My Dad Got His Deer

Annette was on the road coming home from Hibbing, MN where her former beauty school had asked her to come to be a substitute teacher for four days while some of the staff there was on vacation.  So, I was in our store alone with the dogs, Cookie and Delilah and they both know that 5 o'clock is dinner time, so they began to bounce around the office and I couldn't get anything done.  I just gave up and headed the foot commute home which is about 158 feet away.

In the house, I fed the dogs, and decided to make myself something simple for dinner so I settled for ramen noodles and lentils.  I never get tired of ramen noodles and I like lentils despite the fact that they are considered hippy food in many circles.  As my fast-prep dinner is simmering on the stove, I do the dishes remaining so Annette doesn't have to come home to dirty dishes (she can get a bit testy and apparently I've been "trained").  My dinner is finally finished and the phone rings.  It's in the bedroom so I sprint through the dark for the phone and answer it.  My dad was on the line.

He's said that "he's currently on the Garden Lake Bridge and a deer was hit by a car."  He was sounding disgusted  because the deer was broken up and crawling while deer hunters watched with nobody taking action on that poor deer.  Everyone in the group of so-called "men" were paralyzed in not knowing what needed to be done for the poor suffering animal.  My dad speculates that nobody among the deer hunters would dispatch the deer for fear that it is a doe and this is an bucks-only season.  Fearful that they would get in trouble for shooting an injured doe, they all stood there watching as we say here "with their thumbs up their butts".   Whatta bunch!

Apparently, some other cars had stopped as well and my dad talked to a woman (of all people!) who had a .22 caliber pistol that she lent him.  He being fearless of the law and one to address the decency of the moment, dispatched the big doe with one shot behind the ear and the suffering ended immediately.  He handed back the gun to the lady and everybody left.  He wanted me to call the game warden because his cell phone was dying.    I turned off my dinner on the stove and called 911 where dispatch informed me that a deputy sheriff was at the scene along with a game warden.  That was quick!  I hung up the phone and went to my laptop to get some work done while my dinner cooled.  Then, in 5 minutes, the phone rang again.  It was my mom.  "Bring the truck!", she said.  I looked at my just-cooked  dinner and decided it would have to wait.

As I found the key for the truck and my boots, and my jacket, and my mitts,  and a flashlight, two pairs of eyes watched me intensely from the floor.  Delilah always assumes it's her duty to go everywhere I go.  Cookie wants to go for equal time.   I couldn't take Cookie as she can be a pain getting in and out of vehicles.  I think I can manage Delilah in the dark.  So, I told a disappointed Cookie that she had to stay behind as Delilah raced down the stairs into the basement as we headed out on a hunt!

Into the darkness we plunged and I made my way cross country up to my parent's house which is about 300 feet away.   The plow truck sat parked and ready as usual.   My dad still plows the entire property and he also keeps the truck ready to roll in cold weather.  It was in the twenties and pretty warm so the truck started up in flash.  I lifted Delilah inside, hit the plow button which raised up that 800 lb. V-plow, put the truck in four-wheel-drive and the big diesel engine pulled us out of the driveway and onto the Fernberg road.

It was pitch black on the road and because of the weight of the plow, the lights shine low even when on high-beam.  I made a mental note that we have to re-adjust these lights.  So, being able to see only 100 feet ahead, my top speed was about 45 mph on the few Fernberg straight stretches.  That's a dumb road that pointlessly winds around in the woods with no views or vistas but two - Refuge Pond and Rookie Pond.    If you are going to simply drive through rocks and sticks with no views of anything and no shoulders to so much as fix a flat tire without getting killed, it would have been just as easy and far more sensible to make a straight road.  As I drove that familiar snow covered, narrow road, I wondered what the designers "Fern" and "Berg" were thinking given the fatalities and injuries their "work" caused needlessly over all these years.  We would have been better served had they been fired long ago.  This is the kind of work we get from government bureaucrats, I guess.

Rounding a corner past the dreaded Fernberg Cell Tower that nobody even knows exists on the Fernberg, a deer pops out in front of me.  I hit the brakes and instinctively begin to pump even though pumping with anti-lock brake systems is highly ill-advised.  I do not want to test the strength of the plow against another doe for a "two-fer" this evening.  I avoid the deer successfully and keep the truck on the shoulder-less road pressing onward to the bridge.  Delilah is in passenger seat somewhere in the dark.  What an exciting trip for the dog I thought.  Can't see anything, bouncing along in a big tin can with engine noises, I bet she was wishing she had stayed home with Cookie.

