Last month, Erv Berglund leveled his scoped handgun in the direction of a whitetail buck on northern Minnesota land his dad bought in 1933.
Only scantily populated with deer, the property is about 60 miles south of the Canadian border. Aspen, spruce, birch, fir and black ash cover its higher ground, and swamp frames the rest.
As long as he can remember, Berglund has felt at home here, and together with his brother, son-in-law, grandson, nephew and a few others, he welcomes each fall the opportunity to climb into a deer stand before daylight and stay there until after dark.
“My dad had a hunting shack on the land, but eventually a beaver built a dam nearby, which flooded the area, and the shack dissolved into the ground,” he said. “I built a new shack in 1981, 10 by 20 with no inside walls. Best part of it is, I’ve never had a mouse in it! Not one.”
Chambered for .338 Federal, Berglund’s handgun fell easily into place as he steadied it on the railing of his tree stand. Finding the buck in the scope’s reticle, he squeezed the trigger, sending a copper bullet toward its target.
The shot shattered the morning’s chilled quiet, and slid the 8-pointer akimbo into fresh snow.
A former long-range competitive silhouette marksman, Berglund had dropped the buck at 95 yards.
No small feat at any age, and perhaps especially so at 82.