BARRONETT, WIS. – A few days back I wandered into the shack where for long decades I sought refuge at this time of year. The occasion of those visits was the opening weekend of Wisconsin firearms deer hunting, and the place looked like it did when I left it a few seasons ago. A wood-burning stove. A handful of plywood bunks. And a wobbly table on which sat a vintage radio I’d bought for $1 plus tax, straight cash homey.
Crackling like fingernails dragged across chalkboards, the radio nevertheless connected on the season’s first morning to a Rice Lake, Wis., station, which at 6:05 a.m. would play, “Da Turdy Point Buck,’’ a memorable ditty by the whacky bunch, Bananas at Large.
Now I’m not much for thinkin’
no I don’t do it often
but I had an idea
to put that turdy pointer in his coffin.
On all of these first days of Wisconsin whitetail hunting, until they went away to college, my two sons were with me. By tradition on those openers I’d awake first and stoke the fire, a little oak, a little popple, and when they could no longer see their breath the boys emerged from their sleeping bags asking whether their French toast and sausage were ready.
The older boy, Trevor, shot a .30-06, while Cole, the younger, carried a .243. These and my .270 leaned neatly in a corner of the shack, their chambers empty, while the wood stove glowed red and we washed breakfast down with orange juice and cowboy coffee.