I crested the final hill to the Garden Lake Bridge and slowed down to assess the situation.  Vehicles idling on the Ely side of the bridge in the Minnesota Power boat launch were my cue.  I saw the back end of the deer half way sticking out from under the north guardrail on land.  So, I pulled up, talked to my folks and the deputy, turned the truck around and parked by the deer on the road.  The deputy put on his blinding emergency lights and then all three of us proceeded to pull that big doe out from under the guardrail.  We had a heck of time as it was stuck but we finally managed to pull it out.  Then, the deputy and I wrestled that big deer up on the back of the truck.  It hadn't been gutted yet and was extra heavy. He was trying not to smear himself up with deer goo as he had just started his shift.  Of course, the avoidance was unsuccessful.  For the next 8 hours he was going to smell like a doe, a female deer.  In our wrestling I noted that one hind leg was broken close to the hoof and the other appeared to be dislocated at the hip.   It's always really sad when that happens but at least this deer was not going to be wasted.  We all said goodbye and I headed the loaded truck ten miles back home into the woods.

At home, my dad wanted to change out of his nice clothes and said to take 15 minutes.  I decided to go home with Delilah and see what dinner looked like after sitting on the stove top for 45 minutes.  It was still good.  I finished it off quickly enjoying those hippy lentils blended in with all those noodles. It's actually a pretty tasty, simple dinner.  After my fine dining,  I went back to the other hill and this time brought Delilah and Cookie.  Cookie went barreling down the stairs and ran all the way to Grandma's house in the dark.  Both dogs tentatively checked out the carcass and went then inside to see Eddy my parent's dog along with Grandma, the eternal source of tasty dog snacks.  It's always a party at Grandma's house when one is a dog.

Now, my dad is 82 years old.  Definitely not a spring chicken.  But, you ought to see him dive into gutting a deer.  He instantaneously becomes 30 years younger when you give him a dead deer and big  sharp knife in the dark.   It may sound barbaric to those who don't know where beef comes from, but I was a bit in awe watching my 82 year old dad, bending over the whole time, in the dark, gutting a large deer like he does this every day.  Then, there were "the ooh's and wows" as we both marveled at the healthy layer of fat on this very healthy deer.  Literally, there is blood and guts and my happy dad.  When, he's done with the main part, I flip it over to drain while he lays out a fresh tarp in the garage to put the deer on for the night.   I pulled the deer into the garage, parked the truck, gathered the dogs and headed home on foot for the night to wait for Annette who still was not home.

Today, the next exciting part of deer handling will be preformed by my dad.  Butchering.  He just loves that part, too.  Making steaks, and roasts, and hamburger, and stew meat.  It's a surprise, joyous time of year.  My dad got his deer.  

Snowstorm on the Wood Lake Portage

Five thirty PM, October 30, 2014, I quickly finished dinner.  I laced up my boots, grabbed my coat, my 20 gauge, single shot brush gun, some #8 birdshot for my left pocket and two slugs for my right.  Delilah watched me intently with her beady little brown eyes and ears on full alert like a Labrador ready to go get some ducks.  Every little move I made, Delilah studied intently.  She was bound and determined to not let me get out the door without including her in my plans.

I stuffed a flashlight in my back pocket as it was almost dark and the wind was beginning to howl.  I told Annette that I was going to Wood Lake to flip the boats for winter and she said "Now?!"

I confirmed that and told her that cold weather was coming in and I just couldn't find time to get down there during the day.  So with what little daylight I had left, I put on my coat, grabbed my gun and at the bottom of the stairs, Delilah looked up at me with great anticipation.  I didn't see that eight pound dog sneak by me.  I found her little dog coat, put it on her and opened the door to a full-blown blizzard.

