August may just turn out to be one of the most chaotic, emotional, trying months of my life -- depending on how things shake out.
My first-born is starting kindergarten. That, alone, is enough to fill my emotional well.
I found out a bit ago my grandfather on dad's side is going downhill in a hurry. Grandma died last fall, but he's hung on. A tough Iron ranger, that guy. Taught me a lot about living in the woods, cussing horse flies, and the proper way to sweat out the day's work in a Superior Lake rock sauna.
This week, my grandfather on mom's side was given 2 months. What started as a bout with pneumonia, turned into exploring a previously unknown heart valve issue. Now they stopped his chemo and are talking hospice. Because of proximity, he's the guy I spent more time with (Fergus was only 2 hours from my home in the Cities). I caught my first walleye on grandpa's lap, and took more lawnmower rides around his property than I can count. My kids don't even consider him "great" grandpa -- just grandpa. '
I'm sitting at work right now with a to-do list a mile long, but I can't concentrate. All I can think about is what I'm going to have to tell my kids in the short term. If I can make it all the way across the state to talk to my dad's dad one more time -- and if I did, would he even be aware I'm there? If my mom's dad gets moved to home hospice, can we go there as a family and just spend a day making some more memories; Ignore whatever else is going on and let grandpa give the kids another lawnmower ride? Maybe dig out some old toys and explore the woods, or dig in the backyard for pieces of pottery and rusted metal -- evidence of the blacksmith that used to be there long, long ago.
So the only thing I can really do to help myself is do something that’s cathartic for me and share a story with you all. It's about my grandpa Vern, my mom's dad. It sticks out mostly because it's relatively recent (within the past decade) but also because I've told it many times to friends and family. Deer hunters will appreciate it as a reflection on how it "used to be" in North Dakota.
*******
For the longest time, Uncles Paul and Jay had tried their darndest to get my grandfather to come hunting in North Dakota. A dyed-in-the-wool Minnesotan, grandpa was hard pressed to leave the comforts of his four-post, heated backyard stand.
“You guys go have fun,” he’d say. “I might get out a couple mornings here and call it a season.”
Minnesota being the way it is, he’d often wait until the day before opener, then meander over to Fleet Farm and buy a buck tag; just to have it “in case he felt like loading the ought-six.”
Grandpa never shot many deer, but it was comfortable and got him outside for something other than raking leaves or mowing the lawn. Invariably, just about the time he was walking back to the house, one of his brothers or nephews would roll in to ask if he’d seen anything, or talk about the big buck so-and-so saw heading into the swamp. It was simple and routine. Grandpa loved it, even if he brushed it off as a novelty that suited him when and if he had nothing better to do.
Then in 2007, for whatever reason, grandpa finally gave in. The deer in North Dakota were stupid thick, and I think our stories about the deer upon deer coming through the woods, and us leaving with truck beds heaping with venison were too much to take. He needed to see if there was something concrete behind all that hot air.
I was a bit bummed because the noon opener had him sitting closer to the vehicles with my uncle and cousin. But after a fruitless sit (he had an antlerless tag) and my spot being overrun with skinheads, he agreed to accompany me on Saturday morning further into the woods.
Grandpa and I left our hotel early in order to assure our spot at the approach. This was public land, after all, and even though the deer were bountiful, we still had to claim a spot early – just in case a go-getter got a wild hair and decided the woods by the lake were a bit more appealing that just sitting on the first ridge by the road and slinging lead at anything brown come daybreak.
Years prior, my uncle and I coined this location “The Triangle of Death” after we’d dropped three deer in a single set all within about 20 paces of the other. To this day it’s my favorite hunting spot, even though the drive from home now is about an hour and a half longer than it was when I lived in Grand Forks.
“The Triangle” consists of a textbook funnel that is good for just about every wind direct. To the east is a lake, to the west, scant woods and open grasslands veined with buck brush and Russian olive. Three deer trails intersect here, and all must generations upon generations old. When I first saw them, I thought they must have been manmade, possibly by a joyrider on a dirt bike ripping it up for shits and giggles. But now I know that they are the deep, well-traveled paths of thousands and thousands of deer over unknown number of years. And every year, without fail, I see deer there.
