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| Bear |
This is a story I wrote back in the mid-80’s. I never published it or did
anything with it. I have always planned to write a memoir of my life, and this
story was definitely to become part of that book. I remained friends with my
old love, Bear, to this day. I am also good friends with his wife.
Bear died last week, after just turning sixty-one, from complications
caused from multiple radiation treatments for cancer. I visited him in the
hospital in Boston a couple months ago while he was receiving treatments, and
drove him home to Maine the first weekend of his stay. “You saved my life,” he
said. He said that to me a few times in our relationship.
Knowing him definitely added color to my life, and I will always treasure
our friendship.
DEER HUNTING ON
NORTH HAVEN, MAINE
The thought
of killing "Bambi" always repulsed me, as it does many people. But I
participated in a macho ritual for four Novembers in the early to mid-1980's
that changed my attitude.
I dated
Bear from North Haven, Maine. He felt like my "primal soul mate". We
lived together in Natick, Massachusetts for a short time, but mostly
entertained a long-distance relationship for several years.
During that
time, part of my worthiness testing, in addition to eating a freshly dug clam
right out of the shell, was to act as a "bush whacker" in a deer
hunt. The first year I agreed to participate, I knew the experience would
become a chapter in my book someday.
I took a
Friday in November off from work, and hit the road early to make what would
become a very familiar four and a half hour drive to Rockland, Maine. I had to
arrive on time to catch the noon ferry to North Haven, because the “boat” waits
for no one. On arrival, I'd find someone I knew to drive me to track Bear down.
That night
was typically spent hanging out drinking at "Babe's" trailer;
planning the following day’s events. Babe was Georgiana Fleishman. She was a
good friend, who was also the loneliest, and largest woman, I have ever met.
She was crippled by her girth, but she could cook like the finest chef, and
actually made a living doing just that for years on the island.
After a good
night's sleep in the unheated second floor of Bear’s mother's "lived
in" Cape-style house on the water, we emerged dressed warmly and ready for
the day’s adventure. Luckily, my winter jacket was already maroon-colored, so I
didn't need a fluorescent orange vest. But my beige knit hat had to go. Bear
said I'd be mistaken for a white tail deer. I was awarded my first fluorescent
orange baseball cap, and off we drove in the pickup truck to the Grange to meet
the other hunters for an "opening day" breakfast of eggs, bacon and
toast. There was plenty of coffee at the 5:00 a.m. sojourn; lucky for me.
Everybody
knew the rules, but they were discussed for my benefit nonetheless: bucks are
ok (other years it was "does only"), make lots of noise, don't walk
in the line of fire, and don’t leave a wounded deer alive, i.e., track it until
you kill it. That was my first realization of their respect for life. November's
hunting was, as it was in days gone by, the time to fill the winter food stores.
Besides deer hunting, duck, rabbit and scallops were common in every Maniac’s freezer.
Although the men (I only met one woman hunter in the four years I participated)
found hunting stimulating and fun, their rules about respecting the lives they
were taking were adhered to without question. The man, who didn't follow the
rules, was ostracized vehemently by the rest of the Island men. Lack of respect
for wildlife was not tolerated.
We set out;
Bear, his four brothers and I, in a couple of pickup trucks to a predefined
spot they said should be a "sure thing". Bear was usually one of the
leaders of the expedition and I was given my instructions. The lineup of guns
was arranged and we set out on foot to find our buck. Before we set out,
though, everyone had to pee. Luckily, I brought along what I call my “pee
funnel”. This is a very handy, plastic device I bought by postal mail through
Sierra Club magazine. A woman friend introduced it to me, and I have since
introduced it to every active woman I know. It is a “must have” for every woman
who loves being outdoors.
I stood in
line with the men, zipped down my fly and instead of whipping it out to pee, I
slipped it in. I realized this was the moment where I could satisfy the only
thing about men that I envied: the ability to write my name in the snow while I
peed. I did it and freaked out every man standing with me. It was hilarious!
This is only one act that earned me the nickname: “Crazy Kathy”. I felt the
thrill of victory.
Once we set
out, the men walked in a straight line, out of sight of the others, and I was
told to take the shore road. Bear taught me how to identify deer tracks and I
was anxious to pass my test and live up to the task. I felt like I was
participating in some very important event, and didn't want to let him down.
