters were dubbed as vegetarians. And, before chemists were invented, deer hides were tanned with the brains from the downed animals to produce clothing and footwear and other goods that could be traded for life’s necessities.
In exactly one week, Michigan’s modern iteration of the ageless process takes place marked with the beginning of firearms deer season November 15th. And, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Many of us still head north – not because there are more deer to hunt there, but because of tradition – a tradition that takes us away from it all, be it the ever-present virus, politics or the timeless practice of getting ahead. It becomes family reunions of sorts where friends and family meet and leave it all behind.
Where once the journey to the northern countryside was an adventure all its own, today it’s cruise control accompanied by music from the clouds. Just imagine packing all the gear into a Model A Ford and poking along at 30 miles per hour on roads that were not even paved. Somehow without GPS, cell phones or radial tires, hopeful hunters forged their adventurous paths to their personal secret spots.
Having never hunted deer I took the advice of my father in-law and purchased my first deer gun 50 years ago: a Sears model .30-30 manufactured by Winchester. It was several years before I ever saw a buck deer in the woods but that ol’ gun did the job on one of the largest bucks taken at the historic tent-camp site. However, another hunter had shot at the same buck and met me in the thick cover where I stood over the magnificent animal; he claimed it was his! We flipped a coin to settle the matter and I field dressed my first deer. (The deer proved to be mine all the while upon further review.)
The tent was military surplus with plenty of room that could never be heated adequately with the tired kerosene heater that produced more light than heat. I didn’t know much about good socks or boots, but I learned quickly that cold feet and a warm heart still meant cold feet.
We didn’t have blinds of any nature, either – portable or otherwise. Nobody had them back then. Hunting with firearms from elevated stands was illegal, too. And, there were no extended seasons, either, unless one were to include archery or muzzleloader seasons in which participation was minimal.
Certainly, much has changed. Yet, there remains sameness – a connection with our past and those that came before us. We find peace among the wildlife and the rising sun that warms our chilled bodies in our quest to be one with nature. Although we find it difficult to slow down in everyday affairs, there is no rush to go anywhere else or to do anything else.
Yes, we will get away from it all, and in my way of thinking that makes our individual journeys purposeful and satisfying. And, through it all, I’ve even learned to keep my feet warm.
