Old Model 37

My grandfather was a spiteful, bitter old man. Not the kind of man that you would call Grandpa, certainly not the kind of man that you could ever love. While I grew up in his house, I did my best to stay out of his way. To this day he is a stranger to me.

I don’t have many memories or mementoes from my grandfather except for a 16 gauge Ithaca Model 37 shotgun. It had been stored for decades in the back of a cedar closet, making its way to me years after his death. It is a nondescript little shotgun, and with millions in production, it has no value or worth other than sentiment and nostalgia.

Surprisingly enough, it was the first gun that I ever duck hunted with. I was perched in the bow of a small Jon boat with the Model 37 resting across my lap. My cousin rowed us gently with the current as a drake Wood Duck flared from the wild rice further downstream. It was an old gun yet new to me, so too was duck hunting.

My cousin cautioned that the bird was too far out, I took the shot anyways. We were both surprised when that drake crumbled and disappeared into a raft of tall reeds near the shoreline. It took us some time, and a bit of bog stomping, but we found that very first duck.

Shortly there after, the Model 37 stopped working. A gunsmith diagnosed an internal failure and returned it to me more broken than before. Sadly, that Model 37 languished for decades passing from closets, to gun safes, and even spent a short stint as a wall hanger in my son’s bedroom.

Duck hunting isn’t new to me anymore, neither are shotguns. This winter I decided to disassemble that Model 37 and see if I could repair it. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the trigger assembly had worn down to the point of failure. It was a simple defect caused by time and excessive wear.

I can’t help but wonder if the same thing had happened to my Grandfather. Was his life so difficult that it just wore him down to the broken man I feared as a child? I can’t save that old man from his legacy, but I was able to save that old Model 37. And that’s worth something to me.

Over the River, and through the Woods.

I woke this morning to the sounds of construction equipment. You could hear it tearing at the landscape relentlessly moving eastward through the State forest that surrounds us. It had been quiet the past few days, with crews on holiday, there was a momentary return to solace. A false sense of peace.

It was that solace that brought my family north almost a year ago to the day. Our journey to this place was not easy, it was expensive and labor intensive and it turned everything we knew upside down. But we had one singular goal, and that was for Karen, Charlie, and myself to live our most genuine lives.

A couple weeks back I stood on the shoreline of our small environmental lake, too small to be given a name by the DNR, but large enough to be remembered by the community that has grown up in this area. I watched with a sadness that I still do not understand as tree after tree disappeared from the not so distant horizon.

In truth, I am a carpet bagger to this community, an outsider that can never truly understand what it is to be born of this place. While I may always be that outsider, I have fallen in love so instantly, it is as if I have always been of these woods, so I will live here, and I will die here.

Hailed as a boon for Minnesota jobs, the Enbridge Line 3 project has brought thousands of out of state license plates to a community that has no means to protect itself from a global pandemic. Hailed as a replacement for an ailing pipeline, in actuality it is an expansion and horrible land grab for a multinational corporation with no ties to this State or to our Country.

We scoff at Native Americans when they claim betrayal, but that is what this project is. It is a betrayal of everything that we are and what we identify as Minnesota. Just remember, you were there and complacent when they rammed a fucking pipe full of tar sands oil underneath the mighty Mississippi.

The Unbelievable Power of Cocoa

Before leaving the house for a morning hunt, I will often fill my thermos with coffee, and if Charlie is coming along, I will fill his thermos with Cocoa.  After all, it was Curious George who extolled the virtues and unbelievable powers of Cocoa, who am I to argue?  

In the early days, our morning hunts started with a familiar rhythm long before the coffee and cocoa was ready.  I would wake first, making my way through a dark bedroom so as not to wake Karen.  Sometimes I would forget my glasses, thus what was a perilous journey in the dark, quickly transitioned to ludicrous as Karen awoke and wished us well on our coming adventures.  

Once dressed, I would go to Charlie’s room to rouse him from a sound sleep.  My boy has always been a heavy sleepier and no matter how softly I’ve tried waking him, the result is always the same - some form of panic and confusion.  I can’t blame him, getting up that early to sit either in a cold boat or tree could be considered by many as a form of corporal punishment.

In those early days my little boy needed help getting dressed a kin to Randy from a Christmas Story. As we learned from Randy, the key to warmth is found in layers, copious amounts of layers.  Layers of course, add an algebraic quality to dressing and the skill required to avoid folds, lumps, and otherwise general discomfort is worthy of a merit badge. After many mornings honing my skills, I wove a tapestry of obscenity that as far as I know, is still hanging in space over Crosslake Minnesota. 

So here we are, the morning of yet another hunt.  It is far to early, though not as bad as years past due to the proximity of water - our back yard.  My little boy is taller than me now, and fortunately for both of us he is very good at waking and dressing himself.  Just the same, here I am readying yet another delicious thermos full of Cocoa. 

