Although Dad did not believe in abusing or mistreating animals, he felt it was okay to hunt if we used what we caught for meat or clothing. His exceptions were the animals that were destroying his crops, such as blackbirds and gophers. He told the story that his father had told him about how David in the Old Testament had to kill a lion and a bear to protect his sheep as part of his shepherd’s duty.
We lived in an environment conducive to hunting and fishing. Dad insisted that even his daughters learn to shoot and carry a rifle. We cared little for hunting or guns, but we enrolled in the Youth Firearm Safety Class and received our patches. The only things I ever shot were old soup cans.
Since it was inappropriate for a girl to own a gun, we started with Warren’s BB gun. Dad purchased pellets, and we poured them into a special opening in the gun. I learned to cup my fingers around the hole to make a funnel for the tiny BBs. The barrel reservoir held many BBs, which rolled around when we raised or lowered the gun. Holding the barrel upright for a BB to enter the firing chamber, we gave a single hard pull on the cocking lever to set the trigger. Bringing the gun up to eye level, I heard Dad say, “You’re shutting the wrong eye.”
Pheasant Hunting
We girls went pheasant hunting, but we never carried a gun. For whatever reason, we agreed to flush pheasants for Dad and Warren to shoot. We drudged through rows of corn, and walked fence lines and field edges in hopes of rousing birds. The thrill was in hearing the whir of a ring-necked pheasant’s wings beating and to watch it flush straight in front of us.
“Look for three-toed tracks,” Dad told us as we prepared for the hunt. “Pheasants will freeze when they first see and hear you. They will try to escape by running, and finally they will take flight. That’s when we fire.”
Trapping Gophers
“Do you kids want to earn a little extra cash this week?” Dad asked.
“Yes!” we all shouted.
“Well, I noticed several low dirt mounds in the east field—signs of the gophers that are eating our plant roots. If you want to dig out the gopher traps, you could make yourselves a little extra cash. The township board pays a twenty-five cent bounty for a pocket gopher tail and a ten-cent bounty for a striped gopher tail.”
Armed with metal traps and chains, stakes to hold the chains in place, and a shovel, we commenced on our mission. Listening for the gophers’ high-pitched whistle and looking for the flick of their tails, we focused our energy on checking the mounds of fresh dirt.
“Here’s a fresh mound,” I hollered, burrowing to find a tunnel.
“Set the trap at the entrance of the tunnel,” Warren instructed. “And don’t forget to hook the chain to the metal stake so he won’t be able to drag the trap into his home.”
After covering the entrance to block out light, we placed the rest of our traps.
“I am going to put gopher tails in my church envelope,” Warren said a few days later.
“They’re worth tens cents apiece.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” Mom said. “Where do you come up with these ideas?”
“That’s what they did in Gopher Tales for Papa,” Warren said. “Dad thinks it’s a sensible idea.”
“Over my dead body,” Mom told him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be throwing pop bottles in the collection plate.”
“You should read the book, Mom. It’s a wonderful way to collect money.”
“Absolutely not,” Mom said. “And that’s final.”
Scaring Away Blackbirds
On fall evenings, thousands of red-winged blackbirds blackened the sky when returning to roost in the cattail stands in our low wetland marsh.
“I’ll buy as many shells as you want to shoot, if you try to frighten them from our cornfields,” Dad said. “But it needs to be in early morning or late afternoon when they’re feeding on corn.”
“Doesn’t do any good,” said Warren.
“I think you’re right about that,” Dad replied. “I read in Successful Farmer about propane exploders. Maybe we should give them a try.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t plant corn next to the slough,” Warren suggested.
“Well, they don’t only eat corn from that field. They fly to fields within five miles of the slough roosts.”
“I think we have to figure out how to get rid of the slough.”
“It’s not as easy to tile and drain as you think. You have to get the cooperation of neighbors.”
Muskrat Fur
Muskrats built homes on our pond, and the boys earned extra cash trapping them in winter. Before and after school, they walked on ice to the muskrats’ four-foot-high, dome-shaped nest of roots, reeds, and mud on the slough. Using the gopher traps, they trapped the muskrats for their soft, thick fur, which they sold for $3.50 a pelt.
Rods and Reels
On a windy, overcast spring or summer evening, Dad would announce, “This is a perfect evening to fish for walleyes. Who wants to catch a whopper?” Dad permitted two or three of us to tag along, under the condition we scavenge a coffee can full of angleworms.
Carting rods and reels, a stringer for our catch, and worms, we piled in a wooden boat with four wooden slats to sit on, powered by a five-horsepower outboard motor rented at Ten Mile
Lake resort. Launching off, Dad navigated to his special walleye location. He cut the engine and baited hooks for us girls. “Drop your line in the water and set your bobber,” Dad told us. “I think we’re going to get big ones tonight.”
As the boat swayed in choppy waters, not many words passed between us because we didn’t want to scare the fish. “I’ve got a big one,” Dad teased as he stood and pretended to tug on his line. “Get the big net!”
We glanced at his empty line.
“Too late,” Dad said as he sat down. “It got away. It was a ten pounder, for sure!”
Suddenly, my red-and-white bobber went under. Something was on my line. I waited until the bobber went all the way underwater, jerked the line, and reeled in an olive-and gold-colored fish with large staring eyes. I realized I caught a walleye when I saw the white belly flap around in the boat. Dad detached the hook from its mouth with his pliers.
The thrill of a bobber going under, and the gentle sound of waves hitting our boat, made fishing a wonderful experience. Dad pulled up the anchor and moved to a new spot, until finally he said, “That’s enough action for today. Reel in your lines.”
Ice Fishing
Dark-house spear fishing scared me, but I tagged along when it was my turn. Looking apprehensive, Dad guided his pickup truck across a frozen lake to his dark house while my gut wrenched, scared the ice would break. Dad steered the truck with the doors partway open, in case we needed to jump.
“A polar bear can crawl out of an ice hole, and you’re smarter than a bear,” Dad said, trying to calm me.
A terrifying conviction in my stomach worsened as I crossed the threshold of Dad’s windowless ten-foot-square dark house. A mammoth four-foot square hole encompassed the floor. The first thing we had to do was remove the ice chunks and chips from the hole. Dad parked himself on a stool. When a northern pike darted by, Dad slowly lifted the heavy spear, took aim, and dropped the spear onto the fish. A rope tied to the spear let him retrieve the fish.
As I moved to my stool, I clutched a wall, lest I lose my footing and plunge into the hole. A lake cavity provided our light. As Dad braced to spear another Northern, I considered what to do if I toppled through the opening. Warren said to edge your way along the air between the ice and water until you came to an opening. Wiggling my frozen toes in my four-buckle boots, I thought about how long I could stay alive breathing those pockets of air.
Although none of us girls became hunters or fishers, we relish our memories of time with Dad spent fishing on a quiet lake, reminiscing about big ones that got away, and feeling special.
Now then, get your equipment—your quiver and bow—and go out to the open country to hunt some wild game for me.
–Genesis 27:3 (NIV)