By the Hand of God

I needed cheese.  Pepper Jack and Cheddar, to be precise.  This was not a passing whim -- not merely some ephemeral hankering.  You see, the Packers cannot lose when I make the delectably gluttonous and magical "No-Lose Nachos."  They are that powerful.  For the good of Wisconsin and the universe in general, cheese needed to be procured, post haste.

I hurriedly clambered behind the wheel alongside my step mom in the passenger's seat, rushing to get back from the store in time to melt two cheeses into beer-laced béchamel, and pour it over corn chips before kickoff.  We took her truck, but when we travel together I nearly always drive.  This is out of no anachronistic sense of chauvinism.  If you'd ever ridden with her, you'd drive too.  I suspect she secretly likes to be chauffeured.  That's the only possible explanation for why she tries so valiantly to end me in a firey ball of death on the seldom occasions she takes the driver's side.

So with the urgency of a man late for the meeting of his life, I rushed onward for the glow of town over the horizon and the big box grocery.  The game was on the line, after all.  It occurred to me that the headlights might have been a skosh dim in the wintry evening gloom, but that was of little concern in the heat of the moment.  Then the dashboard lights faltered.

Oh, shit.  That ain't right.  I'd been there before in a vehicle of my own, and knew the symptoms of an alternator in the throes of death on the road.

Within a minute we were dead in the water, adrift in a sea of impending Packer doom.  As it happened, we were also stalled at a four-way stop in a no parking zone right at the edge of town.  Being a weekend as it was, Carolyn elected to leave the Suburban overnight in order to avoid exorbitant towing charges, which meant we had to get it down the street and around the corner to avoid a parking ticket.

Now Carolyn, wonderfully bright and witty as she is, is not built to push 7200 pounds of Chevrolet steel down the road in her pretty little heeled boots.  Even in her youth she was a slight woman.  Tea with the ladies is more her speed.  So I was the nominated workhorse, obviously.

All went well on the straightaway.  With the standard amount of slipping in the snow and questionable language to get things started, I quickly found myself in that oddly powerful condition of rolling a big vehicle down the street one-handed.  Then came the turn, and trouble was once again at our doorstep.  Not only was Carolyn unable to push the truck, but through no fault of her own, she didn't possess the strength to turn the wheel without power steering either, and we'd rolled too far into the intersection, all kattywampus and snarled up.

I quickly found myself dancing with the devil in the cold dark.  Heave on the steering wheel to get the wheels turned, push the truck back, yank on the steering wheel once again in the other direction, push the truck forward; executing a 47-point turn, one hernia at a time.




A gifted storyteller, my father used to relate to us a favorite family tale of he and Brian canoeing down the Kickapoo river.  As one of our favored paddling rivers, I've enjoyed the wiles of the Kickapoo many times, and was always entertained by the story as it grew in magnitude and intensity over the years.  The best storytellers among us can accomplish this embellishment sublty, without detracting from the meat of the story, and often do among friends.  It's part of the art of folklore.

They'd chosen a spring day of low flow and freezing weather to run the river.  It turned into a tiresome afternoon of getting hung up on sandbars in that big old aluminum Grumman, but they'd managed to avoid stepping into the icy waters by doing that ridiculous butt-skooch thing you do when your canoe gets stuck.  The vision of two bearded, hale and hearty outdoorsmen doing the butt-skooch dance down the river before my time is enough to make me smile every time the story is retold.

Nearing the end of their journey, the canoe finally became irrevocably mired.  Skooch as they might, they weren't going anywhere.  In the retelling, Dad was down on his knees in the bow, digging at the marl for all he was worth. When, in his own words, with proper dramatic pause and expression of awe, "As if by the hand of God, we broke free and began to move."

While "as if by the hand of God" has since become a family catchphrase, with a wink and a nod, for any momentous happening, the Almighty Himself had little to do with freeing the canoe that day.  Brian had simply sacrificed his warm dry feet, and gotten into the river to push.