What makes it especially nice as a public hunting spot is that it’s about the furthest point from the truck, and while North Dakotans enjoy touting how many miles they may walk in a day, they’re also painfully aware about how far AWAY from a vehicle they can go to shoot a deer that they have to also drag back. It just so happens that I don’t mind the drag, especially with the consistent results.
We took our time that morning. Grandpa, overdressed as usual with his faux sheepskin lined bomber cap and blaze orange head-to-to ensemble, walked gingerly along the edge of the trees. Up and down hills, past the rock my cousin shot his first deer, and eventually into the woods at my hallowed hunting spot. To give us an advantage, I set us both facing south-southeast, so we could still crank our head north if need be, but mostly keep tabs on the area I knew the deer likely would come from.
We sat in complete silence – the kind that makes you think every breath sounds like the whoosh of a bathroom hand dryer. Then the world woke up. First with honks from the geese loafing on the water, then twittering chickadees and a stubborn gray squirrel joined in. With light came other familiar sounds. Shots echoes from seemingly every direction: Once in a great while a single retort, but mostly the erratic blasts signaling deer drives were at work.
Grandpa and I waited. Sometimes, I knew, the deer would be there right at shooting light. Slinking through the woods, feeling safe out of the open country and within the comfort of these old-growth oaks. This morning it took a bit longer. The sun was well above the horizon when that doe snuck up from the south.
I spotted it first, whispering for grandpa and pointing as the deer trotted toward us on one of those ancient game trails. She was high on the ridge, not at the top but close. I knew if grandpa was going to get a shot, she’d need to stop before reaching me. I bleated, and she did. I ducked my head and plugged my ears, as my peripheral caught grandpa raising that Browning auto to his shoulder.
BANG!
The doe jumped straight up, all four hooves airborne, then took a 90-degree turn and bolted. I’ll never forget the sight, because I was sure my eyes were playing a trick on me. As she ran past, I swore the front half of her was painted red. It couldn’t be, obviously. There was no way, but I knew what I saw and was anxious to examine exactly what grandpa did to that doe.
She ran 70 yard or so then piled up. Grandpa immediately started rousing, but I cautioned him to wait. I still had a buck tag, and we’d shot enough does here to know that, not unlike men and women, the lure of estrus often was stronger than a buck’s better judgement.
Sure enough, not 10 minutes past when I heard grandpa whistle. The buck was standing right on the end of the woods to our south, where I consider the start of our funnel. The wind was wrong to catch our scent, but he didn’t like something. I knew he’d likely hang around only long enough to give up the poon-tang, then flag and disappear.
The shot wasn’t ideal. He was slightly quartering, but mostly all I saw was the deep, dark V of his chest. That’s where the crosshairs rested when my Remington barked and he ran off. Seeing him briefly in the scope made me certain he was hit, but how well I didn’t know.
With my tag now basically filled and grandpa done, we set out to start gutting his doe.
I got there first. The doe landed on her “good” side, where the bullet entered, and I quickly flipped to find out what exactly I’d seen. It turns out my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Almost her entire shoulder was gone except for a bit of the shank and hunks of meat where bone used to be.
“Grandpa!” I hollered. “What in the world did you shoot this deer with?”
He shambled up next to me, already plucking his knife from his sheet and digging the tag from his pocket.
“Oh I dunno, what I always shoot,” he said. “Why?”
I pointed to the deer and gruesome exit channel.
“Are you shooting hollow points?”
“Of course! I always shoot hollow points.”
I laughed and shook my head. Grandpa was going to turn that deer into sausage and sticks anyway, so a few pounds sacrificed for a quick kill weren’t going to make him fret. Following that, my orders were simple: I’d go look for my buck quick and then help him gut his doe, but he was under no circumstances to drag the doe back to the truck.
I eventually found my buck – a three-hour ordeal that involved spotty bloodtrails, mounting frustration and, eventually, coming eye-to-eye with a very much alive deer in some thick cattails – but that’s a story for another time. The good news is he joined me in the truck alongside the doe grandpa shot (for which he completely ignored me and drug it back by himself until my cousin caught him and took over).
When we returned to Grand Forks, maybe knowing this could be the end of an era, we unloaded the harvest and took a group picture on my uncle’s lawn. It’s one of the only hunting photos since the digital age that I’ve actually paid to print and frame. It’s sitting in my office to this day, and every time I need a mental break, I look at it and remember the time grandpa and I got to hunt North Dakota deer together.