Portrait of Love

He searched his pockets with a tremble in his hands. His frustration was palpable in the realization that he had misplaced the phone number for the clinic. His wife of 36 years had gone in that morning for a simple procedure to correct an irregular heartbeat. What I saw in that moment, was a portrait of love, that without her by his side his own heart beat irregular too. They reunited that evening with a clean bill of health, and I have to imagine their hearts beating as one.

Never buy a mouse trap from a gas station.

Karen had found a handful of sunflower seed hulls on the floor of the pantry.  I thought it was Charlie being Charlie, he is a messy dude.  Karen was not impressed with my reasoning, so we bought a mouse trap from a gas station.  

When we got home, Charlie started plotting the best strategy for capture, commenting that I had bought the PERFECT mouse trap.  The end result, was peanut butter topped with a sunflower seed on each trap.  Charlie toddled off to bed, Karen resigned herself to the boudoir for the evening.  I worked on electrical.  Then I assembled a new office chair Karen had bought.  Then I heard “the” snap.  

I went to the pantry to investigate, and there was the trap next to Coopers food bin tipped upside down on the floor.  I couldn’t see a mouse, but the trap was askew and clearly had been triggered. As I leaned down to grab the trap, it sprang to life and the entire trap disappeared under Cooper’s food bin.

Seriously. WHAT THE FUCK?  

My first thought was we had caught a garden gnome or some-other mythical creature.  Certainly not a mouse capable of dragging its trap.  This conclusion made the most sense given it was four thirty in the morning.  Whatever it was, it was under Cooper’s bin and strong enough to drag the trap along with it.  Solving the mystery meant opening the pantry door and moving Cooper’s bin.  Two things I didn’t want to do.    

Turns out it wasn’t a Garden gnome, instead, a very furry little fella had reached a paw into the cookie jar and got him self stuck.  Not a mortal wound.  I opened the pantry door, and moved the bin.  Do you have any idea how fast a goddamn mouse is when it has a trap stuck to its arm?  It erupted from under Cooper’s bin, somersaulted across the pantry floor, and retreated back behind the bin.  

The rodentia gymnastics was bit much for me, it was noisy too.  I paused, waiting for Karen or Charlie to join me in my quest.  Either I was too quiet or they were both great playing possum.  Regardless, I was doing this alone.  Mr. Mouse had retreated between two crates along the pantry wall, but could not go any further due to the trap.  I was still standing outside the pantry. 

Stalemate.  

I contemplated ways to kill the mouse.  I didn’t have any gloves and this little fella proved the trap was an inconvenience rather than a death knell.  I killed a mouse once with a broom handle when I was sixteen, but there was no way to get the broom handle in the pantry without actually going into the pantry.  What happens if the broom handle only maims the mouse?  Do mice scream? If this damn thing starts screaming, I swore I would loose my shit.

Ok, so no broom handle.  How about a pellet rifle?  We have lots of those!  This is more humane and has the benefit that I don’t have to get into the pantry.  Ok kids, don’t try this at home.  So I grabbed Charlie’s 1800fps monster pellet rifle and loaded a pellet.  I brought it to the pantry only to realize that the 3x9 scope could not focus on a target that close-up.  I could see trap through the scope, but my furry target was masked in the shadows.  What if I missed?  Would the pellet ricochet?  Could it go through the wall?  Ok, no pellet gun.

How about a bb-gun?  I ran over and grabbed Charlie’s smaller bb-gun but it was out of bb’s.  Shit.  What now?  I’m not gonna lie, I eyed the .22 rifle in the corner, but that would be hard to explain to Karen. 

Ok.  No broom handle.  No pellet gun.  No BB gun.  No .22 rifle.  What about the feral cats that live outside our house?  What if I catch one and throw it into the pantry?  Those cats don’t know us though, they’re not big on taking requests.  Just the same, I turned to the patio and low and behold one of the cats waiting for food!  She looked cold and hungry, I paused from the great mouse hunt, and gently reached into the pantry for the cat food.  Oh the irony.

The cat was fed, the mouse was still entrenched in it’s hidey hole, and my wife and son still fast asleep.  I paced a little while. What if I grab the trap? What if I grab the trap incorrectly and it releases and the mouse runs up my arm? That happened once folks, I’m not making that shit up.  I have never been the same.  I paced a little more.  

Action time, I opened the pantry door and with one swift motion grabbed the trap and mouse letting a garbage bag fall over both, and lifted them to the plastic bin which I quickly covered.

I put my boots on and headed outside.  At the edge of our woods I dumped the contents of the bin.  The feisty bugger made a break for freedom, I reached out a foot and released the trap.  Like a rocket, he bolted into the woods.  Not far enough for my taste so I followed.  He scampered another five feet and stopped. Still too close, so I pursued.  He popped out a second time and disappeared into the darkness for good.