And so it was with Carolyn's Suburban and my 47-point hernia.  As I was leaning into the tailgate for another heave forward, the truck rolled forward begrudgingly.  But then, as if by the hand of God, it began to move more freely.  I looked up to see not Jehovah, but a dude clad in Carhatt and a Pheasants Forever cap, much like me.  With his help, we were able to park the truck at the curb, safe from tickets and fines, and grab a ride with Carolyn's husband to the grocery store.

Fear ye not, while they weren't ready to enjoy until the second half, No-Lose Nachos were made, and they worked their mystical charms on the game.

I don't know how many cars passed us as I toiled to get the truck turned that evening.  Dozens and dozens, at least.  As it happened, the man who stopped was blatantly cut from the same cloth as I am, as evidenced by apparel, attitude, and demeanor.  From his pick up truck with an ice shack in the back and his willingness to help, right down to the same brand of boots I noticed, head down and pushing, when he first appeared beside me, we were two of a kind in that moment.

Maybe that means nothing.  Maybe everyone else who passed us had wives in labor or screaming children in the back.  But most of the folk of fine northern stock I associate with would stop on a cold night to help a stranger push a broken-down vehicle out of the road.  With the exception of a certain unnamed soul who once playfully sat in his truck sipping a beer as I dug my truck out of a snow drift with an ice skimmer on the camp road, it's what you do, at least if you're a guy.

I didn't catch the name of our mystery man, nor was I able to repay him with anything more than thanks, but I've stopped to help stranded motorists in the cold before, and I'll do it again.  In the vain of the old Real Men of Genius Bud Light commercials, here's to you, Mr. Mystery Ice Fisherman Truck Pusher Guy.  I owe you one.
  

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Just a little housekeeping here.

During my time in deer camp, deep in the northwoods of Wisconsin, it was brought to my attention that many of my northern brethren do not have internet service at home.  Some don't even have computers.  While I wonder how they get through a day without gazing contently upon kittens in bowls of yarn and knuckleheads trying to eat piles of cinnamon, that does not surprise me, knowing them as true Yoopers and northern Cheeseheads.

At their request and to further the sharing of my blatherings, you will now find a print button in the lower left corner of every post, that you may print out the story to share with flannel-clad loggers around the wood stove.  Simply click the button, and go.

Thanks for pointing out the need, Else.

Yours,

The Floating Orange Ninja

The First Time

Young hunters are required to take a safety course before they are able to obtain a hunting license here in Wisconsin.  I remember how nervous I was taking that class as a kid.  Not that the material was difficult -- I'd spent my formative years in the presence of hunters and woodsmen who shared their vast knowledge freely.  It was that there was so much riding on it.  If I failed to make the grade, I'd never be allowed  to carry a gun alongside those men, never be treated to the joy of following happily working dogs in the sun, or so I thought.  It was for all the marbles in my pre-teen mind.

The jitters of taking the course and the test were a mere foreshadowing of the first time I would carry a gun in the woods.  It was a squirrel hunt with Dad and Brian in the Kettle Moraine State Forest, and I was rattling like the last oak leaves clinging to the trees in the autumn wind.  I carried the same Savage .22 that I still use and love today, handed down to me from Dad on that bright morning like a rite of passage.

Still as alluring as she is dangerous

A moment like that, Dad giving you his gun, is a monumental mark on the timeline in the life of a boy.  Pride and gratitude fall around the place like confetti on New Year's Eve.  My dad was "a hugger," there was never any shortage of those, but I remember there being something deeper about the embrace we shared over that elegantly plain little rifle.  It was one of the first times I felt like a man.  I remember how startled I was to notice the wetness in his eyes, and how conflicting shame and happiness overtook me as mine grew dewy in response.  I wanted nothing more in that moment than to shoot straight and make him proud.  A lot of times, that's all I want these days.

We saw one running squirrel that day, in what was probably a short hunt for the adults but seemed like one of the great adventures of my life to me.  I grew up within driving distance of those woods.  I knew them fairly well.  But until that point I had been a bystander on the path, observing nature in action, being taught everything from bushcraft to glacial geomorphology by my elders.  I knew what a food web was, but that morning was the first time I was granted the chance to take an active role in one.  I was finally off the bench and in the deadly game that has been happening since some primordial predator first chased down its prey in the goo.