My first-born is starting kindergarten. That, alone, is enough to fill my emotional well.
I found out a bit ago my grandfather on dad's side is going downhill in a hurry. Grandma died last fall, but he's hung on. A tough Iron ranger, that guy. Taught me a lot about living in the woods, cussing horse flies, and the proper way to sweat out the day's work in a Superior Lake rock sauna.
This week, my grandfather on mom's side was given 2 months. What started as a bout with pneumonia, turned into exploring a previously unknown heart valve issue. Now they stopped his chemo and are talking hospice. Because of proximity, he's the guy I spent more time with (Fergus was only 2 hours from my home in the Cities). I caught my first walleye on grandpa's lap, and took more lawnmower rides around his property than I can count. My kids don't even consider him "great" grandpa -- just grandpa. '
I'm sitting at work right now with a to-do list a mile long, but I can't concentrate. All I can think about is what I'm going to have to tell my kids in the short term. If I can make it all the way across the state to talk to my dad's dad one more time -- and if I did, would he even be aware I'm there? If my mom's dad gets moved to home hospice, can we go there as a family and just spend a day making some more memories; Ignore whatever else is going on and let grandpa give the kids another lawnmower ride? Maybe dig out some old toys and explore the woods, or dig in the backyard for pieces of pottery and rusted metal -- evidence of the blacksmith that used to be there long, long ago.
So the only thing I can really do to help myself is do something that’s cathartic for me and share a story with you all. It's about my grandpa Vern, my mom's dad. It sticks out mostly because it's relatively recent (within the past decade) but also because I've told it many times to friends and family. Deer hunters will appreciate it as a reflection on how it "used to be" in North Dakota.
*******
For the longest time, Uncles Paul and Jay had tried their darndest to get my grandfather to come hunting in North Dakota. A dyed-in-the-wool Minnesotan, grandpa was hard pressed to leave the comforts of his four-post, heated backyard stand.
“You guys go have fun,” he’d say. “I might get out a couple mornings here and call it a season.”
Minnesota being the way it is, he’d often wait until the day before opener, then meander over to Fleet Farm and buy a buck tag; just to have it “in case he felt like loading the ought-six.”
Grandpa never shot many deer, but it was comfortable and got him outside for something other than raking leaves or mowing the lawn. Invariably, just about the time he was walking back to the house, one of his brothers or nephews would roll in to ask if he’d seen anything, or talk about the big buck so-and-so saw heading into the swamp. It was simple and routine. Grandpa loved it, even if he brushed it off as a novelty that suited him when and if he had nothing better to do.
Then in 2007, for whatever reason, grandpa finally gave in. The deer in North Dakota were stupid thick, and I think our stories about the deer upon deer coming through the woods, and us leaving with truck beds heaping with venison were too much to take. He needed to see if there was something concrete behind all that hot air.
I was a bit bummed because the noon opener had him sitting closer to the vehicles with my uncle and cousin. But after a fruitless sit (he had an antlerless tag) and my spot being overrun with skinheads, he agreed to accompany me on Saturday morning further into the woods.
Grandpa and I left our hotel early in order to assure our spot at the approach. This was public land, after all, and even though the deer were bountiful, we still had to claim a spot early – just in case a go-getter got a wild hair and decided the woods by the lake were a bit more appealing that just sitting on the first ridge by the road and slinging lead at anything brown come daybreak.
Years prior, my uncle and I coined this location “The Triangle of Death” after we’d dropped three deer in a single set all within about 20 paces of the other. To this day it’s my favorite hunting spot, even though the drive from home now is about an hour and a half longer than it was when I lived in Grand Forks.
“The Triangle” consists of a textbook funnel that is good for just about every wind direct. To the east is a lake, to the west, scant woods and open grasslands veined with buck brush and Russian olive. Three deer trails intersect here, and all must generations upon generations old. When I first saw them, I thought they must have been manmade, possibly by a joyrider on a dirt bike ripping it up for shits and giggles. But now I know that they are the deep, well-traveled paths of thousands and thousands of deer over unknown number of years. And every year, without fail, I see deer there.
What makes it especially nice as a public hunting spot is that it’s about the furthest point from the truck, and while North Dakotans enjoy touting how many miles they may walk in a day, they’re also painfully aware about how far AWAY from a vehicle they can go to shoot a deer that they have to also drag back. It just so happens that I don’t mind the drag, especially with the consistent results.
