MY FIRST DEER HUNT … AGE 14
Age 14. Hmmmmm, must have been November of 1960. My first year of High School. Wow, haven’t been back this far in a long time. I’m going to try and relate it pretty much as it happened, and as my memory allows. I’m already noticing that I’m forgetting things and I don’t want to lose this to the ages without it being written down. Too many of my Uncle’s and my Grandpa Griffin’s tales have passed without any documentation and I very much regret that. Here’s my stab at it.
The anticipation and the preparations were incredible. Me, a 14 year old kid, carrying an honest-to-God brand new Winchester M94 .30-30 that my folks had given me for my graduation from Junior High School. I was gonna be able to hunt with the grown-ups, specifically Uncle John and Aunt Ruth and my older cousin Johnnie. All I could do in my spare time was read about deer hunting, try and learn the secrets of the old guys. Field and Stream, Outdoor Life, Sports Afield, those were my bibles. I devoured them. I even went so far as to memorize the ads in those special educational tomes.
I didn’t have any hunting clothes, no boots, no knife (imagine, ME without a knife). So, read I did. I could have simply asked my Uncles what would be the best gear for me to buy and use. But that would have been admitting that I wasn’t worthy. I should know these things already. Somebody dug up a pair of red plaid Woolrich’s hunting pants. Perhaps I got those from my Aunt Ruth. Ohh, they were too big around in the waist and too short in the leg but that didn’t matter. No, by God, they were real pair of deer hunting pants. Even had laces down the sides of each leg to lace over my boots. I’ll bet those pants were 20 years old when I got them. Didn’t matter. They were “seasoned”, they’d been there and done that. Uncle Pete and Dad conspired to get me a real hunting coat too. They came up with a brand new Woolrich hunting coat, again in the red plaid of a real deer hunting coat. Twern’t none better. It was warm. So, armed with some outer clothes I was well on my way. Long johns, socks, couple of shirts, a dozen pair of those red cotton work gloves … and a hat. Not just any hat would do, mind you, but a real deer hunter’s hat. I can’t remember what they were called, but it looked like a Robin Hood hat, only in red plaid (but you guessed that, didn’t you). Now, boots are a very personal matter and I knew long beforehand what I should get … a brand new pair of Red Wing Irish Setters. The most magnificent pair of boots I’d ever seen. A beautiful leather, soft and pliable and Oh So comfortable. But I also figured I’d need to waterproof them. My Dad told me so. So I bought three cans of “Bear Grease”, the best waterproofing for leather in existence at that time. I put the first coat on and rubbed it in … handrubbing. After I got a base coat on it I added more. But I had read in Sport’s Afield that I should also warm them in an oven so the leather would absorb the grease. So, every day I would stick them in Mother’s oven to warm them … then rub in another coat of grease. And every day I would spend thirty minutes trying to get the “red” out of my grease soaked hands. Hell, after a couple weeks of that my hands looked as though they were nice and suntanned. Finally, after three cans of the Bear Grease, I deemed them ready for service.
Now I needed a knife. I’d had a pocket knife since I was about 6 but I knew also that I needed a “real” knife … a hunting knife. Visions of attacking deer and bear ran thru my mind. Understand, some areas of Michigan , NORTHERN Michigan , were still pretty remote. Read … WILD. Yep, I was convinced attack was imminent. So, I damn well had better have a real knife that could stop the impending attacks should I be caught off guard. I bought a CASE sheath knife. My first belt knife. The guys at Dunham’s saw to it that I was outfitted with the correct one. Chief and Sandy and Vern Martin all knew about these things so I let them pick for me. I came home with one that had a blade about 6” long, genuine leather spacer handle AND sheath. Man, I am living high off the hog. I’m outfitting myself with the best available … or so the outdoor magazines would have me believe.
Finally, November came. I had started my preparations early in the Summer. It took me all Summer and Fall to gather all my equipment. I had been to the rifle range several times to practice with my Winchester . I was set. I WAS READY. I took a note around to each of my teachers getting their permission for me to miss two weeks of school to go deer hunting … quite an accepted practice during the day. A LOT of kids went deer hunting with their Dads and Uncles. It was considered as important as religion … November 15th was considered one of the High Holy Days. Participation was mandatory … just like the Opening Day of Trout season … last Saturday in April.
