Winds of Change, 1982–1983

No one can explain why there are no entries in the shack log for the deer seasons of 1982 and 1983. My father wrote a note in the log, “Camp operated each season but nobody recorded ’82 & ’83. Shack damaged by falling trees 7/3/83 and in fall of ’83 we did a lot of work cleaning roads, repairing shack and installing new roof. Three deer taken in 1983.” The window shade that records deer kills shows that I shot a six-point buck and a doe in 1982 and that we shot two deer in 1983. Using my hunter’s choice tag, I shot a doe, and Robin shot his first deer that year: a spike buck.

On July 3, 1983, straight-line winds tore through the area surrounding our hunting camp, changing the landscape and the way we would hunt for many years to come. The “golden land” of maples around the shack was gone forever and the road leading into the shack was clogged with downed trees. Local weather reports had estimated that the winds had been about eighty miles per hour, and it looked as if an atomic bomb had exploded in the area. Nothing was spared, and very few mature trees were left standing. We could no longer recognize the landmarks in the area, and we knew we had a huge task ahead of us just to cut our way in to the hunting shack to see if it had survived this devastating storm.

The weekend after the storm hit, we all gathered in force at the road and began to cut through the downed trees. All the regulars that hunted from our camp showed up for this event, armed with chainsaws and the goal of cutting a trail to the shack before nightfall. It was hot, and the mosquitoes and deer flies were in abundance. Cutting the debris off the road was no easy chore. The wind had come from the west, and the first portion of the road leading into the shack ran in a southerly direction, so all of the trees had fallen fully across the road. The windstorm had been so violent that the trees were intertwined; when they were cut, they often acted as if they were spring-loaded, so that one had to be extremely careful while cutting lest he be whacked with a branch. It was a slow, tedious process, but by noon we were halfway there, having cut a path just wide enough for the Coot to pass through. After a short lunch break, we went back to the task at hand and finally arrived at the shack late that afternoon.

Devastation from the straight-line winds that had blown through the area in the summer of 1983

We were all tired and wet with sweat but were completely relieved to find that, although the entire area around the building had been devastated, Blue Heaven and the three small outbuildings had largely been spared. A large basswood next to the entry door had broken off about midway down its thirty-foot trunk, and the top of the tree had clipped off a corner of the roof, but the other damage could be easily mitigated. For starters, the treetop was still lying on the roof, which meant that it would be a challenge to slide it off without creating further damage, but we thought we could accomplish that. The chimney to the woodstove was also broken, but that could be replaced. So much debris had hit the shingles that it shattered the roofing, which would need replacement. Everything else was intact. All in all, we thought that it could have been much worse, as one of the fallen trees could have easily demolished any of the buildings. We returned to the shack on numerous weekends thereafter, building a ramp to slide the basswood off the shack roof, repairing the damages, and attempting to get the camp ready for the upcoming deer season.

When deer season 1983 arrived, we all knew that it would be a difficult hunt due to the thousands of trees that had been blown over in the area. We frequently spoke about staying at Blue Heaven at night but going out of the area during the day to hunt for deer. On opening morning, we all left camp and tried to reach our favorite hunting stands. It was almost impossible, as one had to climb over, crawl under, or find a way around all the trees that were blocking the normal routes to the hunting stands. We also questioned whether any deer were still in the area and believed that many of them might have gone elsewhere.

Robin was then sixteen years old and decided he would try to make his way down Birch Street to see if he could find any deer sign in the area. I was still at the shack loading my rifle to leave on the hunt when I heard him shoot numerous times. There was a pause, and then more gunfire. Another pause, and then a couple more shots. I started heading in his direction, figuring that he wasn’t more than a couple hundred yards away from the shack. As I began crawling over, under, and on top of the fallen trees, I heard him yelling, “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

Fearing the worst, I moved toward him as quickly as possible and finally saw him standing in a hollow by a small creek. It appeared as if a deer was lying on the ground next to him. I finally reached him and asked what was wrong. I could see that the deer was mortally wounded but still alive. He responded, “I ran out of bullets!” He had shot a spike buck but had run out of ammunition before finishing the job. I quickly gave the deer a coup de grâce shot to put it out of its misery. Robin was thrilled to have shot his first buck.

We spent the remainder of the season trying to locate old landmarks and deer stands that were no longer recognizable due to all of the storm debris. I managed to shoot a doe later in the season near the shack, but no other deer were seen that year. We all felt as if we were trying to hunt in a foreign land.