Back Cast

I didn’t shoot a deer last year. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. I hunted several days, the last handful solo, sitting on hillsides before first light, knocking around in the brush at midday, sitting again as the last of the day’s light faded in the west.

Never fired a shot.

If I remember correctly, thinking back over the years, that was a first. We love venison in our house and not having a mature doe, processed and wrapped in individual packages in the freezer, was disappointing. While we imagined eating venison chili, venison stroganoff, venison stew and venison meatballs and spaghetti last winter, I, as they say, ate the tag.

This season will be different.

I started deer hunting in North Dakota in the late 1980s. That’s before kids. Before we moved to Bismarck. Long before I took this job. Before a lot of stuff when I think about it.

I spent the majority of those years in two deer camps, both located north of the Sheyenne River. What separated the two camps was about 30 miles of pavement, gravel and a county line. Beyond that, come November, there was little disconnection. No matter the camp, both housed good people, good food and good times.

My oldest boy shot his first deer, a small buck, out of Grandpa’s camp in 2009. The deer was bedded in a tangle of red willows growing so close together, I’m certain I wouldn’t have hit the ground if I had tripped.

While I can remember his first deer, I can’t recall the first I shot in North Dakota. Maybe that’s the parent in me, or just an excuse for a memory that isn’t as good as it once was.

I know for certain the rifle I was using is the same as I carry today. A left-handed bolt action that looks pretty good after 40-plus years of use. The sling broke sometime back, but I repaired it quickly between hunts with some camouflage Duct tape. The tape works better than my memory and is still holding.

The folding knife I used to field dress and skin that deer was one that I found in the snap pocket of an old, wool Pendleton hunting coat Dad once wore. I folded the coat, put it in a cardboard box and brought it with me to North Dakota years ago for sentimental reasons. Finding the folding knife in a coat that doesn’t fit was a bonus.

This season it will just be my oldest and I hunting together opening weekend. My concern, as always, is for him to fill his tag first. Then I will work on making sure that I don’t eat mine again.