I am addicted to aged single malt,” Peabody continued, “I don’t drink Bloody Mary and am not a good judge of them, but I can tell you this. If you speak privately with each of the other hunters, you’ll discover Steve is the only one who thinks he makes the best Bloody Mary in the galaxy. Nevertheless, no one will disagrees with him”
I saw the Major’s point and began to appreciate the grouse camp etiquette he was explaining to me. “I see,” I said. “I see. Steve’s friends don’t want to hurt his feelings, so they agree with him.”
“Ahhh …. Something like that,” was the Major’s response.
(In point of fact, the Major didn’t want to disabuse his attorney. He didn’t want to tell him his companions publicly agreed that Steve made the best Bloody Mary only because Steve, upon hearing the compliment, would immediately make a batch of them and hand them to the hunters who wouldn’t have to get up from their chairs and mix their own drinks.)
The conversations moved from the weather to other hunting experiences and Major Peabody rejoined his friends and reported an occurrence at a Maine grouse camp. He had been hunting near a stand of young spruce when a bird exploded from cover so close to him he almost dropped his 20 ga. The grouse was nearly out of range by the time he fired. It sailed on and disappeared into the trees.
“That certainly is a strange story,” one of the Major’s hunting friends observed “I suppose you’re going to admit it was the only shot you missed during the entire year?”
Peabody paid no attention to the comment and went on with his tale. “It is a strange story and it becomes even more strange. I walked into that stand of spruce, shaking my head and trying to understand how I could have missed. Then I heard a sound coming from above me. Gentlemen, the grouse fell out of the tree. I hadn’t missed. I hit it. The bird had enough strength to fly to the tree, but that was all. It died there and fell to my feet.”
The other hunters were silent. They exchanged sidelong glances and wouldn’t look into the Major’s eyes. Then one of them spoke. “I believe you, Major,” he said. “That very same thing happens to me three or four times every season.” He paused before adding: “Only I’m not lucky enough to be standing anywhere near the tree when the bird falls out of it.”
Then one of the old timers took his turn. “It’s nice to be with people who can recognize the truth when it is told,” he said. “It’s a terrible thing when people don’t believe you. Terrible. Yes, terrible.” He paused and took a sip of his Bloody Mary. “You may not believe this, but about fifteen years ago I was accused of telling a fib. I’ll never forget it. It is burned in my memory.
“The grouse cycle was on the down side and there weren’t many birds around, but it was a nice October day. The woods were beautiful and it was a good day for a walk. I was hunting on one of those long-ago abandoned logging roads north of the Pine River. I hadn’t seen a thing and then, at about ten in the morning, this bird jumped up in front of me. I busted it and it fell in the middle of the trail.
“I was going to retrieve it when I heard a wooshing sound right over my head. I looked up in time to see a red-tailed hawk heading straight toward my bird. He was gliding down with his talons stretched out in front of him. He meant to steal my grouse and I wasn’t going to let him do it. He grabbed it just as I fired at him. Well, I missed and he sailed away with my bird.
“You can imagine my surprise when I saw a four point buck lying alongside the trail. He must have stuck his head out of the brush just as I shot at the hawk.” He took another sip of his drink, and slowly moved his head from side to side. “I still can’t believe it.” he said. “The game warden didn’t believe me. Neither did the judge. I was convicted of killing a deer out of season.”
I could commiserate with the poor man as he sat there, slowly shaking his head in dismay. “It seems to me,” I said, “the judicial system has treated you quite badly. I suppose there might have been some technical violation, but the judge should have recognized the basic equities of your situation. You were victimized by conditions entirely beyond your control. Had I been the judge, I would have rapped the gavel and said: Case dismissed in the interests of justice.”
The old hunter nodded his head in agreement. “That’s what I had hoped would happen, but I suppose the judge assigned too much weight to the fact that the deer was killed with double ought buckshot and not by seven and a half chill bird load.”
Bear Story
Six grouse hunters were sharing a cabin near a small stream located deep in a sparsely populated area of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula - the “UP” as it is universally called. Five of the men were from the U.P. (That accounts for their generic designation of “UP-ers” - a/k/a “Yoopers”). The sixth hunter was Major Nathaniel Peabody,
The men are friends of long standing. Each autumn, when the fallen leaves of maples and hardwoods turn the forest floor earth colored, they meet in the Upper Peninsula to hunt Ruffed Grouse and Woodcock. Their relationship is such that Peabody has been officially designated an Honorary Yooper, a title seldom granted to flatlanders.
There are infinitely more hunters and fishermen per square yard in the UP than anywhere else in the Republic. By and large, Yoopers have not been regimented by urban life style and the Major harbors a sincere affection for each of his Yooper hunting companions. They return the favor. When in their camp, Peabody has but once to rattle the ice cubes in an empty glass and it is immediately re-filled.
Long before the armed services popularized the rule: “Don’t ask - Don’t tell”, it has been in effect in the UP. If venison is served during a Yooper grouse camp - a week or so before the opening of deer season - it is considered to be a social faux pas for anyone to inquire into the date when the deer may have been killed. It is considered to be insanity for anyone to truthfully answer such a question. Major Peabody always enjoyed the venison dinners without showing interest in the age of the meat.
Is it impossible to over-estimate the importance of deer season in the UP. Killing a buck is a prerequisite to the right to vote. When the deer hunting season begins, it seems like everyone heads for the woods. Businesses hang out “Closed” signs. Factories lay empty, abandoned by their employees. Any boy able to carry a 30/30 skips school. Court calendars are clear because all the UP lawyers are hunting deer instead of clients. If an out-of-state attorney comes into a UP town, he will find no local attorneys to fight with. If two foreign lawyers come into a UP town to do legal battle, they must wait patiently until the judge returns from his deer camp and opens court.
The dinner at the Major’s UP grouse camp celebrated the fact that in only another nineteen days, the deer season would be officially open. The enthusiastic dinner table conversation was, therefore, limited to the plans for hunt preparations and tales of past deer season happenings. The same subject matter overwhelmed the conversations during the dish washing and continued well into the social hour(s) that followed.
Peabody was not his usual garrulous self. He is not a deer hunter. While he is not averse to the practice, his interest in the sport is modest. He listened politely to the stories and talk surrounding him, occasionally rattling his ice cubes and, even less occasionally, offering comments like: “That’s funny,” “You don’t say?” and “Amazing!”
(When the word, “Amazing” is often used in the UP. Every one knows it is the translation into printable English of a common Yooper two word expression that describes the by-product of a male cow. When the word ‘amazing’ is used by someone listening to a Yooper’s story, it is an acceptable way to emphatically signify utter and complete disbelief.)