Like I said before, never bye a mouse trap at a gas station.

Windows

The boat was set and my boy was tucked in his seat snoring away.  I glimpsed a loose chunk of camo at the front of my blind and was about to fix it when I was reminded that was Moose’s window.  

After years of hunting she had warn away a little opening to poke her face through and spy the sky and bog before us.  

She’s not here any more, but her memories sure are and so is her window. Right where it belongs.

Finding the Extraordinary

The morning had been a struggle, what few birds had buzzed the rice had come in from the left when I was looking right, or in from the right when I was looking left. Rather than my decoy spread, they had opted for the safety of the reeds tucked tightly against the shoreline.

Tired of watching, I decided to make my own magic.

Jumping birds while pushing a boat can be tricky. Simple things like balance and coordination are not so simple with a rocking boat, and a motivated target. Nonetheless, I managed to drop a pair of Wood Ducks as they attempted to escape the protection of the reeds, both birds succumbing to my steel.

Bobbing in the open water, their white bellies made an easy mark for which to track. Turns out I wasn’t the only hunter who took notice. A giant Bald Eagle leapt from its White Pine perch, circling high above the further of my two fallen birds.

In spite of my verbal protest and hurried push pulling, the massive hunter dove effortlessly towards the water with its talons outstretched. With a quick splash, the realization of a bird lost, and feckless epitaph of expletives I watched in astonishment as it returned to the sky, my prize clutched firmly in its grasp.

I’ve experienced crazy in this bog, I've seen birds lost to the rice, but this was a first. What had been simple routine, quickly became something so completely unexpected, a reminder that when in the bog from time to time even the ordinary can become extraordinary.

A Perfect Day

Charlie was scanning the stars above, not the easiest of tasks with a heavy coat, thick hood, and bulky life jacket. As we motored our little boat through the narrows he strained his head upward for another look, knowingly I asked, "Looking for Orion?” Over the whine of our outboard he replied, “Yeah, but I can’t find him.” I peered over my shoulder, confirming years of early autumn hunts spent under the watchful eye of our ancient hunter and replied, “He’s over here buddy, just to the right of the Moon.”

Orion has been my guide in the sky for years, when the weather was testy or the journey to the bog was long, I could always find my place when I knew I could find his. This unofficial open to the 2019 duck season was no different. The heat and storms of the day before had abated overnight with Summers sultry last gasp transforming into a crisp Fall chill that permeated the pre-dawn darkness making our breath visible on exhalation.

Exiting the smaller of the two lakes, I took a moment to clear vegetation from the prop. The motor sputtered dead, but with little effort she roared back to life and we made our across the lake. The stars twinkled brightly overhead and the sliver of moon that danced across the water, silhouetted the tree line before us, the contours of which I used to navigate through the blackness.

Reaching the rice, I cut the motor and made my way to the front of the boat with push pole in hand. The chill of the morning, the warmth of his gear, and the vibration of the boat, had all but lulled Charlie back to sleep. I slipped the push pole into the water, a pair of Swans and a small flock of Geese broke the silence, clearly distraught by our intrusion, taking to the air a short distance from our bow.

Our movement was slow but steady, I pushed from the left, and then from the right, finding my rhythm as we slipped deeper into the rice. Every once in a while the boat would gently clunk against a long fallen and forgotten timber, lost to time but forever apart of this place. We made our way to an open pocket of lily pads a stones through away from shore. The birds had been hugging this part of the bog the morning before and I hoped they would follow a similar path today.

With the decoys set in no particular order, I eased us into a taller patch of rice. The wind had died down a bit, still I opted to drop anchor, to keep us steady and maybe, just maybe, to claim this spot as my own. With an hour to legal shoot there was time for Charlie to keep sleeping, and there was time for me to listen. The random whistle of a wood duck, the familiar quack of a mama Mallard, and the distant clunk of decoys from other hunting parties added to the tranquility of the lake and reminded me of what I love most about this place.

As the hour drew to a close, the early morning light erased our starry vestige revealing a patchwork view of our decoys and the bog beyond. The few clucks and quacks that had welcomed us in the dark, had grown in intensity with the growing light. Early defectors took to the air, Mallards and Wood Ducks zigzagging to the sky with a rustle of wings.

It took a little coaxing but Charlie was awake and ready to go, I hadn’t needed any coaxing. A distant barrage of shotgun blasts from a different lake not unlike our own served as the starting bell for the days excitement! Only moments had passed before a single Woodie strayed to close to our spread, I shouldered “The Fudd” and with a single blast from its cartoonishly long barrels, dropped my quarry squarely in our decoys. With a resounding splash, Charlie leaned back and enthusiastically proclaimed, “nice shot!”

