Jennie@ifish
10-15-2007, 08:48 AM
WORST DEER HUNT, EVER
By
Francis E. Caldwell
My brother-in-law, Mike, kept pestering me to take him deer hunting. I’d never known him to hunt anything, and he easily became lost.
I decided to take him to Smuggler’s Cove, 30 miles from Ketchikan, where we both lived. The Cove is a narrow indentation in the Mainland on the north side of North Behm Canal. Open to southeast winds, few people hunt there, but I’d visited in September and knew there was a salmon trap stored there for the winter. A floating salmon trap is a frame work of large spruce logs, held together with cable lashings. The main part of the trap would more than cover a tennis court, and was beached for the winter to kill marine worms that infested the logs. During the summer the trap would be hung with new chicken wire and anchored somewhere out in Clarence Straits. Two watchmen would live in the shack.
Since it was mid-October, the start of fall gales, the watchman’s shack would provide a warm, safe place to camp. It contained a wood stove, two chairs, a table and two bunks.
The area we would hunt was a long, low, narrow, wooded peninsula between Smugglers Cove and Helm Bay, so there was little chance of Mike’s getting lost.
I owned a sixteen-foot wooden boat and vintage 15- h.p. outboard motor. I had a Coleman stove and lantern and an Army surplus mummy bag and an air mattress. Some discarded pots, pans and a battered skillet from the local Good Will store completed my outfit. We planned on staying several days, until we had the legal limit of three deer each.
Mike had recently purchased a double-mantle gas lantern in a garage sale. It had a fancy chrome-plated tank and appeared to be new. The lantern, a bed roll of army blankets, a borrowed air mattress and a plate and cup he’s sneaked away from his wife, was his camping outfit. His gun was an old, rusty Winchester 30-30 carbine with iron sights.
Because he felt bad about me supplying most of the camping gear, he insisted that he bring his new lantern. To pacify him, and to save space in the boat for all the deer we expected to get, I reluctantly left my trusty Coleman lantern home.
Departure time was set for daylight, which in Alaska, in mid- October, doesn’t arrive until about nine o’clock. By the time we’d made several trips to the grocery store for items we’d forgot, and back to Mike’s house for shells, a pillow and extra socks, it was past noon. For provisions, we had onions, to fry deer liver with, potatoes, a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, oatmeal, flour, two cans of condensed milk, coffee, two loaves of bread, hotcake flower, syrup, butter, jam and peanut butter. We expected to be eating venison, so no need to take meat.
The weather was sunny and exceptionally warm as we cruised out Tongass Narrows. If we’d have been weather wise, we’d have realized such conditions usually indicated an approaching southeast storm. I wondered how my little boat would ride loaded with six deer? It was about twenty miles to Smugglers Cove.
The tide was high and the trap was floating when we arrived. To my astonishment, the stove had been stolen!. A lean to wood shed in the back still held a supply of wood. In one corner was a one-hole outhouse. We considered returning to Ketchikan, but by now it was dark, and we’d seen several huge drift logs on the way over. Without a moon, running in the dark was not an option.
Since we were both hungry, we unpacked, lit the Coleman stove and made coffee. “Where are the spuds?”
We looked everywhere, including the boat. “The last place I saw them was in a brown paper sack with the spare flashlight batteries and toilet paper. They were on the floor in the back seat. I have a hunch they’re still there,” Mike said.
While I fried onions and heated a can of pork and beans, Mike withdrew his precious lantern from its protective sack. “Ain’t she a thing of beauty,” he said, pumping it up and striking a match. The lantern lit with a loud bang. The flame died to the size of a candle, began to smoke, then died in a cloud of acrid fumes.
After eating, I held the flashlight while Mike dissembled the lantern. “Look, clamped in the base is a neat set of tools. Thoughtful of them, huh?” Mike said proudly. He cleaned the filter and jets, confident it would light. But it refused.
We knew the nights would be long, and had fortified ourselves with books, a deck of cards, a checker board and magazines, intending to enjoy ourselves by a good fire in the wood stove before going to bed.
Suddenly the truth dawned on us. Without a lantern to read by, or the stove to keep us warm, the only think left to do was go to bed. The shack was cold and already as dark as the inside of a dead cow.
“Oh, well. We’ll probably get a couple of deer at daylight, then head home,” Mike said cheerfully.
We inflated our air mattresses and went to bed. It was six o’clock.