I couldn't believe how much snow had come down in a half hour, but it's not unusual for this time of year.  There was a half inch of snow on the windshield and hood of the truck.  I picked up Delilah and put her in the cab.  She was shivering as I started up the truck.  The diesel engine came to life with a rumble and while it warmed up, I checked to make sure that I have all the Wood Lake boat keys, my bird shells, Delilah's leash and my defensive rounds, the slugs.   Ever since I began hunting small game in October, I've almost always carried a slug round with me.  It's probably illegal but I have no intention of ever using them for anything illegal.  In a worse case scenario, I would use them to save my butt when the chips are down.

October is the moose rut.  That is the time when bull moose like to assert themselves as king of the woods.  They have their full antlers and are driven by the call of mating season.  This is the time when the strong dominate and show off to chase all the other bull moose away from "their" territory.  They demonstrate their prowess and strength by pummeling, pounding, kicking, biting, and stomping on anyone who is considered a threat to them and their "woman".  Unfortunately, they think humans, trains, and cars are a threat to their women.  We are talking about totally nuts and the size of an angry battering ram.

One time, my brother Bernie and I were in the car heading towards Ely with Big Grandma.  (she was my dad's mom and bigger in size than my mom's mom. It stuck forever.)  Big Gramdma had a souped-up game warden car with three on the tree, double belts on everything under the hood, a big engine, and about 12 neatly drilled holes in the steel dashboard where the control switches once were mounted.  The labels were still there.  There were on-off switches that shut off the tail lights, the head lights, the brake lights, etc. and those that turned on the siren, the flood lights, grill lights, etc.  None of those were there anymore but the red plastic labels conjured a youngin's imagination about wild car chases in the night, hiding in the woods and adrenalin pumping moments with wounded bears attacking and angry men with guns wanting a showdown on a narrow, overgrown road in the middle of nowhere.  It was good stuff and Big Grandma owned it in full.

We were barreling down the Fernberg in Big Grandma's blue ex-game warden Ford  approaching Camp Four Creek which is at the base of the hill and just on the Ely side of Wood Lake Portage.  It was mid-October and when Big Grandma drove, she had this nervous grip on the wheel and used to alternately tap her thumbs.  It was a twitch of sorts and it always made me a little nervous.  Back then, we didn't have airbags and the seat belts were nowhere to be found and probably stuck in the crack of the bench seats down with the gravel, dust bunnies, assorted coins and probably some bullets and old, dried-up ballpoint pens.  When Big Grandma was anxious, her thumbs were a-tapping.

She must have been feeling something because the thumbs were going and down by Camp Four Creek a gigantic bull moose with rack like Atlas' arms stepped out and centered his bawdry magnificence over the center line and struck up a pose that said "Call of the Wild" and stopped.  He was huge and crazed by the rut with the fear of nothing in his eye.  Big Grandma hit the brakes and I braced with locked arms against that steel dashboard, and little brother Bernie pushed his face up against the back of the vinyl-clad, bench front seat.  When the car came to a complete stop, we were about 100 feet away from the new owner of the Fernberg road.  And, he was making no consolations, no exceptions; he would move at his determination.

We sat there idling in the big blue ex-gamewarden cruiser.  We are all quiet and in awe of this monstrous ruler of the woods waiting for him to finish crossing.  Then, Big Grandma's white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel turned to nervous thumb tapping with increased frequency.  Must be something big gonna happen, I thought.  Big Grandma shoved in the clutch with her left foot, pulled the shift handle back and up for reverse, hooked her right arm over the back of the seat on the ex-game warden car and looked back with no humor.  She stepped on the gas and eased out the clutch rapidly making the rear tires squeal and the posi-traction laid down smokin' blue rubber tracks as we peeled off backwards up that hill.   As she turned to look back with her left hand on the wheel like a Kentucky bootlegger, I looked forward and that bull moose had all of his fur up from his tail to his ears.  It stood up like six inches of  whoopass as he put his massive rack down and began to charge.  Big Grandma was way ahead of him, however and I didn't know she could drive like that.  At 30 mph in reverse,  Big Grandma easily put six blocks of space between us and that angry moose.   Looking a whole lot smaller from our safe vantage point, the bull lifted his rack and proudly sauntered off to the south side of the road disappearing into the thick woods.  He won yet another battle without firing a single shot.  Big Grandma let him believe that anyways.

