As he does every November, Uncle Joe (Elmer William Sprick) went deer hunting last week, but didn't take a deer. From his deer stand near Ten Oaks north of Lake City, Minn., he observed plenty of wildlife and smaller deer, but the one meant for him did not pass by this year.In his honor, we're going to reprint a very fine story he included in his 2005 book "Fish Stories and Other Lies" (we've taken note that all of the stories are not just true, but authentic). This story is called "One on One." Not unlike the scrapblog editor, Uncle Joe likes to refer to himself in the third person in his stories, and in this one he calls himself "the old man." We most certainly don't think of him as old, unless it means venerable and wise. Joe's story:ONE ON ONE
By ELMER "JOE" SPRICKJUST OUTSIDE LAKE CITY, MINN., 2005
The old man recalled something his mother [Maria Augustine Sprick] told him many years ago, when she was well into her 90s: "You are only as old as you feel." She didn't feel her age.
But he was now beyond the life expectancy of a male Caucasion, and at times he wondered why the good Lord had blessed him with such a long life and good health. There wasn't anything he could think of that he had done to deserve it, although he tended to practice moderation in most things. When asked the secret to his longevity, he would honestly say that he owed much of it to the loving care of a good wife of over 50 years [Mavis Lamont Sprick].
Each autumn he was aware that it might be his last year to hunt, even though he still felt able to endure the cold of a November morning, the opening day of deer season. And he was confident enough that he might still score with his old 12-gauge shotgun. Purchased more than 50 years before for the sum of $25, it had served him well through all his hunting. He never felt that he needed any other gun, although he also owned a British .303 rifle, a souvenir from his days in the Navy during World War II.
Whether he shot a buck or a doe didn't matter to him, but he preferred to hunt the early season when the weather might be a bit milder. Getting a set of antlers to hang on the wall seemed unimportant. The hunting shack he'd once owned, as well as most everything in it, had long been recycled. He'd kept only one set of antlers for sentimental reasons, those from a 10-point buck taken during his last hunt with a now-deceased brother.
There was no need to set the alarm clock for opening morning. He had a built-in clock that usually awoke him about 5 a.m. After a breakfast of hot cereal, he loaded his blaze-orange rucksack and shotgun into his old station wagon for the short drive to his hunting spot.
It was not yet daylight as he left his vehicle. As he entered the woods on the same narrow path he had walked for the past several years to his stand, he flushed a flock of wild turkeys that had been roosting overhead. Their wings clashed loudly against the treetops, breaking the morning stillness. He counted about a dozen flushes as he proceeded with the aid of a small flashlight. It was not likely that there would be anyone else hunting in the immediate area, but the flashlight gave him an added sense of security.
Leaves covered with white frost crunched underfoot. He was thankful that there was no wind, and the frozen leaves would enable him to hear whatever might be approaching.
He was not indoctrinated in the uses of sprays to mask human odor and deer scent attractants. There was a faint odor of fish on his coveralls, and he reasoned that it might well overpower any human scent. Dumb luck and a lot of patience had always been his best allies.
In his younger days, he had enjoyed hunting with a bow from a portable tree stand. He fully realized that hunting from a tree stand gave the hunter an edge. Although still agile enough to climb into a portable tree stand, he chose not to take the risk of a fall, especially when hunting alone, as he usually was. He had a problem with permanent tree stands, having seen many with piles of litter underneath, and nearby young trees hacked off for unsightly shooting lanes. Sometimes the tree stands had bait on the ground nearby, a practice considered unethical as well as illegal in his state.
He preferred to see the woods in a natural condition with little evidence of man save for a trail or an occasional stump. Having spent the best days of his career in the woods, he held the belief that natural areas were tonic for the soul.
As daylight approached, a wild turkey from the scattered flock flew to a treetop on a nearby ridge. It began calling, as if to gather the scattered. Although there were faint responses from turkeys on the ground, they seemed content to stay grounded.
By 8 a.m., a slight breeze became noticeable from the north. A few critters were moving about, mostly gray squirrels. An unusual one with a pure white tail was being chased by a red pine squirrel that objected to the invasion of its territory. A pileated woodpecker flew over in its unmistakable flight pattern, loudly announcing its presence to the world. Chickadees came and went in the bush a few feet away. After looking things over, they seemed to sense that a blaze-orange object didn't belong in that setting.
The walnut grove behind his stand was semi-open, quite void of undergrowth. The old man recalled something he had read about walnut trees producing a toxin from their roots the prevented growth of an understory of other species. If one were hunting with a rifle, he might elect to face the semi-open area. But he chose to face the opposite direction, closer to heavier cover of buckthorn brush. His experience through the years had taught him that bucks tend to come through heavy cover, usually with their noses to the ground, when the rut is near or at its peak.
