The Deer Hunt
By Charlie Steel

The Lakeshore Guardian is pleased to introduce a new contributor to our publication. Charlie Steel has written several nostalgic stories about growing up in rural Michigan as well as an exciting epic western tale Condor Publishing, Inc. has recently released entitled Fight for Wet Springs. Steel “believes that what one tries to accomplish in life is as important as what one achieves.”

The soft early morning light shone into the front room of the small house silhouetting an old man in his 60s, a man in his 30s, and a boy of 14. All were wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags on the living room floor. The old man stirred, disengaged himself from the cocoon of his sleeping bag, and stood up. He walked over to the living room window, pulled back the edge of the curtain and looked out. A gray flood of light fell on the boy. He woke to see the slim figure of the old man dressed in long underwear standing in the light of the window. The old man, noticing the boy was awake, smiled, drew back the curtains to let in more light, then turned and began to put on his red and black checked hunting clothes. He bent and zipped up his rubber boots over his felts. He turned and spoke to his young nephew, who was now sitting up, still in his sleeping bag.

“You’d better get dressed, Charlie,” Uncle Clare said. “As soon as your aunt hustles up breakfast, we’ll be going.”

Charlie worked his way out of the sleeping bag and began to put on his own bulky red and black checkered hunting clothes over his long underwear. From the kitchen he heard the rattling of pans where Aunt Nellie was scurrying to fix breakfast.

“All right, you men, up and at ‘em!” his aunt called. “Those deer aren’t going to wait for you.”

Charlie dressed quickly and began stuffing his pockets with items he took from a paper sack: a sharp two-bladed jackknife, a compass, a roll of toilet paper, and some 30-30 shells for his lever-action Winchester. He unfastened his belt and attached a small sharp German Solingen hunting knife. Satisfied, he walked into the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon, eggs, and fresh toast permeated the air. Aunt Nellie stood busy at the stove; her husband, Art, sat bent over a cup of steaming coffee.

“Good morning,” Charlie said.

Charlie saw Uncle Art wink to his wife.

“Well, it’s the deerslayer himself. You gonna get a big buck this morning?”

“Maybe,” Charlie answered, “if I’m lucky.”

Uncle Clare walked into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down. “Don’t tease the boy, Art,” Clare said to his brother. “He’ll do just fine.”

They were soon joined by Ray, Uncle Clare’s son who had just returned home from serving in the Korean War. Ray was no newcomer to hunting.

“Morning, everyone,” Ray said as he walked to the table and sat down. Aunt Nellie turned from the stove and poured him a cup of coffee.

Charlie looked across the table at the three older men - his cousin and uncles - all veterans of the woods. Charlie was very nervous; this was his first time deer hunting with the men.

“We’d better get going,” Uncle Clare said looking at his watch. “It’ll be light before we get there.”

Almost in unison the men noisily slid their chairs back from the table, donned their heavy hunting coats, and picked up their rifles from the corner where they had stood them the night before. They walked across the back porch to the big green Ford sedan.

The windows of the car were covered with early November frost. Charlie helped load the rifles into the trunk, scraped the rear window of the car, and got in. Uncle Clare started the car, warmed the engine, and backed out of the drive. As he put the car in gear he glanced around and asked, “Everybody got everything?”

Charlie nodded his head in assent with the others. His uncle gunned the engine and drove out of the sleeping town, through the cool November morning toward the St. Helen State Forest.

Charlie watched half-consciously the passing flicker of telephone poles. Even that early in the morning, the highway was crowded with deer hunters. A siren sounded in the distance coming quickly from behind. A Michigan State Police car passed them, overtook another car at the top of a hill, barely missed an oncoming car, and then disappeared into the distance.

“The darn fool,” Cousin Ray said. “They know better than that.”

A few miles further, Uncle Clare turned left from the highway into an oak and pine forest. They followed a gravel road for several miles until they came to a special marker hanging from a large old oak tree. He turned the car left and slowly negotiated a deeply rutted two-lane trail. One time the car got stuck and the three men got out to push. After several miles, the car climbed a sandy hill and stopped. Uncle Clare parked in an open space off of the trail. Quietly the men got out of the car, took their rifles from their cases, and loaded them. The four men walked across the road and headed west into the thick forest. Ray tapped Charlie on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Follow me,” he said. “Do exactly what I do, and whatever you do, don’t make any noise.”

The four of them stepped carefully and silently through the underbrush. The sun rose slowly in the east, and the gray light of the early morning dawn faded to a clear pale blue. One hundred yards into the forest, Charlie watched Uncle Art stop and sit under a small oak on a ridge overlooking an open valley. One by one the men paired off in a straight line on the high ridge. Next in line came Uncle Clare, then Charlie and Ray. Each could see the other down the line. It was arranged so that there would be no mistake as to where they were free to fire.

Continued next month.

Those interested in reading more about Charlie Steel’s work may visit www.condorpublishinginc.com.