It’s deer hunting season here in flyover country. That means every buck stalker in possession of a Cabela’s credit card has slipped into blaze orange wear and donned a camo headlamp. It’s a taxidermist’s dream and high season at the Buck Knuckle Saloon.
“So, what’s the meaning of this annual quest for a multi-pointed hat rack?” I asked Madam. She rolled her eyes, as she does when I ask a culturally insensitive question. Then she told me a hunting story that made perfect sense.
Madam’s father, a retired judge, and three of his depression era cronies hatched a plan to make one last trip to deer camp, for old time’s sake. So, on opening day, they loaded Alden Jacobson’s Dodge Minivan with the required, cigars, toilet paper, playing cards, cribbage boards, and a rolling cooler full of groceries. Alden planned the menu, and appointed retired police detective Walt Shwank to help cook. Old Ed Witzig was in charge of tending the fire and the mousetraps. The judge volunteered to manage artillery. The four friends then drove north to their favorite hideout, Camp Rum Dumb.
Upon their arrival, they unloaded the perishables and aimed for the woods. Only the judge and Alden carried guns, a blessing for the deer and other hunters. Armed with binoculars, Ed and Walt tottered down the fire lane munching egg salad sandwiches and regaling one another with Camp Rum Dumb tales. There was the time Ed fell out of his deer stand and landed on a drowsy bull snake. Or, in 1965 a skunk family moved in under the kitchen sink.
A couple of hours passed with no deer sightings. So, they turned back toward camp to set up housekeeping. Alden and Walt cooked up a meatloaf and mashed potatoes, while Ed and the Judge played a round of gin rummy. After dinner, a crackling fire in the fireplace and a drop of Jack Daniels topped off a perfect stroll down memory lane. At midnight they all retired to their sleeping bags.
Then, about an hour later, a clatter arose from the kitchen.
“What is it?” whispered Walt, groping for his glasses. “Whose in here?” he demanded. No response.
The Judge clicked on his flashlight to have a look. “What’s going on out there?” he shouted. A startled weasel with a salad fork in its mouth glared back at him.
“Well, I’ll be,” croaked Ed. “He must have liked the meatloaf.”
Nobody moved a whisker, including the weasel. Finally, the deafening silence ended with an equally deafening KABOOM. It seemed that Walt had packed his old service revolver and chose this moment to shoot a hole in the ceiling. Maybe he thought the weasel would see the moon through the opening and find its way out.
No such luck. The weasel darted off the counter but not out the hole. Then came a chorus of, “Shoo, shoo! Get out!” as the weasel rounded the kitchen and rocketed through Alden’s duffle bag. Given the rumpus coming from Ed’s direction, it was clear that the weasel had made it into his sleeping bag with Ed. This was followed by proof that a 75 year-old man can run like Jessie Owens when faced with a fork -wielding weasel.
I was almost afraid to ask Madam what happened next, but I did.
“Well, Noah you’ll be glad to know that the weasel made it out alive from Camp Rum Dum,” she reported. “And, believe it or not, old Ed suffered nothing more than a chill due to his sprinting out the door barefoot in his skivvies.”
Me oh my, I was also glad to hear that Walt’s gun made it back in its holster with no further mishaps. And so, the four old friends had a fine time deer hunting without firing a shot – more or less. The weasel lived. Camp Rum Dumb suffered slightly, though small wildlife appreciated the new cabin entrance. Judging from this story, I concluded that the fun of the hunt had very little to do with bagging a buck.