We took our time that morning. Grandpa, overdressed as usual with his faux sheepskin lined bomber cap and blaze orange head-to-to ensemble, walked gingerly along the edge of the trees. Up and down hills, past the rock my cousin shot his first deer, and eventually into the woods at my hallowed hunting spot. To give us an advantage, I set us both facing south-southeast, so we could still crank our head north if need be, but mostly keep tabs on the area I knew the deer likely would come from.
We sat in complete silence – the kind that makes you think every breath sounds like the whoosh of a bathroom hand dryer. Then the world woke up. First with honks from the geese loafing on the water, then twittering chickadees and a stubborn gray squirrel joined in. With light came other familiar sounds. Shots echoes from seemingly every direction: Once in a great while a single retort, but mostly the erratic blasts signaling deer drives were at work.
Grandpa and I waited. Sometimes, I knew, the deer would be there right at shooting light. Slinking through the woods, feeling safe out of the open country and within the comfort of these old-growth oaks. This morning it took a bit longer. The sun was well above the horizon when that doe snuck up from the south.
I spotted it first, whispering for grandpa and pointing as the deer trotted toward us on one of those ancient game trails. She was high on the ridge, not at the top but close. I knew if grandpa was going to get a shot, she’d need to stop before reaching me. I bleated, and she did. I ducked my head and plugged my ears, as my peripheral caught grandpa raising that Browning auto to his shoulder.
BANG!
The doe jumped straight up, all four hooves airborne, then took a 90-degree turn and bolted. I’ll never forget the sight, because I was sure my eyes were playing a trick on me. As she ran past, I swore the front half of her was painted red. It couldn’t be, obviously. There was no way, but I knew what I saw and was anxious to examine exactly what grandpa did to that doe.
She ran 70 yard or so then piled up. Grandpa immediately started rousing, but I cautioned him to wait. I still had a buck tag, and we’d shot enough does here to know that, not unlike men and women, the lure of estrus often was stronger than a buck’s better judgement.
Sure enough, not 10 minutes past when I heard grandpa whistle. The buck was standing right on the end of the woods to our south, where I consider the start of our funnel. The wind was wrong to catch our scent, but he didn’t like something. I knew he’d likely hang around only long enough to give up the poon-tang, then flag and disappear.
The shot wasn’t ideal. He was slightly quartering, but mostly all I saw was the deep, dark V of his chest. That’s where the crosshairs rested when my Remington barked and he ran off. Seeing him briefly in the scope made me certain he was hit, but how well I didn’t know.
With my tag now basically filled and grandpa done, we set out to start gutting his doe.
I got there first. The doe landed on her “good” side, where the bullet entered, and I quickly flipped to find out what exactly I’d seen. It turns out my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Almost her entire shoulder was gone except for a bit of the shank and hunks of meat where bone used to be.
“Grandpa!” I hollered. “What in the world did you shoot this deer with?”
He shambled up next to me, already plucking his knife from his sheet and digging the tag from his pocket.
“Oh I dunno, what I always shoot,” he said. “Why?”
I pointed to the deer and gruesome exit channel.
“Are you shooting hollow points?”
“Of course! I always shoot hollow points.”
I laughed and shook my head. Grandpa was going to turn that deer into sausage and sticks anyway, so a few pounds sacrificed for a quick kill weren’t going to make him fret. Following that, my orders were simple: I’d go look for my buck quick and then help him gut his doe, but he was under no circumstances to drag the doe back to the truck.
I eventually found my buck – a three-hour ordeal that involved spotty bloodtrails, mounting frustration and, eventually, coming eye-to-eye with a very much alive deer in some thick cattails – but that’s a story for another time. The good news is he joined me in the truck alongside the doe grandpa shot (for which he completely ignored me and drug it back by himself until my cousin caught him and took over).
When we returned to Grand Forks, maybe knowing this could be the end of an era, we unloaded the harvest and took a group picture on my uncle’s lawn. It’s one of the only hunting photos since the digital age that I’ve actually paid to print and frame. It’s sitting in my office to this day, and every time I need a mental break, I look at it and remember the time grandpa and I got to hunt North Dakota deer together.
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