Pine Knot Outdoors: Up a birch tree with a treasured family gun

There is no way he could have imagined my world, and I find it difficult to imagine his. We are separated by a century or more: generations of Bakers have come and gone. Nothing directly connects us, except for the gun cradled across my lap, 12 feet up a birch tree. He was my grandpa's grandpa; I know very little about him, and his name even escapes me at the moment. That saddens me. I hope my great-great-grandson will know my name - know a little something about what made me tick.

The morning is quiet and cold, perfect to let a whitetail work its way up the ridge and under my feet. Snow fell the night before, blanketing the opener woods for the first time in a long time. The sun has already made its way above the cedars behind me and began the long process of warming my huddled body for the first time since I left my truck in the predawn darkness.

I may not have known him, but I greatly respected his grandsons: Eugene (my grandpa), and his brothers Earl, Vernon, Floyd, Jerome and LeRoy. The greatest generation brought us one hell of a group of Baker boys. It was through LeRoy the gun found its way to me.

My great uncle LeRoy and his wife, Ardella, were always a special part of our family. In their early years, they lived and worked in Carlton County, but I can only recall them calling western Montana home. They were rarely apart; they preferred it that way. Even when LeRoy climbed the mountains surrounding their shack to chase elk, Ardella was there making camp, cooking, and occasionally harvesting her own trophy.

The summer I turned 13 we took their dirtbikes and four-wheelers up and over a Montana mountain to Spud lake: LeRoy leading the way on his dirtbike, bouncing precariously along the precipice of the trail. When I close my eyes, I can still see the magnificent cutthroat trout that filled the mountain lake, home to the clearest water I had experienced then, or since.

In my late teens, my college buddy and I decided it was a grand idea to drive to Alaska in the dead of winter. We spent the second night of our adventure with LeRoy and Ardella. We left Montana with a cake pan full of elk steaks, enjoying them like cookies from Calgary to Fairbanks.

Several years later, my wife and I woke to a frosty tent in the Black Hills near Custer. It was terribly early and we were frozen. Already a day from home, and with young kids in tow, we decided to head west. We would exit South Dakota, cross the Bighorns of Wyoming, dip into Yellowstone, and pop out near Sula, Montana. We had no invitation and gave no warning of our impending arrival. We rolled in much later than I had hoped. Nervously I banged on their door, and the porch light flickered on. "Any Bakers around here?" I exclaimed. We were welcomed with open arms.

Warm bedding, coupled with a place to crash, all delivered with delight that we had made the journey. We got up, had one of Ardella's famous breakfasts, and were quickly pointed back towards Minnesota. We had driven an entire day to spend one single morning with the Bakers of Montana. I have never regretted it. It's been 10 years since that morning. One of my great regrets is that I never made it back. My dad made the last couple of trips solo, first as Ardella passed, and then shortly thereafter when LeRoy died, everyone agrees, of a broken heart.

It was during these trips that Dad learned about something special Leroy wanted to leave him. LeRoy relayed the story of a time as a young boy he was hunting with his grandpa. His grandpa challenged him. If he could shoot the deer that stood before them, the gun would become his. The shot was made, and the gun became a treasured possession.

"When I die, I want you to have it," LeRoy relayed. "I don't want to give it to you now - there may be hurt feelings, and maybe some arguments - but when I'm gone, I won't be around to hear it."

The gun made the 22-hour journey from western Montana to northern Minnesota. The first time I put my hands on it, I felt its cold steel and worn wood. I also felt a connection - to LeRoy, to his grandpa. How many times had this gun been thrown in the back of a pickup? Holy hell, or maybe harnessed on the side of a horse? How many times had it been shouldered to feed the family? Perhaps this gun helped keep someone fed and alive on the bloodline to me.

I knew at that moment I was going to shoot my next deer with it. I fumbled across the engravings and found the markings along the side of the barrel: Winchester .25/.35. I instinctively worked its surprisingly smooth lever action. I also could feel it was shorter and lighter than the 30:06 that accompanied me each fall since it showed up under the Christmas tree the year I turned 13.

LeRoy's gun had come with a box of shells. As I examined the box, it disintegrated. An orange sticker marked the price of $3.19. Out came my phone. I was not too keen on shooting shells older than me. To my delight, I found a place to order a box of ammunition; closer to $50 than $3, but I was committed.

I've never taken such time and care cleaning a gun as I did with this one. I couldn't guess the last time a patch ran through the barrel. Maybe when Elvis was playing Vegas? Or while Ike was busy planning the siege at Normandy?

I grabbed the freshly cleaned gun from my truck; there were no swivels for a sling, I would be carrying it by its midsection. Cyberspace had delivered the shells, but the rugged iron sights would deliver them to their destination.

I decided that simple was best for my target. I could imagine this gun being sighted in with a tin can, so I did the same. I studied the metal plate at the butt of the gun and figured it was going to hurt. The first shot caught me off guard. I'm used to a pretty solid kick from my trusty aught six. My shoulder did not register even the slightest jolt from the .25/.35. More surprisingly, the soup can jumped in the air and came to life as the shot rang out. I shot a couple more times, the same result. I'm not a ballistics expert, but I knew that my range and knockdown power were going to be shortened by the gun's capabilities.

I decided on a stand location along a thick ridgeside where I had shot my last deer within bow range. That's where I found myself 12 feet up a birch tree on opening weekend.

This story will continue next week. Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, high school teacher and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures our region has to offer.