Almost immediately, we realized we had company. I pointed the flashlight at the table. Two brown wood mice were busy eating our food! A third was inside the bread wrapper. “Git,” I yelled, hurling a boot at them. They disappeared under the table. A few minutes later, they were back. “Those bandits will eat everything in sight. We have to figure some way to protect our supplies.”
I had a square, five-gallon coffee can with a tight lid. I crammed everything the mice might eat into this can, piled he bread on top and went back to bed. I’d no sooner got to sleep than a mouse ran across my face. I ducked my head inside the bag.
“Deer or no deer, we’re getting out of here come daylight,” I growled.
We were awakened by a series of groans, squeals and pings. “The tide’s going out and the trap’s settling. The cable lashings around the logs cause the noise. As soon as the trap goes dry, the noise will stop.” Now our bunks were on an angle.
I could hear heavy breathing coming from Mike’s bunk, and it didn’t sound like he was snoring. “What’s the matter?”
“Damn air mattress leaks.” I turned on the flashlight and looked at my pocket watch. “Guess what time it is?”
“Midnight, at least.”
“Nine thirty. It’s going to be a long night.”
A while later I awoke to the sound of wind shrieking around the shack. Worried about my boat, I got up and tried to open the door. “It’s jammed. When the tide’s out, it puts the shack in a twist.”
“Oh well, we aren’t going anywhere until the tide comes back in,” Mike said. I could hear him blowing up his air mattress again. “What time is it?”
“Midnight. Only eight more hours until its light enough to go hunting.”
The initial gust of wind soon died down, then it really started to blow. Something loose began to slam and bang out at the lean-to wood shed. Sleep was impossible.
We passed the time telling stories, stories that we’d already told each other before, about our experiences while in the service. I’d served aboard a ship in the South Pacific and Mike had served in the Coast Guard.
Morning was a disappointment. Instead of getting light, only a dull gray pall hung over the cove. The storm had become a raging hurricane. (According to the newspaper, winds in town had reached eighty miles an hour.) Rain fell in torrents. I got up, dressed and tried the door. It opened and I was able to check my boat. The tide was back in and the boat was safe, but the fuel tank was afloat. I put on my oilskins and bailed out a foot of water with a bucket. “We’re not going anywhere today,” I said, shedding my oilskins.
“That will give me all day to fix my lantern,” Mike said.
After a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast I peered out the door. Out in the Canal huge whitecaps were racing before the wind. Tree tops in the nearby forest whipped furiously. Occasionally a tree crashed to the ground.
Mike dismantled the lantern piece by piece, but could find nothing wrong. We even changed fuel in the tank. When lighted, a feeble, smoky flame burned for a few seconds, then died with a gasp. “Now I know why the damn think sold so cheap,” Mike growled.
A square, five gallon can had been left in the cabin. Someone had cut out the top and used it for a garbage can. Using wood from the shed, I made a cross piece, and whittling the stick round where it crossed the edges of the can. In the center of the cross piece, I nailed the lid from the pork and bean can.
“What’s that?” Mike asked
“Mouse trap,” I said. “Put the bait on one edge of the lid. Mr. Mouse climbs up, walks out on the centerpiece and goes for the bait. When he does, the can top tips and he slides into the can. If properly balanced, it will reset itself over and over.” I searched the woodshed and found what I needed, a long stick that would serve as a ramp from the floor to the top of the can. Back inside, I asked, “What are we going to use for toilet paper?”
“How about one of these dime thrillers?” Mike countered.
Mike was first to visit the toilet. One had to go outside to reach it. He returned with a grim look on his face. “The wind blows up through that hole ninety miles an hour. You throw a piece of dirty paper down the hole and it flies right back up and smacks you.”
“Well ventilated, huh?”
Several more attempts to fix the lantern failed. Mike picked it up, walked out on the platform surrounding the shack, whirled the lantern around his head, and let it fly out into the sea. I couldn’t hear what he said in parting.
It was too dark to read. We drank gallons of coffee, played checkers, and out of pure boredom, ate, and ate. The only heat available was what came from the gas stove. We took turns warming our face and hands over the hotcake skillet.
To prevent the door from sticking, we rubbed bacon grease around the edges.
The second night seemed longer than the first. Mike’s blankets were not enough to keep him warm, even though he slept with all his clothes on. I noticed a change in wind direction, got up and pointed the flashlight out the window. “It’s turned cold and is snowing like crazy,” I told Mike.
