Big Buck Fever

My 12 year old nephew Ben is off this week for his first deer hunting experience with his father, my ex-brother in law. It is a shared moment of high bonding they have long anticipated.

Across Wisconsin, more than 1 million hunters are tucked away in the woods and along the fence rows of farm fields, decked out in blaze orange, shotguns at the ready. We have begun the 9-day state sanctioned ritual slaughter that is the "Gun Deer" hunting season.

I am an avowed carnivore. Some of my best friends are hunters. I understand the whole "herd management" argument (though I often note that "the herd" seemed to manage itself quite well before man was here to cull it). And I don't begrude people like Ben and his dad the rich tradition that the whole deer hunting season represents to so many families in this region.

But honestly, as a whole, this thing disturbs me on many fronts. For one thing, that the woods are jammed tight with countless gun toting, hair triggered yahoos, many no doubt fueled on whiskey and God-knows-what-else from the long, feckless nights that "Deer Camp" represents. Think of it as a frat party with heavy ammo.

According to our state Department of Natural Resources, 343,644 deer were "harvested" during the 2007 season. I can't seem to find a total on the number of hunters that were inadvertently "harvested" through means natural or otherwise. But this story from 2004 is not as shocking as it seems. It's extreme, but there's an impressive post-hunt body count every year.

There's also the ghastly phenomenom of driving down the road and realizing that the pickup or SUV in front of you has a gutted, glassy eyed deer carcass strapped to the back, staring lifelessly back at you for several miles. That one is always fun to explain to the kids. "Uh, I think he's sleeping, guys....."

It is also a completely valid excuse for Wisconsin schoolchildren to take hunting week off of school, which never sat well with this non-hunting child. Didn't matter if the kid was flunking math; hell, there were deer to harvest!

In some circles, this extends to adults, as well. About ten years ago, I worked inside sales for a small manufacturing plant. This was a man's world--girlie posters in the shop, belching not only permitted, but required. And during deer week, the production line all but shut down. The place was a ghost town--everybody gone huntin', except us poor saps in the office, who had to explain to customers why there would be an additional wait for their product this week. "Yes, sir. That's right. The assemblers are hunting. Yes, hunting. Well, sir, I realize that your million dollar assembly line is depending on our product, but you have to understand-it's deer hunting season in Wisconsin."

You can probably see why I didn't make a career out of that......

Oh, I could go on for another 500 words here. I could mention with scarcely concealed disgust how every hunter insists you try some of the "delicious" jerky that he has had made from his venison, a treat on par with being forced to consume stringy shoe leather; or how for more than 20 years, until my sons arrived, I was consistently the only male at my family Thanksgiving table.....

But that would be piling on. And I won't do it.

I wish my nephew well, and hope he brings home a trophy suitable for mounting. And that it's a deer, and not his dad. Meanwhile, I'll pull on my blaze tan and head off to hunt the elusive skinny latte, which I will bag and field dress while armed with my Gore Vidal novel. It may be less manly, but at least the lexicon of my sport doesn't include phrases like "clean kill" or "steaming gut pile." And short of a scalded tongue or a paper cut, I know I won't be in any particular danger.

****POSTSCRIPT****

Less than 12 hours after I wrote this, the following appeared on a local news website. An impressive start to the bloodsport season, no doubt.