By 9 a.m., there had been no discernible shooting in the area. It was quiet, the way he liked it. In his younger days, he had participated in deer drives with shooters posted at strategic spots and sometimes with irresponsible shooting. He had no quarrel with those who still chose to party-hunt, but for him, at his age, patience and solitude were preferable -- the one-on-one hunt. Perhaps subconsciously he had developed his own ethical standards, or what some sportsmen refer to as the rules of "the fair chase."
Only the old man's head showed above the brush pile that he used for a natural blind. With his back to a tree, he slowly moved his head from side to side as he scanned the brush for any movement.
One of the characteristics of his aging was of some concern to the old man. He had a growing tendency to talk to himself in a low but audible tone. The presented no problem when he was fishing or doing chores around the house. But in the deer woods, where silence is golden, he was hopeful that he could remain mute.
The buckthorn shrubs were inclined to retain their leaves, even after a hard frost, but the leaves were not thick enough to screen the movement of an approaching deer. First a white throat patch flahsed, then antlers. The buck moved closer to his left. As it entered a small opening, the old man uttered a soft, "Baa."
The sound had the desired effect. The buck stopped and turned its head to look in his direction.
It was the buck's last mistake.
It occurred to the old man that a trophy hunter might have let this buck go and waited for a larger one. To each his own. Perhaps he had evolved to the point as a hunter where it didn't even matter to him whether it was a big buck or an adult doe. Just having the opportunity to hunt at his age was satisfaction enough. When he was fortunate enough to get an adult deer and some venison for the freezer, he considered it a bonus.
Field-dressing a deer was no hardship for the old hunter. He had done it many times in the past, not even necessarily the deer he'd shot, but rather illegally killed deer he had been required to salvage as a field man for the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
He'd learned to carry all the right stuff in his rucksack -- a knife with a saw blade, a pair of rubber gloves, a hunting license with a struck for affixing the license to the carcass, a drag rope, a whistle and a colored cloth. He no longer carried a plastic bag for saving the heart and liver; times had changed.
Although he had a cell phone for emergency purposes, its legal use while hunting was still a gray area for him. Once out of the woods, he used it to call on younger muscles for assistance in dragging the buck out.
The drag was not much over 100 yards, but it was down a narrow path through a dense thicket. He knew of a roundabout way to drive to the pickup point across a cornfield and down a woods trail. The three different landowners had been previously contacted and all had graciously granted the old man permission to drive in to pick up a deer if necessary. He would repay their kindness with a stick of venison sausage.
At the deer registration station, the old man was greeted by a team of biologists with knives in hand. "Yours is the first deer to come in this morning," one said. "Do you mind if we take some samples from the head to test for chronic wasting disease?"
"You can take the whole head if you want to," the old man replied. "I'm mostly concerned with the hindquarters and some meat for sausage."
The biologist gave him a cooperator's patch to sew on his jacket or cap and entered his name in a drawing for some hunting gear donated by sporting goods companies and assocaitons. The odds might not be good, but certainly better than the lottery. There wasn't anything the old man needed, but if he won something, he knew of several young hunters who would appreciate a new gun or bow for Christmas.
Over the years, the old man had learned that there was no such thing as bad venison if the animal is shot up front, properly dressed out, the meat deboned and promptly cared for. He preferred to keep some steaks for himself. The remainder of the boned-out meat went into sausages to be given as gifts. It seemed to him that a venison steak wrapped in bacon and fixed on the grill, served with a baked potato, would be far superior to a lutefisk dinner.
Fortunately, the old man had a very compatible fishing partner who was equally fond of venison. His partner volunteered to help with the butchering, with the old man accepting his offer under the condition that he take half of the deer. Some years it was the other way around.
Thanksgiving Day soon followed, and the old man had much to be thankful for. It may have been his last hunt, but no matter, he could see beyond that. There were grandchildren and great-grandchildren he could still take bank-fishing. If he became a shut-in, he might be able to write some more fish stories, a hobby he enjoyed. And there were sunrises and sunsets over the lake that he viewed from his living room window. But until that final sunset arrived, he would be thankful for some good memories -- including the camaraderie of bygone days at his hunting shack with hunting partners who are long gone.
It may well have been the old man's last hunt, but it was a good one -- just the way he wanted it -- one on one.
"Ethical hunting reaffirms a person's principles. Knowing and intentionally staying within the law keeps the moral compass pointed north. Hunters must not only abide by state and federal regulations, but they must develop their own ethical standards."-- Tim Eisele, outdoors writer
It wasn't the first visit from a governor to the Whistle Stop. Several years before, a governor who served several terms in office stopped in for a cup of coffee. But no one recognized him. He lacked Jesse's panache.
unmarked car that parked some distance away. A tall, slim, dark-skinned young lady got out dressed in man's garb and high-heeled boots. A profiler might have marked her as a terrorist, but I suspect she was a bodyguard of sorts. Only time would tell.
