My dad purchased an 80, just across the township road from the Bakke Farmstead, in Northwest Minnesota on the transition line between forest and prairie known as the Parkland when he was a younger man. It was half tillable hillside and half bottomland that held fingers of crop, thick cover, older hardwoods, and stretches of tall grass. The Sandhill River hugged the eastern boundary.
On visits growing up, I explored the tangles, fields, and little tributary creek that gushed with snow-melt every spring. I imagined Dad, uncles and aunts, sledding the slopes and swimming the culvert which cut under the road in the soft valley topsoil. Those were different times; horses, steam-tractors, and long days working the farm were standard. My dad, Walter, told stories of constructing skis out of barrel staves and placing heated stones under the quilts for the long winter sleigh rides. Now, the land sits idle in government CRP holdings and the once active sections, dotted with neighbors machinery in harvest, are worked with by a few remaining grandsons and daughters. The echoes of children’s laughter, replaced by the occasional truck or family car speeding off to somewhere. Bustling chores reduced to silent barns, monuments to the Family Farm Era.
I pulled myself out of daydream, slowed, and stiff ground crackled under my truck tires as memories dissipated for another rifle hunt with my son Nate, Johan’s great grandson. It was still dark after the hours drive and I dimmed the lights before turning onto the tractor access. The ritual of lightly closed doors, grabbing light packs of coffee and mid-morning treats, and loading rifles was a methodical practice. No snow had fallen, so the walk revealed bare ground and frozen tire tracks. A distant dog barked, and the eastern sky held a slight awareness of morning. At the grades bottom, Nathanael and I parted ways, I watched him fade into the wooded trail and climb a stand we had built. I kept on the field-edge to another section of wooded shelter and crawled into my spot.
I love first light. The warmth lifts. Forest creatures stir. A hope of Whitetail’s rise. The stillness was punctuated by a distant rifle report. It was the second weekend and the local herd sensed the pressure; movements altered.
We met at the truck for lunch, our mid-morning snacks depleted. The fan labored to kick out heat but eventually the chill evaporated. Nate had seen two doe slip into the woods across from his stand but disappeared before a shot opportunity. Sandwiches and my wife’s homemade stew were enjoyed. Pop, coffee, and bars consumed we piled out and breathed in the crisp November air; headed to the second sit. The day warmed. Minutes blurred to the final hour and songbird activity increased before sunset. I enjoyed their company.
I sat motionless, rifle in hand, like a statue. A winter bird lighted on the muzzle of my Remington 30-06 semi-auto. Head tilted, it looked at me and jumped down the barrel. Now, halfway, it surveyed its surroundings. Flitted toward me again. I studied the bird’s searching eyes, always detecting movement, danger, like a deer. My breath steadied as though an animal approached for the shot.
For a moment I thought. . . could it?
Then, with a quick twitch the seasonal friend leapt onto my beard! I felt tiny claws latch to my whiskers for an instant of surprise and its entire expression stated, “You’re not a tree!”. The traveler darted away and left me with another memory on Dad’s Eighty while dusk turned to night and I returned to meet Nate for the ride back home.
Peace,
