Older, colder hunters make their way back

As deer openers go, Minnesota's 2008 version certainly won't be remembered as a designer's model.

At dawn Saturday, a strong and unrelenting northwest wind rattled the treetops and spit a light mixture of rain/snow, adding to a thin layer of white stuff already on the ground.

While the bright forest floor was a plus, a howling wind meant the deer likely wouldn't move around much. Even if they did, the wet autumn leaves -- being as soft and quiet as milk-soaked corn flakes -- meant a hunter's ears wouldn't be much help.

It wasn't easy being optimistic Saturday.

No sunrise. No chickadees. No parades of ruffed grouse. No pesky squirrels (actually that's a good thing because squirrels always sound like deer).

No matter.

In the predawn darkness, tens of thousands of hunters marched into the state's foreboding deer haunts on the winds of tradition and perhaps some primal urge dating back to caveman days.

Sure, the weather was awful, but Saturday was about hunting for deer, not a bargain.

At deer camp Friday night, the first fella to arrive smiled and tipped his hat toward the old trailer. For more than a decade, the place has been a woodsy home to mice and men in blaze orange. There's nothing fancy about it, which is a good thing.

During the eve of deer season, the hunting party began to take shape. My longtime hunting friend, John Larson of Burnsville, and son Scott arrived. Two Schara brothers, Rick of Fergus Falls, Minn., and Robert of Hutchinson, Minn. Robert's grandson, Corey Giles, 18, of New Prague, also joined the fun.

With a few exceptions, we noted, the average age at deer camp keeps moving upward. Proof is in the camp kitchen. We are roughing it. No sandwich meat, no coffee cups, no cold cereal. No sugar. All forgotten. We do have lots of peanuts and red wine, however.

Before dawn, Larson, the elder, offers to make hot cereal for the crew, something called Red River. It has the texture of school paste, but the upside is it's safe to store around mice.

It's 6:30 in the morning and the big day is here. A couple of rifle shots ride the wind from the north. Is somebody's deer season already over or is it the first miss of the day?

While I sip coffee, my tree stand swings and sways in the arms of an oak tree. I've spent a decade in the same reserved seat on opening day. Two years ago, loggers hauled away the aging popple and the view from my deer stand is now and will be changed for years. At the moment, young popple sprouts are thicker than hair on a dog's back.

Yet, memories are easily recalled from my elevated perch. Last season, an 8-pointer walked over and stood broadside by a distance birch tree. The birch is still there, but the buck has been recycled.

At 8:45 a.m., my windswept eyes catch the first sign of life, a horizontal shape moving through a vertical world. A deer! It's a buck! I reach for my .270 Winchester and then pause. It's a forkhorn, meaning two antler points on each side. The 11/2-year-old whitetail is unaware of my presence. I appreciate the company until he fades into a swamp.

By noon, the wind remains relentless and the air temperature seems closer to zero than above freezing. I'm thinking deer hunting isn't as much fun as it used to be.

Back at deer camp, the meat pole is empty. Most of us in camp report seeing deer but nothing to shoot. Bro' Rick said he enjoyed a first-ever deer camp experience, watching a parade of 18 wild turkeys march below his tree stand.

The camp rookie, 18 year old Corey, had the most opening day excitement. He'd seen lots of deer and missed a small buck.

Perfect.

By late afternoon, Corey and his grandpa were tracking a blood trail of a larger whitetail buck hoping to find the animal Corey had wounded.

Corey felt bad but hoped to find the animal.

In deer camp, this is akin to a reality check; this is hunting, not shopping.

Ron Schara is a retired Star Tribune outdoors columnist. • ron@mnbound.com