This was just one of the many, moose stories that I was either a part of or heard told by my family.  The theory behind the slugs is that we could shoot a charging moose in either antler and ring his bell hopefully enough to get away.  Since they lose their antlers, at least we wouldn't be wasting a moose because that would be a shame.  So, that's the plan.  No one has ever tested the theory so we don't know if it works.  But, if running like a guy who just stepped on a wasp nest in a stump won't cut it, sometimes you have to have a back-up plan to stand your ground.  Slugs and crossed fingers.

It's snowing hard on the portage now and visibility is not that great. Delilah is running ahead, disappearing, and then appearing from behind at full speed.  She's making me a little nervous because we have coyotes and plenty of wolves.  My worst nightmare would be if she decided to attack a moose and then after ticking him off, run to find me.  Well, none of that fortunately was happening and I was covering ground fast because daylight was fading and those boats would be full to the gunwales with rainwater.  Bailing would take at least a half hour and that would mean coming out in complete darkness.

We get to the final hill and in the leafless October woods I can see through brush to the familiar water below.  Delilah takes off in an excited full gallop down that hill and turns right to where the boats are parked.  I followed knowing that the two gallon bucket in my hand would be put to good use in only seconds.  That's when I saw the unbelievable.

There our boats lay on the shore where I'd left them months before.  But, instead of being full of water, they were upside down on dry ground.  Somebody bailed them out and carefully flipped them over, still locked to the eyebolt in the stump!  I was flabbergasted.  This has never been done before.  If anything, passersby returning from canoe trips will leave plastic bags of garbage in the boats so they don't have to portage them out.  Nobody EVER bails our boats and then flips them.  I wanted to know who so I could properly thank whoever it was.  I still have no clue.

I stacked the boats on top of each other away from the little creek that flows from Rookie pond because the water is so low it may overflow and back up into a glacier covering the boats in ice.  With it getting darker still and more snow falling, I called for Delilah who went missing in the last 30 seconds of boat wrestling.  For about five, tense minutes, I thought a wolf snapped her up.  But then, she suddenly appeared from some micro-adventure in the brush.

With darkness falling and snow joining in, I put a leash on Delilah and begin the uphill jaunt back to the trail head.  As we were rapidly walking, the wind suddenly kicked up and like it does at this time of year, it didn't stop blowing - hard.  It was howling through the trees.  We passed through a stretch of Christmas trees  and I debate taking out my flashlight but hold off.  The trail is all white and I can still just make out the rocks and roots.  We both hear trees snapping and crashing to the ground in the distance.  Then, suddenly, to my right, I hear new crashing about 30 feet away.  I look into the woods there to see if trees are tumbling my way but the visibility is only about 10 feet between the driving snow and the lack of light.  This particular tumbling sound became continued crashing and the thunking of heavy hooves.  Delilah even took notice and I was glad that I put her on a leash,  It was getting way too dark to run, shoot, or shoot and run, so "no trouble" would be the preferred state of my existence right then.  Big deer?  Moose?  I don't know, but it was big and ran the other way and that was fine with me.

We continued up the portage through the horizontal snow my fleece jacket turned completely white.  Despite the potentially fear-inducing conditions, I felt a particular calmness as Delilah and I were all alone deep in the woods.  Maybe it is my lifetime of experience in this element that makes me feel so at ease.  Maybe it was having the faithful Delilah next to my ankles.  Maybe it was my trusty 20 gauge slung across my back, or a combination of all those.  Then, there is always the memory of Big Grandma tapping the steering wheel with her thumbs.   Whatever it is, this is where I must belong.

Delilah and I finally make it to the truck and head home.  Wood Lake is done for this season.  A big thanks to whoever flipped our boats.

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How Hot Can It Be?

Years ago, we just re-carpeted Cabin 5. Ah, that new carpet smell gave a fresh new look to the cabin.

A young couple rented the cabin and they were professional people. She was an electrical engineer and he owned his own business.

Four days into the week, she stopped in an said that she burned the carpet (it was BRAND new) and wanted me to come in to look. Well, at least she let me know. A little later, I went over to the cabin and there was a grill pattern melted cleanly and distinctively into the new rug. In fact, there were two perfect grid marks that overlapped in a criss-cross pattern. No black marks, no discolorations, just these grid patterns.

I scratched my head, squinted and asked, "Now...how...what happened?"

