Published November 6, 2005 in the Hibbing Daily Tribune
By Aaron J. Brown
It’s opening weekend of the deer hunting rifle season, which means if you’re reading this early on Sunday morning you’re probably a non-hunter or a super-intelligent deer hiding in the basement of a public library.
Dread foul ungulate! Be sure to bag your scat before 8 a.m. Monday lest we humans unearth your cloven hoof plot!
The rest of you probably wonder what all the fuss is out in the woods. If you’re like me, you might also feel a pang of inadequacy for having no desire to hunt in an area where hunting is a way of life.
I hail from a traditional Iron Range family. By traditional, I mean we’ve been here longer than the four lane highways and my ancestors’ names are distributed more or less equally between commemorative plaques and crime records. As with many traditional Iron Range families, hunting represents a cherished autumn custom.
But when the young me came to the crossroads of either taking up hunting or spending the weekends of deer season with women, one adolescent urge overpowered the other.
Of course, it wasn’t the prospect of female companionship alone that kept me out of the woods (looking back on my swinging single skill set, it’s difficult to call it a “prospect” at all). I just didn’t need the food, I didn’t need to shoot anything and, frankly, it was cold outside.
It’s still cold outside. Hunters rejoice in the snow and cold for tracking purposes, but fail to acknowledge that five hours of sitting in a snow-covered tree usually precedes most “tracking.” I’ll endure cold for food, but only if it’s already cooked. And skinned. And dead, for that matter.
Besides, when you factor in all the beer, cheese, candy and camping supplies that most hunters bring with them, any resulting venison sausage costs you more than sticks of breakfast plutonium (a 1950s mealtime trend that tragically illustrated the folly of man’s meddling with the atom).
I am well aware that many consider hunting to be a great opportunity for sport, camaraderie, and a connection with nature. For some, loosely translated this means opportunities to shoot things legally, avoid the spouse and drink beer in the woods. I would hunt if I needed the food or if those big talking deer ever followed through on their idle threats to kidnap members of my family. But ground beef still costs less than ammo, and they moved “West Wing” to Sunday nights.
I also seem to recall a movie where a mafia assassin describes the offing of a particular person in a way that made the crime look like a hunting accident. He said something like, “Why do all these mob guys go hunting … makes it so easy for me.” As far as I know, I’m a low value target (good for pretty much just the meat and lamp oil), but I don’t want to make it easy for the powerful arch-enemies I hope one day to infuriate.
It’s also probably time to switch my exercise running to the indoor treadmill from the outside township road that borders a popular public hunting spot. I have a blaze orange jacket and hat, but that only “greatly reduces” the risk of bleeding out after being shot in the neck.
Traditional Iron Ranger that I am, I peacefully co-exist with my hunting brothers and sisters. I’ll congratulate those who successfully bag their big buck and wave at the legions of orange huntsmen along the road. But when the history of this November is recorded, it shall be known that I was warm and slept in every Saturday.
Aaron J. Brown is a columnist for the Hibbing Daily Tribune.