A short time later, a second Woodie crossed from my left and befell the same fate as the the first. “The Fudd”, a boorish side by side with thirty inch barrels, was proving herself to be potent ally in the bog!

With two Woodies in the bag of a 3 Woodie limit, I turned my attention to Charlie, anxious for him to connect. Charlie missed his first volley, but it didn’t take him long to find the kill zone. With a bevy of birds coming in from the right, I felt the pull of his gun and watched as his first duck of the season crumpled in the air and plummeted to the water below.

The next half hour was a wild ride of shooting and laughter for both the boy and I. The majority of our targets were flybys, fortunately for us, a Summer spent trap shooting from lawn chairs proved the perfect recipe for success! With seven birds down, one of which was a Mallard we pushed out to collect and tally our birds. Pushing the boat through the rice, Charlie and I managed to collect them all. That rarely happens, the bog almost always claims one as penance!

With all birds accounted for, we found that Charlie had taken a single Woodie and a pair of Mallards, giving us a little breathing room to keep the hunt alive. We had taken seven before seven, an opening day we had not experienced in years! I was typing a quick note to Karen, when a lone Woodie quartered in from my left. Charlie whispered, “Daddy, get it!”. I dropped my phone to the deck, raised “The Fudd”, and dropped our last duck of the day with a single resolute blast that echoed across the lake.

It was a good day. The boat and voyage to the rice was effortless, the birds were plentiful and in hand, and my boy was with me for all of it. For a hunter, and a father, there are no better days than this.

Seasons

It all goes by so damn fast.

It feels like only a moment ago I was tilling the earth with the tiniest of green tractors; visions of a distant Fall and all of its adventures plying at my imagination.

Yet here I am, the Early Goose season has made way for Bow Hunting, and despite Mother Nature’s best drenching, this morning I hunkered down in my little boat amidst the wild rice and the wood ducks.

I may have even nabbed a limit if I do say so myself!

And so my time is no longer measured by days or weeks, but by the seasons that carry me forward. In the Spring I’m planting, in the Summer I’m crushing clays with my boy, and in the Fall and Winter all of these magical places speak to me in ways I could never put into words.

I am here now in the woods and more importantly in the moment. I cannot know what lurks just out of sight, but as my tree gently sways and the Aspen leaves rustle in the evening wind, I take solace knowing that I am in my season.

Goodnight Princess.

She stood up with a grace that we hadn’t seen in weeks and walked over to her pillow. Curling up into her old familiar position, the medicine erased the discomfort caused by her swelling. With little effort her head hit the pillow and she fell into a deep sleep.  

Charlie had been sitting on the floor close to her, reaching over her body he laid his head upon her chest.  He was crying. Karen was crying. I was crying too because our Moose was dying. It was time to say goodbye and none of us were ready for it.

The second injection was just as quick as the first, but this time instead of falling asleep, Moose's brain turned off and her heart stopped. My son strained to listen to each final beat, as we all sat silent except for our tears. After a brief pause, he let us know that her heart was quiet. She was gone, and in the silence I could not believe how quickly we had reached this moment.  

Weeks before she had been diagnosed with liver cancer, weeks before that, I had noticed she was bloated. Never. Never, could I have imagined that our grand lady was near her end or that she would fill so full of fluid that we would have to drain her regularly. We did it three times - and she hated it each time. The trip to the vet, the hand-off as they reached the back room.  

I’ve never known such genuine love from an animal until that moment when all ninety pounds of her would cower under my chair pleading for protection, begging for support. In all of it I was powerless - I could barely understand what was going on let alone translate it in a manner that she could understand.

I’ve posted many things that are close to my heart - but I have had little appetite to share this news. Moose was something special to us as a family and more so as my partner in the bog and blind. I tried to keep her passing to myself but Facebook would not let it go - you never realize how many things you've shared with Facebook until their algorithm reminds you of those special moments. 

We shared a lot of special moments in the fall, and Facebook mercilessly shared each of them with me.

Her lose has made it difficult to blog this season - she was so much apart of me and the hunts that we shared together. I've ignored writing this post, terrified of this post, because this was validation that I really had to say goodbye. While I was chasing the ducks and the geese it simply did not feel right to let her go.

I understand that pets will pass, but we were not ready for Moose. I'm still not ready, but with the season ending soon it’s time I find solace in the good, and share those amazing moments with you all (again). I’ll readily admit this post has been aided by an empty belly and a full mug of brew, aptly named “Duck Pond”.

To my big dog with an even bigger heart— I raise my glass to you. I will remember you in the crispness of an early fall morning, when I hear the rustling of wings flying overhead, and as the geese circle our decoys with wings cupped well below the brim.

Love you Princess.  Goodbye.