I packed all my gear and my rifle two weeks before we were to leave. I packed it, unpacked it, inventoried it, repacked it, added a few items, took out a few items, unpacked and repacked. It was a ritual. A time honored tradition. I would NOT be denied.
November 13th I spent the night at Uncle John’s house. We were going to be loading up early the next morning and heading out. Excitement filled the air. If memory serves, so did snow … filled the air I mean. No problem. November was supposed to have snow. It was that 0º temperature that concerned me some. No matter. Uncle John had built a bed cover for his pickup … 2X4’s and plywood. Wasn’t much on looks but by God, it was hell on strength. We packed up our gear and crawled in, just Johnnie and I. We had a large canvas tarpaulin to cover ourselves with so we would stay warm for the 7 hour trip to Gaylord. No problem staying out of the wind. The truck was loaded with a big wall tent, beds and cots, blankets and sleeping bags, stove and cooking gear and a couple bales of straw. Pretty much packed to the hilt. We were ready.
Early the morning of the 14th we took off. I remember that Johnnie and I had arranged to tell each other as often as we could that “I’m still alive” to each other. Thinking about it, freezing to death was a very real consideration. We were living in Redford Township then, a suburb of Detroit . It was gonna be a long drive. After about a hundred statements of “I’m alive” we felt the truck get off of old 27. Must be we’re getting close. This would have been the 4 Mile Rd on the south end of Grayling. The truck bounced along a two track. Actually, I believe it was an old logging road. We’d turn and twist and bounce, slide a little bit and then be back on the trail. How did we know it was a trail? ‘Cause there weren’t no trees in it. No tracks either but that was good. We had this whole area to ourselves. ‘Course, the road wasn’t plowed either but Uncle John had the tires “tractionized” the week before so there wasn’t much concern about deep snow. No one had 4-wheel drive back then so they got their tires “tractionized” instead. After an hour or so Uncle John stopped the truck. I heard the truck doors open and close. He came to the back of the truck and announced “Boys, were’ home”. So Johnnie and I bounced out and landed in 3’ of powder. “Boys, grab the shovels and clear out an area for the tent. Can’t eat ‘til the tent is up and we can’t put the tent up on top of all this snow. We had at it. Area was cleared and the tent up and the truck unloaded in an hour. Aunt Ruth commenced to cookin’. And most importantly, to brewin’ coffee. A king never felt so comfortable nor content.
On a day to day basis I simply cannot remember details. Some events stand out and I will relate those. I do remember Uncle John saying afterwards, after we had come back, that it had been the coldest Deer Season in the past 30 years. The temperatures hovered around zero for a week before it broke and warmed up. At one point his scope froze up. This was in the days before scopes were fog proof. Other days during those two weeks were so warm that the snow started to melt. THAT was my biggest headache … or, more appropriately, foot ache.
It warmed up to the point the snow started to melt. That meant my brand new, well broken in, greased to the hilt … LEATHER Irish Setters were getting wet. Just walking thru the snow got them so wet the leather became soaked. Me feet were inside the boots so they too got wet. Wet boots = wet feet = foot blisters of monumental proportions. I had blisters on my heels like I’d never had before. I was in a lot of pain. Fortunately I did bring along some moleskin in my First Aid Kit. Someone had talked me into buying the kit. Someone else was smart enough to include moleskin in said kit. God Bless him. It was the only thing that saved my trip from total disaster. I came back to the tent that night and got out of my boots and dried my feet and put on dry socks. Unfortunately, for the uninitiated, I neglected to keep my boots off the ground. That night they froze. That’s the night I learned that I should have hung my boots from the ridge pole upside down so the heat in the tent would rise and dry my boots out. NEVER made that mistake again. Uncle John’s response? “Saw it right off but I figured you’d learn better if I let you make the mistake. Didn’t you notice that we hang our boots?” Ahhhh, no, I didn’t. Anyway, my boots dried out and I lathered on another coat of grease, ready for the next foray into the woods. Lesson learned … and never forgotten. I also never forgot to never, but n e v e r wear leather boots in snow. Guess that’s why Uncle John, Aunt Ruth, and Johnnie too wore insulated rubber boots. I’m still sorry I didn’t ask their advice on the boots. Pride goeth before the fall.