At six I couldn’t stand to lie in bed any more. Five very worried mice were scurrying around at the bottom of the trap. I made coffee and oatmeal, and served Mike in bed., knowing how cold he was. “Are we going to get outta here today?” Mike asked, his teeth chattering.
http://www.ifish.net/board/../FCblacktail2.jpg
“I think so.” The tide was out and the shack had assumed its usual drunken stance. At daylight I peered out the window, which provided a view towards the beach. “There’s a buck deer on the beach!” I yelled, grabbing my rifle. Expecting the door to be jammed, I withdrew the bolt, backed across the shack, then rushed the door with all my weight and hit it with my left shoulder. The door flew open and I landed on my face in two feet of snow. By the time I cleared my eyes and the sights, and went around the shack towards the beach, the deer was gone!
I won’t print what I must have said. Scooping two feet of snow out of the boat with a bucket was a tough job. The snow stuck to the bucket and I had to bang it against the boat’s railing to empty it. “Pack up,” I told Mike. “We’re getting out of here.”
Once clear of the entrance we could see that the wind was blowing hard out of North Behm Canal. Frequent snow squalls blinded me. After an hour, I gave up. We were shipping spray at every wave. “We’ll go back, and hope it comes down later.” It was already noon. Moving back into the shack was tough. We were both suffering from the cold.
I lighted the stove and cooked almost everything that was left, except the onions. The coffee can was nearly empty. The snow let up at dark. Three feet was on the platform. “It could be worse. We might have decided to camp with a tent,” Mike said.
“In a tent at this time of year, we’d have had a wood stove,” I said.
For dinner we had oatmeal mixed with peanut butter.
The third night was unbearable. We had oatmeal with peanut butter and jam mixed in for breakfast, and used the last of the coffee. The storm had blown itself out, and by ten o’clock we were on our way.
Back home, the electric lights seemed extra bright. Mike always found some excuse why he couldn’t go hunting after that. Since then, when I go camping during the fall and winter, I make sure to pack, not only one Coleman lantern, but two, just in case.
Note: A longer version of this story was published in the Alaskan Southeaster. The Coleman Company noticed it and asked me if I’d agree to contribute, along with several others, to their 1993 Unbelievably Tough campaign. They flew me from Sitka, Alaska to Aspen Colorado, where I was photographed by an old cabin on Independence Pass with my old lantern. The photo ran in many outdoor magazines.)
Thanks to Pete Morris, editor
By
Francis E. Caldwell
My brother-in-law, Mike, kept pestering me to take him deer hunting. I’d never known him to hunt anything, and he easily became lost.
I decided to take him to Smuggler’s Cove, 30 miles from Ketchikan, where we both lived. The Cove is a narrow indentation in the Mainland on the north side of North Behm Canal. Open to southeast winds, few people hunt there, but I’d visited in September and knew there was a salmon trap stored there for the winter. A floating salmon trap is a frame work of large spruce logs, held together with cable lashings. The main part of the trap would more than cover a tennis court, and was beached for the winter to kill marine worms that infested the logs. During the summer the trap would be hung with new chicken wire and anchored somewhere out in Clarence Straits. Two watchmen would live in the shack.
Since it was mid-October, the start of fall gales, the watchman’s shack would provide a warm, safe place to camp. It contained a wood stove, two chairs, a table and two bunks.
The area we would hunt was a long, low, narrow, wooded peninsula between Smugglers Cove and Helm Bay, so there was little chance of Mike’s getting lost.
I owned a sixteen-foot wooden boat and vintage 15- h.p. outboard motor. I had a Coleman stove and lantern and an Army surplus mummy bag and an air mattress. Some discarded pots, pans and a battered skillet from the local Good Will store completed my outfit. We planned on staying several days, until we had the legal limit of three deer each.
Mike had recently purchased a double-mantle gas lantern in a garage sale. It had a fancy chrome-plated tank and appeared to be new. The lantern, a bed roll of army blankets, a borrowed air mattress and a plate and cup he’s sneaked away from his wife, was his camping outfit. His gun was an old, rusty Winchester 30-30 carbine with iron sights.
Because he felt bad about me supplying most of the camping gear, he insisted that he bring his new lantern. To pacify him, and to save space in the boat for all the deer we expected to get, I reluctantly left my trusty Coleman lantern home.
Departure time was set for daylight, which in Alaska, in mid- October, doesn’t arrive until about nine o’clock. By the time we’d made several trips to the grocery store for items we’d forgot, and back to Mike’s house for shells, a pillow and extra socks, it was past noon. For provisions, we had onions, to fry deer liver with, potatoes, a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, oatmeal, flour, two cans of condensed milk, coffee, two loaves of bread, hotcake flower, syrup, butter, jam and peanut butter. We expected to be eating venison, so no need to take meat.