I will admit now that my predatory instincts got the best of me then, in a move that I would frown upon today.  My young urge to shoot something grew nearly unable to be contained as we walked the kettled oak forest, until I eventually spied a chipmunk stuffing his cheeks in the leaf litter on the forest floor.  He fell that day, for no reason, to my unbridled hormones and excitement.  While age and wisdom have overtaken the heady need to fire haphazardly at anything with fur or feathers, I don't look down my nose on former me.  It was a waste, yes, a moment youthful indiscretion, but the seed of distaste it left in me has since grown to guide me in shot selection and general conservation -- a fine legacy for a hapless chippy with a cheek full of acorns.

I remember also watercress, and how surprised I was that a plant so lush and verdant, plucked from one of the many gorgeous little springs that dot that patch of the country, could be so piquant and bitter.  My entire life experience with leafy greens to that point had been with iceberg lettuce from the grocery store and spinach from the garden.  That a delicate little thing such as watercress floating on a spring-fed pool could be so bold and peppery struck a strong chord with me, obviously, since I just wrote a paragraph devoted to it almost three decades later.

I've gathered a lot of squirrels and watercress since that first childhood hunt, almost exclusively using that same rifle (for the squirrels, the watercress is more easily convinced into the game pouch), none of which diminished my enthusiasm for taking my hunting buddy Frisbee and his daughter on their first pheasant hunt last Saturday.

Frisbee is an avid whitetail hunter, but he'd never chased pheasants before.  When he mentioned that his oldest daughter wanted to go pheasant hunting I was thrilled.  It took us a while to juggle schedules and make things work, but we finally got it on the calendar.

I'd warned Frisbee during the protracted planning phase, that if they weren't ready when I arrived I'd have to wake the entire family with the doorbell in order to meet the rest of our party on time.  I had little reason to worry.  Nearly as soon as I pulled in the driveway, Sierra came bouncing out the front door in the dark, ready to go.  When I asked her what made her want to try pheasant hunting as I pulled on my boots for the day, she replied matter-of-factly, "I just like hunting."  Well, alright.

We arrived at our appointed rendezvous with the rest of the hunting party to find a chilly still morning, and acres of pheasant cover under gray morning skies.  I stepped out of the truck to greet dogs and men, and stole a glance Sierra's way.  She looked to be furtively taking it all in, asking hushed questions of her dad and slowly warming up to the hyper dogs as we all milled about with a bit of an edge, waiting for the appointed hour.

The hunt itself happened just as you would hope when you have a kid along for the first time.  We had not walked a couple hundred yards into the tall grass when one of the dogs got hot.  It took me a few years of bird hunting to be able to tell when a flushing dog was getting birdy, and they are all a little different in their mannerisms, but Maddy was making it abundantly clear to all that she was on a pheasant.

We were soon greeted by the boisterous flash and cackle of a rooster clawing for altitude.  Murph dispatched the bird and we were officially under way.  That field brought two additional birds to our vests, both relatively close to Frisbee and Sierra, which is all that can be hoped for with a new, young hunter in the group.

I think the smiles say more than I ever could

We were granted a couple more flushes in the next hours, in the grass and drought-pummeled corn, but were unable to shoot because of buildings and boundaries.  While I would've been thrilled to have more shots on birds, as I thought about it later, I was glad that Sierra had been there to see some hunter's restraint.  I can only hope that she saw in us the ability to discern safe and responsible shooting on the run, and that she had as much fun as possible.  I have a niggling suspicion that she may have also added a few choice phrases to her vocabulary, as Murph lacks any ability whatsoever to censor himself in front of children, cops or anyone else.

Frisbee and Sierra had to leave after that.  They had things to do back in the world, and I think her little legs had had enough tromping through the cover for one day.  We gave them our pheasants as we parted company and continued hunting minus the newest members of our crew, with hopes that they'd enjoyed themselves and that they might join us again after gun deer season in the cold hard fields of December, where the birds are tougher to hunt, but somehow even more beautiful in being so.