I remember the day I saw my first buck in the wild. Johnnie and I were walking thru the woods and came upon a clearing. At one end of the clearing we saw a local kid digging a pit to sit in and make his stand. There was a huge pile of dirt there and he was digging into the side of it. Smart kid. Even made a hole to put his feet in to keep them warmer. Anyway, about 30 yards from him was a small stand of Quakies (Poplar) and some scrub oak. Standing in the midst of that was a magnificent 8 point buck. I still remember seeing all those horns glistening in the sunlight. The buck was watching the kid dig that pit. The deer must have been about 100 yards from where we stood. For some reason unbeknownst even to me, I dropped to one knee while shouldering my rifle. In an instant I shot. The buck took off running. Probably ran all day from the looks of him. I found where my bullet plowed dirt … 30 yards in front of the deer, between the deer and me. I hadn’t aimed and I rushed the shot. Talk about disappointed! I blew it. I blew my first encounter with a legitimate trophy. Excitement I guess. Yeah, I was really excited. But, at least I had seen one and hadn’t been afraid to kill something. But I will never forget that day either. Lessons learned. Even though Johnnie and I were standing in the middle of that clearing, the buck never noticed us. He was too occupied watching the kid dig his pit.
Another day Johnnie and I went for another of our, by now, infamous walks. GOD he loved to walk. We ended up in Shanty Town , right alongside the railroad tracks. There were a few old foundations of civilization long past when Grayling was a big lumber camp. We even found an old cemetery. Johnnie and I spent about 2 hours investigating that cemetery. Man, we found headstones dating back to 1843. I wonder what ever became of that cemetery. Was it relocated? Did the developers section off that old cemetery? Huge subdivision in that area we hunted so long ago. It would be a travesty if it had simply been bulldozed over to make way for “progress”. On the walk back to camp that evening we finally came out to the logging road we had gone in on. Johnnie and I were walking along, talking like kids do, when another big buck jumped the road ahead of us. It happened and was over just that fast. No shots fired. Dammit. Lesson learned! When you are out hunting, then dammit, HUNT. All the time. Everytime. But it sure was a pretty lesson. That buck F L E W.
Oh yeah, that brings up another event that I will never forget. It was the eve of Thanksgiving. Uncle John had run a snare line. Uncle John always ran a snare line. He had run his snareline and checked it every day. One of the snares was tripped and gone so he tracked it and found it. He called to us to come out of the tent, he had something he wanted us to see. Johnnie and I came out of the tent in shirtsleeves. Beneath a huge Tamarack Pine, nestled in the boughs that reached the ground, was a big Snowshoe Hare. Still quite alive. He was kinda restricted in his escape though by the picture wire noose around his neck, the wire attached to a small deadfall that had hung up in the brush. Now, Uncle John always carried a Colt Woodsman Match Target pistol, a fine .22, on his belt. He told Johnnie and I “there’s dinner. Get ‘im”. So, instead of him simply head shooting the bunny, he gave him to us. We ran back to the tent and grabbed a couple of spare tent stakes. Johnnie and I both dove in and clubbed that little bastard to death. Damn, but he died hard. Uncle John and Aunt Ruth used to lovingly recall that incident in later years. They were both amazed that Johnnie and I didn’t beat each other to death under that tree. Man, the tent stakes wailed. That rabbit was Thanksgiving dinner the next day. Hahahahaha, God he was tough. He died hard! What a scene that must have been.
Nobody connected that year. No venison, sadly. But boy, did I ever have a great time. And I wouldn’t have traded that experience for anything. I learned a great deal that year. It was worth it. Every damn event, every sodden bootstep, snow too deep to hunt in without snowshoes, temperatures so cold the only thing to do was keep moving to stay warm. No Gortex, no thinsulate. Light cotton gloves … no mittens or choppers or real gloves. It was Heaven on Earth to a young boy, ‘bout five feet tall.
