The Partner

How do you appropriately describe a hunting partner? How, in a short essay, do you capture twenty years without leaving something out? I don’t think it's possible, so I’ll try capturing the essence of it and the person.

I met my hunting partner in September of 1977. I don’t recall the details of our introduction but I’m sure it included smiles, laughter, some screaming on my part, and (maybe) some tears from him. The truth is, I don’t remember. What I do remember, however, is the first year we hunted together. It was November 1989, to be exact. It was a year I will always remember.

Our original hunting party consisted of eight guys; myself, my partner, two uncles, a cousin, a friend and his son, and that friend’s brother. We gathered that year - on the Friday before the week of thanksgiving - at our cabin in northern Wisconsin, a place we call “The Shack”. I remember it being cold that year. Brutally cold, as winters there often are.

The Shack sits at the bottom of a small hill on a small river lined with birch and poplar trees. In the summer the river will yield its share of northern pike, bluegills, bass, and the occasional muskie that (somehow) manages to get caught below the spillway 300 yards to the north. We’ve twice pulled muskie’s in excess of 35 inches out of that river which, truth be told, is not big enough for 35 inch muskie’s!

The river flows at a snail’s pace during a wet year and, in a dry year, doesn’t flow at all. In fact, during a dry summer the river resembles an oddly shaped swap more than it does a river. No matter the flow of the river it is a beautiful place where eagles have their pick of inattentive fish and, for the most part, travel it’s corridor with very little competition from other birds of prey. In recent years the river has also become home to quite the population of wild turkeys.

In addition to being the main flight pattern for eagles and less-than-intelligent muskie’s, the river also serves as a crossing guard for the deer. You see, even at its lowest levels, the deer prefer to cross the river in two places, places we call “The rapids” and “The ridge”. Those two spots are home to hunting stands that have seen more whitetails than I can attempt to recall. Given the opportunity, I’m sure the deer that have passed by those stands would tell you they have been looked at through more riflescopes than they can attempt to recall. Many deer have been killed in those two spots; many more have been spared (or missed due to poor marksmanship or a sleeping hunter).

My grandfather occupied The Ridge for much of his hunting career. His stand consisted of the remains of an old, red metal frame chair that was, at one point, lashed to a giant pine tree with a rope. A veteran of World War II and the recipient of a Purple Heart, Grandpa had an abundance of two things, patience and wit. I’m told he would sit so still in his stand that songbirds would land on the barrel of his rifle, an auto-loading Remington .30-06 now used by my hunting partner. I'm also told that the best way to test his patience is by repeatedly playing Hugo Montenegro on an old eight track during a marathon game of sheep's head. But, that's another story.

I never had the opportunity to hunt with my Grandfather which is something I would have enjoyed. Grandpa died in 2001 and we miss him still. To this day his red chair sits at the base of the tree having become a corroded reminder of a great man from bygone era. He was a product of a generation many referred to as "The Greatest Generation". I can't speak for them all but, with regard to him I'd have to agree.

When I first took to the field in 1989, The Ridge (near the red chair and that giant tree) was occupied by my hunting partner and me. I still clearly remember standing with him as the sun came up, causing the half-frozen river to sparkle as though someone had sprinkled its surface with a million diamonds. It was (and still is) a spectacular sight. I don’t remember if we saw any deer that morning - probably because I was distracted by my excitement to be hunting for the first time - but I do remember my partner standing next to me, silently, patiently, surveying the surroundings, watching for deer. Did he get his patience from my Grandfather? Something tells me he did. Something else tells me he was one of the offenders in the Hugo Montenegro story.

I didn’t kill a deer that year. In fact, I don’t think anyone killed a deer that year. Killing deer wasn’t of the utmost importance, being there was. After being there for the first time I promised myself that I would always be there and, in some ways, I am always there. It’s become part of me.

In the years since my first deer hunt my hunting partner and I have been fortunate enough to enjoy some other adventures together. We hunted elk in Idaho in 2007 (a physically brutal trip my uncle joined us for). We also hunted mule deer in Nevada in 2008, an early-season, high country archery hunt that pushed us to our limits. On those trips we did the same thing we always did back at The Shack; hunted, laughed, enjoyed being outdoors and, more importantly, enjoyed each other’s company.

This year will mark the twenty-first year (give or take a few) that I will make the trek to the northwoods to join my hunting partner and our (now much smaller) hunting party for the annual deer hunt. I'm looking forward to being there. I enjoy the smaller group we now have, although I do miss the guys that hunted with us in the past. Each of them brought their own brand of humor (and cooking skills) to camp and, to a degree, helped turn a young boy into a man, nobody contributing to that more than my partner.

I mentioned at the outset that it would be unfair to think I could appropriately capture twenty years in a matter of a few paragraphs. I do feel, however, that I have captured the essence of it (and the person). Some say details are everything. Some say less is more. I believe less is more so, I'll sum up my hunting partner in a single word: Dad.