Hubby and I have lived out here in the big woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for about 30 years and we’ve witnessed many changes to our village community. One of them has been the influx of hunters seeking that elusive prized antler rack. Muddy, rutted two track paths with a small building several hundred yards off a forest road have popped up in the wilderness like pimples on a teenage boy. It’s been good for local communities, however, they’re jumping with joy raking in lots of tax revenue.
Hunting, tourism and winter sports such as fishing and dog sled racing keep the U.P. alive in the long winter months. A small burg almost in the center of the U.P. holds outhouse races in February. These hilarious races were born from winter fun from an era before widespread use of indoor plumbing. In great grandads day, kids would steal outhouses as a prank and push them down the hill, capturing someone doing their business in there was all the more fun, as it’s occupant screamed expletives. Today handmade crazy outhouses are lined up and pushed down the mainstreet in an effort to reach the finish line first and win a prize and prestige. The whole town comes out to celebrate, along with curious tourists getting their first glimpse of Yooper humor.
A couple of the larger towns host countries like Germany, Austria, Swedish and Finnish ski jumpers once a year, along with local kids with dreams of making it to the Olympics. Thousands of spectators show up to witness these brave young people fly through the air having been launched from a 140 meters/459 feet high downhill platform, while spectator tailgate parties pop up every few feet in the 20 acre parking lot cheering them on.
Yes, the U.P. can get busy during the winter months with contests and festivals.
But alas, it is only the middle of November and we are in the grips of a hunter orange invasion. Generally speaking, I don’t wander far from the house much, except maybe the couple hundreds yards down the driveway to collect the mail, making sure to wear my bright orange baseball cap when out and about. I was shot at once during small game season while hanging up laundry on the clothesline one warm September morning. A deafening boom, and the ping, ping, ping of bird shot bouncing off trees and brush close to your head is a bit unnerving to say the least.
A hunter orange brigade stormed our little grocery store yesterday. It was like watching hundreds of large, hairy toddlers left unattended pushing shopping carts full of mommy unapproved treats. Five cases of beer, a couple bottles of Jack, Seven packages of jerky, half-dozen bags potato chips, brats and buns, two gallon jars of pickled eggs and sausage, twelve pizzas, taco chips and salsa, various cookies, donuts, eggs and bacon. They seemed thrilled to be out on their own, excitedly chattering among themselves. Free at last, free at last, my god we are free at last!!! Packers are playing Sunday, right?
Really, you thought deer camp was about hunting deer? Braaaahahaha.
In all fairness, there are serious hunters out there who understand and respect that primitive, ancestral haunting to put food on the table. Men have hunted since time began, man vs. beast. A blanket of snow covered silence give the hunter time to mentally steel themselves for that rush of adrenaline for when he comes face to face, staring into the eyes of that majestic thirty-two point buck.
Blazing a trail though knee high deep snow, with a piercing, icy wind has always been a right of passage for men. And at this point I think that need/erge is beyond me, never having been a man myself so I’ll let that just hang on the buck pole for now.
Today, we have several inches of fluffy white snow making swirls in the yard as it is picked up by old man winters howling winds off Lake Superior. Our boys and extended family members descended on our camp yesterday evening preparing for opening day. The cabin/camp is their staging area for the next two weeks of deer season. It sits snuggled behind a hill at the southwest corner our forty acre forest surrounded by 1000 acres of state owned forest. From here I can just see the chimney of the woodstove peeking over the hill, smoke billowing, being sucked from the chimney by the wind.
As I sit in my kitchen sipping my morning coffee, I appreciate my comfy, warm environment. The snow is coming down hard now and the wind is whipping up whiteout conditions. In the early morning twilight I can barely make out the numbers on thermometer outside the window, 27 degree. Just then I catch a glimpse of movement, some of the troop parade by our house making their way out to their appointed posts. One of the men has brought along his son, 14 years old. The lad is part of the men now, being educated in the art of securing food for his future family. Yooper culture dictates that this man camp knowledge be passed down from grandfather, to father, to son. Firearm safety begins early here in our neck of the woods, as well as learning the proper pickled eggs and pizza to bring to camp next year for delivering the loudest and smelliest man farts. Trust me when I say, I don’t go near that place for at least a week after deer season and they go home.
Later that morning the phone rings.
“Hey Jan, I just got wind of the Chippendales in Green Bay this weekend.” The female voice on the other end says excitedly. “ I’m getting a bunch of us together and going down early to the malls to do some Christmas shopping. Maybe catch some early black friday sales. Then go to the show, maybe stay overnight in Green Bay, make a day of it. Ya wanna go?”
Ahhh, hunting season in the U.P.
Da turdy point buck , listen here
I really enjoyed this one!