She said that she was preheating the gas oven to 400 degrees and when she went to put the food in, she thought that the rack was too high. So she set down the casserole dish on the counter and grabbed the rack - with her bare hands - and then proceeded to fling it across the room. It landed on the rug and melted in one grid pattern.

"Oh," I said. "But why are there two grid patterns in the rug?"

"Well, the night before last, I was baking fish and the oven had to be preheated to 350 degrees...and the rack was too low."

She was a brilliant electrical engineer AND a blond.

Blow Horn For Service

Last Saturday, it was slow in the store and I wanted to finish shingling Cabin #3 because I still had one more roof to go and winter is approaching. I wrote on a full sheet of paper this message:

"Blow horn twice for service. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll be right here."

The reason for blowing the horn twice is because I was using an air-nailer that has a bark. I'm bound to hear one of two honks. The reason I said to wait a few minutes was because I had to climb down a a ladder and cross through about 100 yards of trails and brush. Simple enough to understand, or so I thought.

Well, as the beautiful late-October day grew shorter, I heard my four-legged doorbell Delilah go off, loud and clear when a truck drove into the yard. So, I hit the ladder and down to Terra firma I climbed. I cut past Cabin 7, took a couple of turns through the brush and stepped onto an obscure trail that leads me right to the store. It took me all of 45 seconds to get there and as I approached, I saw a late 20's couple looking at a map on the wall and peering into the glass on the door with cupped hands on brows. They looked like they were trying to find something on the deck, as well.

I could see what looked like the essence of confusion. I greeted them and inquired if they missed the note that I taped OVER the door knob, but also quickly added that it didn't matter because Delilah was making far more noise than any horn.

The guy replied in a slightly exasperated tone that they would have "blown the horn" but could not seem to find it anywhere around the door. He looked around the area as he said this to me. He also pointed to the obviously dead door bell button next to the door frame and said that nothing "really sounded any horn" no matter what they tried. They were perplexed.

I said slowly, "The horn on your truck, is what the note meant. There is no horn hanging by the door here for you to actually blow."

"Oooooooooh", they both said in a slightly confused harmony after seeing the light. "The horn on the truck.", the guy said. She nodded her head slightly in understanding.

Internally, a part of me died....of laughter....and then sadness.

For the next time I have to do this, I'm considering suggesting that there is a "Horn Blowing App" that people should download to their smartphones or maybe I'll hang a saxophone or a trombone on a peg next to the door.

"Play a tune and give me a few minutes to get there." Still SMH.

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Video Ditties from Northwind Lodge

Nothing really exciting going on but you get the sense of the quiet we have here once fall sets in and a tiny bit of snow starts to fall.  This was filmed on October 7, 2014.

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Everybody has storage needs.  Waterproof, air-tight containers are a great way to go!

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Cabin #2 at Northwind Lodge - an historical e-vacation

After building Cabin #1 as my family still knows it today and using it for a few years, Grandpa Frank Baltich decided to build a second cabin that was more out in the open and in sunlight.  The #1 (Grandpa's Log Cabin) is still up against the side of a really steep hill on it's south side.  In the summer, it is the coolest spot being located in the shade except for from mid-June through August, but the shade always grows longer as the seasons head to winter. That would make for a very short day in the darkest months of the year.  Grandpa got a little tired of those conditions which can weigh on one's psyche and decided that the next cabin would be in sunlight and next to running water which was Jasper Creek.  So, in 1946, right after the war and when my dad was only 14, Grandpa bid on a government building that was no longer being used.  It was the on the Firetower Road about 5 miles from Northwind Lodge. It was the ranger's quarters and they were making changes in up on that really tall hill where the fire tower was.

That fire tower installation was one of the neater places that we visited when I was a kid.  First there was the road up to the fire tower.  It was, and still can be, rough and bumpy and steep.  At the top, was the fire tower standing tall & proud but unused for many years even when I was a kid.  Towers gave way to airplanes in the never-ending vigilance of tired eyes watching for that little stripe of smoke that makes its way into a monster if left unchecked.   A board was bolted up on the first 20 feet of ladder to keep the crazy people off during it's retirement.   On the ground was a beautiful, old log building with one of those old desk telephones like you'd see on the Andy Griffith show sitting on a table in the pane glass window.  A log garage there with boats that the game wardens was stored as well.  That was a really cool place.

