First Deer

by Lee S. Wilbur

Deer hunting season is over for this year. Once again time restraints took over and I missed a time in the woods I used to enjoy. Perhaps those earlier departures to Florida may just be my best excuse.

My father was an avid sportsman. Spare time was spent either at the golf course or up at Ike’s landing on Echo Lake with a fly rod in his hand. Fall he/we would be walking in nearby woods behind one or two of our hunting dogs, shotguns in hand, stalking the elusive woodcocks or partridge. It was great. Got to spend what’s termed “quality time” with him outside of the occasional house call to see one or more of his patients..Doctors actually used to do that!

Dad, and his deerhunting companion, Frank Bartlett from Islesford (island), had bought an old logging camp on paper company land up in Eastbrook/Waltham where we’d go as soon as I was old enough to carry and handle a deer rifle, which must have been somewhere around age 15. I was, truth be told, not much of a deer hunter. Couple of reasons. This area had, I’m convinced, been hunted quite hard both day and night, four seasons, and, I got bored quite easily. Week of deer camp was about all I could take...bright spots being the evening meals when the old tales were told...and not only of hunting.

With driver’s license awarded, I did go to a few other areas, but never had much luck. Hunted with my manual arts teacher and good friend, Les King, at his camp on the Airline. Fired on a good size buck and missed. One winter school vacation, I wrangled a ride to Virginia, mother’s home state, and went out for a few days with my uncle for a Southern hunt. Where the bourbon and moonshine flowed, the deer were chased by hounds and shotguns the prescribed weapon. Did get a running shot for which my good hunting shirt was nipped to shreds. “Suthen” hunters clip a piece of one’s shirt tail when you miss a shot.

Couple of several years later, failed first semester at Univ. of Maine...I thought “Forestry” meant camping out in the woods and enjoying the wildlife, I came back to Maine after fulfilling my obligation with a tour of duty with Uncle Sam’s army in Southern Germany. Tried to do some hunting there, but their restrictions and regulations were so complicated, with special courses to be taken. And with the shift schedules we were on, I finally had to forget that dream. Instead, I went skiing and met my first wife, Heidi who actually began to enjoy hunting and fishing.

Dad still had the old hunting camp and first year back. I was anxious to get back there again, having only bird hunted since I’d been away. Said I wanted to go, been looking forward to it, but wanted to include my new bride as well. “A woman in Hunting Camp. Never heard of such a thing!” was the reply.

I prevailed. Said I wasn’t going to leave her for the week and besides she was a great sport, eager to learn and could certainly help on any “drives”. Dad finally relented, realizing I was of the same genes and stubborn like himself.

Third or fourth day, hunting the old Macumber Mill road, the four of us happened on fresh tracks crossing the road heading north and up a rise into a stand of birch. Dad and Frank elected for the lower section while Heidi and I took the upper. Overcast, semi-drizzle day, figured a deer might enjoy time under some overhanging trees. We stepped slow and careful through the dampened leaves. Didn’t want a cracked twig to enervate any nearby four legged creatures.

We’d just managed to get into the small, newly minted birches when Heidi carefully nudged my arm and slowly pointed to my left. Took just a moment to see brown fur and then a head. First Deer. Could finally, and with great pride put my name in the Camp Book and record a successful deer hunt.

Perhaps it’s strange, but in the last few years I have done almost no deer hunting, very little hunting at all. Florida and sun have been quite successful with a change of life style and a reluctance to crawl out of bed in the wee hours. Absence of sea ducks may have had something to do with it as well as the fact it being harder to find someone who enjoyed the sport as I once did. I’ve now begun cutting my Dad’s gorgeous coot towlers in half to use as wall mounts. It was great though, and as my generation is fond of saying “We saw the best of it.”

• R E C I P E •

Red Fish Hash
I found this in my all-time favorite cookbook, a cookbook to thoroughly enjoy just leafing through: “THE YANKEE COOKBOOK”

1 cup cold boiled baked potatoes 1 cup left over cooked salt cod
1 cup boiled beets
Pepper to preference
¼ cup milk

Chop potatoes, beets and codfish to a fine hash; moisten with milk. Brown in a skillet well greased with butter. Serves 4. What could be better than a cold fall day and freezing snow or rain afoot?