The day was
bright, the air clear and clean, and the sky was cobalt blue with only wisps of
clouds dotting it. Being twelve miles out in the Atlantic, there was no traffic
or airplane noise of any kind. It was the first time I heard absolute quite. It
was also breathtakingly beautiful. The smell of salt filled my nostrils as I
walked; eyes glued to the ground searching for tracks. I hummed and sang and thrashed
bushes as I sauntered along. Shouts would ring out periodically just to let the
other hunters know each others' positions, so the line could stay relatively
straight and nobody would be walking too far ahead of the others. We were on a
point, so if there were deer ahead, they had nowhere to go. Our line of
approach blocked off their only escape, except to dive off the point and swim
for it.
After a
time, I thought I saw tracks. I couldn't believe it. I started following them and
they veered off to the left. The water was on my right. I kept my eyes on them,
following them with peaked interest, when I heard a rustle ahead. I looked up
and saw, hidden in a clump of small trees and high bushes, the biggest buck I
ever saw. At first I couldn't see him. I remembered how Bear's brothers told me
a deer could be standing in a clump of trees with no shrubbery protecting it
and you couldn't see it. I didn't believe them. The trees they used for an
example were spaced far apart enough, so I didn't logically see how anything
could hide there. I was wrong.
When I saw
that buck standing before me, looking down at me (it had to be ten to twelve
feet tall with a huge rack), I just stared at it in disbelieve. We stayed like
that for a few seconds, and then I blew my whistle as loud as I could. I
carried the rape whistle I got in assertiveness training class at work, because
I didn't think I'd be able to yell loud enough if I saw anything. The
adrenaline started to pump, and I kept blowing my whistle like crazy. That buck
bolted out of his cover and started to run across the line of fire. I didn't
even think about the consequences when I followed it at a full run blowing my
whistle so nobody would shoot me. When Bear's brothers caught up with me I told
them what happened. They told me to go back to the shore road, so the deer
couldn't double back and they'd surround it. I obediently went back and ran
along the road until I got to the end of the point and could see around the
bend. I just stopped and waited. I didn't want to get in the way, possibly shot
by mistake, or see what was about to happen. My heart was pumping like I never
thought was possible.
I waited
for what seemed like forever, when I saw Bear come into view and wave me to
come over. I ran over and came upon a scene I will never forget as long as I
live. It reminded me of an event that happened in my bedroom in Albuquerque,
New Mexico, when my three cats and four other neighborhood cats caught a horny
toad and brought it through the broken front room screen into my bedroom. The
poor frightened toad was backed up against my bed and the cats surrounded it in
a semi-circle, just looking and waiting to pounce. The toad hissed violently at
the cats. I was sound asleep having a dream about the radiators back home
hissing loudly, only to wake up and realize the noise wasn't a dream. When I
turned on the light and beheld the scene, I picked up the toad by its tail and
carried it outside for safety. Then I kicked the cats out of the house and went
back to bed.
When I
arrived on this scene, the buck stood majestically at the end of the point,
with its back to the water; facing its predators. The hunters surrounded it in
a semi-circle; guns held in position, and just looked at it for a minute. I
watched as the buck, appearing so regal and serene, turned its head and looked
into the eye of each hunter in turn. Then with total disbelief on my part, it
bowed its head and waited for death to come swiftly.
It did. The shots rang out in unison, and the buck dropped
with a thud. I stood there with my mouth open in shock at what I had just
witnessed. But, interestingly enough, I didn't cry like I thought I would. In
fact, I didn't feel any remorse at all!
What did
come over me was total exhilaration. I certainly never expected to feel that! We
all ran over instantly to inspect the kill. It was magnificent. The rack was a
10-pointer or more. I heard that's how they tell the age of a deer. It was old.
Bear also noticed it had a wound on its hind leg. It wasn't a fresh wound, but
was partially healed over. They all surmised this must be the buck that a guy
on the island they knew shot and didn't track down. They wouldn't let him hear
the end of this one. Everyone felt like they did this deer a favor, and they
were really excited by the size of the kill. He was huge, easily 175 lbs. I’m
not sure of this, but it was really big.
They
immediately turned it up to expose the underbelly. Brother Paul first cut off its genitalia and
threw it aside. It would be left for scavengers to gnaw on after we all left
the scene for good. I, of course, saw the prime opportunity to "bring
these boys to their knees", so to speak. I was always looking for ways to
"get" them, because they were always teasing and kidding me. I was on
their turf, after all, and a mainlander from Massachusetts, and a woman! I was
inferior. The joke they always told was, "Why aren't there any hemorrhoids
in Maine? Because all the assholes are in Massachusetts!" This always brought huge belly laughs at my
expense.