We always went up in the fall time when the resort was closed.   My dad, my brother and I wandered around in the crisp air of the Minnesota fall with really crunchy leaves under foot looking for partridge.  For some reason, there were oak leaves (very few oak trees in this area)  present and they were tough and extra crunchy.  You could try to sneak around in hunting mode, but it was hopeless to be really quiet.  There were also pine needles thick and if you could find a clear patch on the ground, you could hide the noise for a second until you met up with the leaves once again and your cover was blown.  Good thing partridges aren't that spooky.  Age-old trails headed down the hill towards the Kawishiwi river and a spot where the CCC camps built a wellhead at a spring where the water flows even today.  There were and still are the big rock foundations for the cabins and signs of masonry that lives forever but blends in with the land from where the rocks and logs came.

The other thing that I can't forget up on that hill was the wind in the white pines.  It constantly made that soothing sound of loneliness and freedom, and happiness all wrapped up into one endless song.   No matter when you go there, you'll hear that sound and smell those pine needles.   It was the place that I always wished I could live at for it's beautiful desolation and the sound of the gentle wind always present.  Strangely enough, it was the kind of desolation that could drive one to madness, but like a mermaid on the rocks,  it always called me back.  It is still one of my most favorite places to be.

If you followed one unmarked trail to the northwest,  it took you down from the peak and to place where the ultra modern world met the old.  It was some sort of science testing station complete with a little building, several little chicken coops with louvered vents and strange contraptions and propane tanks.  It was like you wandered out of a spooky desolate woods high on a hill into an alien landing site where somebody did experiments.  At least that is what my 14 year old mind told me it was.  It was really creepy.

Back in those days, everything was government secret and they didn't tell anybody what was going on, so imaginations had to fill in the details.  I was pretty sure it was for ungodly alien experiments on humans, but it was and still is, a weather testing center.  If you go there today, they actually spent $10 bucks and put up a sign so kids don't think the aliens have an outpost there.

The place I've just described is from where Cabin #2 came to Northwind Lodge.  Grandpa and my dad won it on a government bid.  They cut the building up into four pieces and reassembled it at it's current location. Over the years, Grandpa added a front porch which is now the kitchen, and a back room which used to be the kitchen.  In later years, my dad remodeled it.  Then in the mid 80's my brother Bernie remodeled it again.  In 2010, I remodeled the kitchen.  It served as a home in 1946 and then in 1952, Grandpa built what is now Cabin 8 and Cabin 2 went into rentals.  The beaver boards that make the ceiling beneath the tiles in one of the bedrooms will still show the nail holes of many stretched and dried hides all brought to the fur buyer so many years ago.

I'm always amazed when I think back to how long we've been here.  Cabin #2 is part of the history of not just us Baltich's but also countless men who stopped fires from burning the woods around us undoubtedly saving people's lives.  That's why it's such an interesting cabin at Northwind Lodge - it's been standing the test of time with great success.

Cabin #2 at Northwind Lodge

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Another Fall Day on Jasper Lake at Northwind Lodge

Now, that global warming has officially set in on northeastern Minnesota, we are dressing appropriately and still getting out on the water to nail some lunkers.  This is Connie Wegisin from Ohio with her northern she caught yesterday.  That was a particularly chunky monkey she brought into the boat.

The weeds in the lake this year are unlike anything I've ever seen before.  It's weird how some years we have no weeds and think the rusty crayfish have moved in and killed them all.  Other years we have normal weeds, and this year we have weeds up the wazoo.  And yet, my garden croaked and was a waste of  $28...  The brush this year is thicker than peasoup and the growing season was ridiculously short for everything.

As a result of the thick weeds in the lake, the Wegisins were casting topwater plugs because even the weedless are hard to do right now.  Red and white is hot and I think Connie was using a Spook or something similar - Tom couldn't remember the name.  Anyway, the haukies are pounding red and white and Connie caught one of these:

So, if you were staying at Northwind Lodge right now, not only would be enjoying cool weather, but you could be taking advantage of the serious northerns rising from the cover of cabbage weeds to attack easy targets twitching on top.  I don't want to rub it in.  Oh, what the heck; yes I do...

Nice northern pike, Connie!

They put it back in the lake, too!

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