The weather was sunny and exceptionally warm as we cruised out Tongass Narrows. If we’d have been weather wise, we’d have realized such conditions usually indicated an approaching southeast storm. I wondered how my little boat would ride loaded with six deer? It was about twenty miles to Smugglers Cove.
The tide was high and the trap was floating when we arrived. To my astonishment, the stove had been stolen!. A lean to wood shed in the back still held a supply of wood. In one corner was a one-hole outhouse. We considered returning to Ketchikan, but by now it was dark, and we’d seen several huge drift logs on the way over. Without a moon, running in the dark was not an option.
Since we were both hungry, we unpacked, lit the Coleman stove and made coffee. “Where are the spuds?”
We looked everywhere, including the boat. “The last place I saw them was in a brown paper sack with the spare flashlight batteries and toilet paper. They were on the floor in the back seat. I have a hunch they’re still there,” Mike said.
While I fried onions and heated a can of pork and beans, Mike withdrew his precious lantern from its protective sack. “Ain’t she a thing of beauty,” he said, pumping it up and striking a match. The lantern lit with a loud bang. The flame died to the size of a candle, began to smoke, then died in a cloud of acrid fumes.
After eating, I held the flashlight while Mike dissembled the lantern. “Look, clamped in the base is a neat set of tools. Thoughtful of them, huh?” Mike said proudly. He cleaned the filter and jets, confident it would light. But it refused.
We knew the nights would be long, and had fortified ourselves with books, a deck of cards, a checker board and magazines, intending to enjoy ourselves by a good fire in the wood stove before going to bed.
Suddenly the truth dawned on us. Without a lantern to read by, or the stove to keep us warm, the only think left to do was go to bed. The shack was cold and already as dark as the inside of a dead cow.
“Oh, well. We’ll probably get a couple of deer at daylight, then head home,” Mike said cheerfully.
We inflated our air mattresses and went to bed. It was six o’clock.
Almost immediately, we realized we had company. I pointed the flashlight at the table. Two brown wood mice were busy eating our food! A third was inside the bread wrapper. “Git,” I yelled, hurling a boot at them. They disappeared under the table. A few minutes later, they were back. “Those bandits will eat everything in sight. We have to figure some way to protect our supplies.”
I had a square, five-gallon coffee can with a tight lid. I crammed everything the mice might eat into this can, piled he bread on top and went back to bed. I’d no sooner got to sleep than a mouse ran across my face. I ducked my head inside the bag.
“Deer or no deer, we’re getting out of here come daylight,” I growled.
We were awakened by a series of groans, squeals and pings. “The tide’s going out and the trap’s settling. The cable lashings around the logs cause the noise. As soon as the trap goes dry, the noise will stop.” Now our bunks were on an angle.
I could hear heavy breathing coming from Mike’s bunk, and it didn’t sound like he was snoring. “What’s the matter?”
“Damn air mattress leaks.” I turned on the flashlight and looked at my pocket watch. “Guess what time it is?”
“Midnight, at least.”
“Nine thirty. It’s going to be a long night.”
A while later I awoke to the sound of wind shrieking around the shack. Worried about my boat, I got up and tried to open the door. “It’s jammed. When the tide’s out, it puts the shack in a twist.”
“Oh well, we aren’t going anywhere until the tide comes back in,” Mike said. I could hear him blowing up his air mattress again. “What time is it?”
“Midnight. Only eight more hours until its light enough to go hunting.”
The initial gust of wind soon died down, then it really started to blow. Something loose began to slam and bang out at the lean-to wood shed. Sleep was impossible.
We passed the time telling stories, stories that we’d already told each other before, about our experiences while in the service. I’d served aboard a ship in the South Pacific and Mike had served in the Coast Guard.
Morning was a disappointment. Instead of getting light, only a dull gray pall hung over the cove. The storm had become a raging hurricane. (According to the newspaper, winds in town had reached eighty miles an hour.) Rain fell in torrents. I got up, dressed and tried the door. It opened and I was able to check my boat. The tide was back in and the boat was safe, but the fuel tank was afloat. I put on my oilskins and bailed out a foot of water with a bucket. “We’re not going anywhere today,” I said, shedding my oilskins.
“That will give me all day to fix my lantern,” Mike said.
