The Iron Ranger who would not hunt

I live in northern Minnesota. I've lived here all my life. I don't hunt.

Yes, I eat meat. And the reason I don't hunt has nothing to do with a felony preventing me from owning or transporting weapons. This, after all, is the most socially acceptable reason any able bodied man between ages 11 and 97 wouldn't be out in the woods this morning looking for deer to shoot. People here understand probation; it might even garner you some sympathy. People don't know what to do with the guy who doesn't hunt on purpose.

"You hunt?" it starts.

"Nope," I say.

"Hmmf."

This is the sound that triggers my defensiveness. There is judgment in that wordless, amorphous sound.

"Nah, I figure I can afford hamburger. No reason to tromp out in the cold."

"My family hunts," I continue. "They've got a shack up by Cook. Three generations. I take my boys up there a few times a year to ride the trails, hang out with grandpa."

If I'm lucky this conversation ends shortly with the understanding that I really am from here; I just don't hunt for some reason. Maybe I'm just embarrassed about being on probation or am impaired in some way not visible from the outside. As long as I don't mention having a newspaper column to write or anything involving the internet I still have an outside chance at begrudging social acceptance.

See, it's not just about the sport of harvesting trophies and venison from the woods. The rifle deer hunting season is a 16-day venerated cultural tradition, usually consciously veering into the realm of tractor pulls and pit parties by the second weekend.

Hunting season on the Mesabi Iron Range is 24 percent eating; 12 percent sauna; 25 percent riding ATVs; 20 percent riding trucks out to pull ATVs out of the mud; 15 percent driving bigger trucks out to pull that truck out of the same mud; 37 percent driving whatever's left to town to buy all the parts that broke in this process; 4 percent in the outhouse; and 41 percent standing around a fire that slowly consumes wood and various things that are not wood. The remaining time is spent actually hunting deer. That amount varies. I forgot drinking. That's in there, too.

And no, these numbers don't add up because what is this, math class? We ain't building a watch here. Cell phones don't work up there. Don't call. See you Monday. Or Tuesday. Whatever.

In other words, if you're a guy, you have to go to deer camp. Otherwise, it's a long year of harrumphing over the Vikings, politics and weather between real conversations.

Indeed, I don't hunt. It's true. I could. I still don't. I just like to observe nature and leave it alone. I don't want to field dress a deer. When someone hands me venison jerky I'll eat it and pretend to like it, but I just don't care. I have a blog to maintain. Hey, someone's got to edit this audio file on my iMac.

I just … OK, fine.

I'm on probation.