While Paul
cut open the belly from asshole to neck, and scooped the guts out on the
ground, I walked over to the penis and testicle package laying on the ground
nearby, picked it up, and said, "Paul, would you clean this out for me,
please? I want to make it into a change purse for my friend, Judy." Every
man there instantly crouched, grabbed their crotch, and groaned. I heard this
very loud, "You fuckin' asshole!" from every guy there, and I got a
great laugh out if it at their expense! Men can be so easy sometimes.
After the
deer had been cleaned, they tied a rope around the rack and dragged it back to
the truck. It is essential to clean a deer out immediately, so the meat won't
spoil. We drove back to the Grange to weigh it in and register the kill. The
town kept statistics on all kills to record the deer population on the Island. This
is where a hose is also used to flush out the deer carcass with clean water,
and clean blood off the bed of the pickup. This was a very proud moment for the
men. The weight of a deer seems to directly correspond to the size of a hunter’s
penis to determine how much of a man or a skilled hunter he really is. Of
course, this is just my biased opinion, but I think an astute observation,
really.
Next, we
drove to a friend’s barn where other men gathered to hang the deer carcasses
from the rafters to bleed clean. Taking a swig of Jack Daniels out of the
bottle was also expected to celebrate a great day. The head and legs are cut
off, and meat hooks are clamped on with a rope tied to the end to hoist the carcass
to the rafters. While the carcass hangs there, the hide is stripped off, trying
to keep it in one piece. While this is being done, another group was designated
the chore of cutting out the rack from the head for a keepsake. I volunteered
for this job.
I held the
head down on the barn floor, as Bear took a chainsaw, and cut the rack out,
exposing the deer's brain. There was no blood. In that moment, I felt like I
did when my friend, Judy, and I at fourteen years old fished a catfish out of
the Charles River. We took it back to my parents’ barn, and cut it open to see
what was inside. We found baby catfish! It was all very interesting. In fact,
I'm shocked; I never became a biologist or some kind of scientist! Bear got to
keep the rack as a souvenir, and I asked for a hoof.
Brother
Paul cut the hoof off the leg for me and filled in around the bone as much as
possible with salt to preserve it. It made a fine souvenir, as did the story of
my adventure. It was, in fact, proof I really did this! My family and friends
were totally disgusted, but I felt proud somehow. I kept the hoof outside on my
porch until the warm weather came, and then I trashed it before it started to
smell.
We all
shared stories of the day as we continued to pass the bottle of Jack around. I
took swigs like the next man. I must have been a man in my last lifetime, just
as I suspected, because I WAS one of the men that day! I liked it. Soon, we
made plans to gather at the home of one of Bear's friends to cook up the heart,
liver and kidneys while they were still fresh, along with the same organs from
other kills that day. This was a very important part of the ritual I
discovered. Like the Indians did after a good kill, it was the custom of these
men to take a bite out of the raw organ (the heart especially), while it is
still warm to consummate themselves with the life they took. I saw this as both
disgusting and very spiritual. So, I tried it. The heart was gelatinous and as
gross as I thought it would be. I was barely able to swallow it, but I did. I
didn't want to fail yet another test, like I did with the raw clam I spit out
because I heard it screaming in my head with every chew. I insisted on eating
the other organs after they had been cooked, and as long as I tried the raw
heart, nobody gave me a hard time about this.
Bacon fat
seems to be the best grease to cook organs with. Brother Paul also brought home
fresh killed duck one morning, and cooked the breasts with bacon fat. It was
delicious with eggs for breakfast. Bear and I lay in bed, barely awake, heard a
gunshot, and Bear said, "Great! Duck breast for breakfast!" I just
looked at him, and waited to see what he meant. Paul cooked the breasts and
eggs, and they were tasty, tender and delicious. I tried not to look at the
splayed-open duck carcasses lying on the deck table while I ate though.
I have to
admit that some male rituals are worth witnessing and experiencing. Deer
hunting in the wilds of Maine was definitely one of them for me. I will never forget
it. Bear's mother and I took turns that weekend taking pictures of each other
in the orange hat, with a rifle in hand, standing in front of three hanging
deer outside. That photo is destined to be a classic.
The
following three years I participated in deer hunting were not as exciting for
me as this event, I must admit. But the thing I remember most vividly about it was
how peaceful I felt bushwhacking in the woods. I was alone (at least I felt
alone in between shouts to declare your position), and I felt so at one with
nature. I do still have one souvenir from my hunting days: A perfect little
bird's nest. I forget what kind of bird's nest it was, though, perhaps from a
bluebird. I sit a fake bird inside it and place the nest lovingly on my
Christmas tree every year.