After a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast I peered out the door. Out in the Canal huge whitecaps were racing before the wind. Tree tops in the nearby forest whipped furiously. Occasionally a tree crashed to the ground.
Mike dismantled the lantern piece by piece, but could find nothing wrong. We even changed fuel in the tank. When lighted, a feeble, smoky flame burned for a few seconds, then died with a gasp. “Now I know why the damn think sold so cheap,” Mike growled.
A square, five gallon can had been left in the cabin. Someone had cut out the top and used it for a garbage can. Using wood from the shed, I made a cross piece, and whittling the stick round where it crossed the edges of the can. In the center of the cross piece, I nailed the lid from the pork and bean can.
“What’s that?” Mike asked
“Mouse trap,” I said. “Put the bait on one edge of the lid. Mr. Mouse climbs up, walks out on the centerpiece and goes for the bait. When he does, the can top tips and he slides into the can. If properly balanced, it will reset itself over and over.” I searched the woodshed and found what I needed, a long stick that would serve as a ramp from the floor to the top of the can. Back inside, I asked, “What are we going to use for toilet paper?”
“How about one of these dime thrillers?” Mike countered.
Mike was first to visit the toilet. One had to go outside to reach it. He returned with a grim look on his face. “The wind blows up through that hole ninety miles an hour. You throw a piece of dirty paper down the hole and it flies right back up and smacks you.”
“Well ventilated, huh?”
Several more attempts to fix the lantern failed. Mike picked it up, walked out on the platform surrounding the shack, whirled the lantern around his head, and let it fly out into the sea. I couldn’t hear what he said in parting.
It was too dark to read. We drank gallons of coffee, played checkers, and out of pure boredom, ate, and ate. The only heat available was what came from the gas stove. We took turns warming our face and hands over the hotcake skillet.
To prevent the door from sticking, we rubbed bacon grease around the edges.
The second night seemed longer than the first. Mike’s blankets were not enough to keep him warm, even though he slept with all his clothes on. I noticed a change in wind direction, got up and pointed the flashlight out the window. “It’s turned cold and is snowing like crazy,” I told Mike.
At six I couldn’t stand to lie in bed any more. Five very worried mice were scurrying around at the bottom of the trap. I made coffee and oatmeal, and served Mike in bed., knowing how cold he was. “Are we going to get outta here today?” Mike asked, his teeth chattering.
http://www.ifish.net/board/../FCblacktail2.jpg
“I think so.” The tide was out and the shack had assumed its usual drunken stance. At daylight I peered out the window, which provided a view towards the beach. “There’s a buck deer on the beach!” I yelled, grabbing my rifle. Expecting the door to be jammed, I withdrew the bolt, backed across the shack, then rushed the door with all my weight and hit it with my left shoulder. The door flew open and I landed on my face in two feet of snow. By the time I cleared my eyes and the sights, and went around the shack towards the beach, the deer was gone!
I won’t print what I must have said. Scooping two feet of snow out of the boat with a bucket was a tough job. The snow stuck to the bucket and I had to bang it against the boat’s railing to empty it. “Pack up,” I told Mike. “We’re getting out of here.”
Once clear of the entrance we could see that the wind was blowing hard out of North Behm Canal. Frequent snow squalls blinded me. After an hour, I gave up. We were shipping spray at every wave. “We’ll go back, and hope it comes down later.” It was already noon. Moving back into the shack was tough. We were both suffering from the cold.
I lighted the stove and cooked almost everything that was left, except the onions. The coffee can was nearly empty. The snow let up at dark. Three feet was on the platform. “It could be worse. We might have decided to camp with a tent,” Mike said.
“In a tent at this time of year, we’d have had a wood stove,” I said.
For dinner we had oatmeal mixed with peanut butter.
The third night was unbearable. We had oatmeal with peanut butter and jam mixed in for breakfast, and used the last of the coffee. The storm had blown itself out, and by ten o’clock we were on our way.
Back home, the electric lights seemed extra bright. Mike always found some excuse why he couldn’t go hunting after that. Since then, when I go camping during the fall and winter, I make sure to pack, not only one Coleman lantern, but two, just in case.
Note: A longer version of this story was published in the Alaskan Southeaster. The Coleman Company noticed it and asked me if I’d agree to contribute, along with several others, to their 1993 Unbelievably Tough campaign. They flew me from Sitka, Alaska to Aspen Colorado, where I was photographed by an old cabin on Independence Pass with my old lantern. The photo ran in many outdoor magazines.)
Thanks to Pete Morris, editor