OUTDOORS: Twelve feet up a Birch tree, part 2

I spent most of the morning lost in thought. As always, I contemplated what direction a deer might appear and what I would have to do to make a good shot.

I was also enamored with the lever action on my lap. I tried to imagine it new. Great-great-grandpa as a young man picking it up at a local store - maybe one like Oleson's mercantile on Little House on the Prairie? Or picking it out of a Sears and Roebuck, excited for its arrival.

Did he hunt out of a stand? Did he make drives with his buddies? Was he a good shot? Did he take a deer the first time he used it?

My thoughts were shattered by the plump buck working his way with a nose to the ground through the thick brush directly in front of me. He was farther away than I wanted him to be, inside 60 yards. I instinctively made this bleat sound that sometimes stops a deer for a quick shot. He either didn't hear me, or he thought: "What the hell is that guy doing 12 feet up a birch tree yelling like a sheep?"

He was quickly making his way out of my world. He maneuvered from my right to left as I shouldered my gun to follow his progress. I picked an opening in the brush, and as his front shoulder entered, I touched off a shot. He spun, snow and wet leaves hurdled in the air as he took two long leaps up and over the ridge.

It's a good idea to wait before tracking a deer. Fifteen minutes is good, a half hour is better, longer if you have time. I set my goal at sitting quietly for an hour ... seven minutes later I was on the ground making my way over to where the buck had been. A short distance later I found him: The bullet, the gun, the hunter had all done their jobs.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures with the buck and that old gun leaning against a small tree. I leaned back on a small aspen and smiled. I had done what I set out to do.

I also laughed at the technology in my hand. Did my great-great grandpa have any pictures taken of the bucks he harvested? Probably too much hassle, and probably a bit on the boastful side.

Once again I was snapped from my thoughts by a serene world erupting around me. I've spent enough time in the November woods to quickly recognize what was happening. A buck was hot on a doe and I was on the ground, at eye level, in their world. The buck slammed on his brakes just 15 yards from me as he tried to figure out his next move. I raised the old rifle and admired the big eight-pointer. Then I quickly swung to my right and harvested one of the does that had also become curious. Two shots, two deer; the gun would feed my family this year.

As I cleaned the rifle, I decided I would not hunt with it again. The morning's hunt could not be duplicated. I felt the presence of my kin. Perhaps the bucks were somehow bumped by them from the swamp below?

Since that morning, I have returned to those woods several times. Each visit I try to imagine the world my great-great-grandson will live in. Will the Baker name survive? Will the whitetails we love to chase still be around for him? Will he have a rifle that shoots laser beams? Will hunting and guns even be a part of his reality?

A world that distant proves impossible to fathom, the same way it would have been for my great-great-grandpa to imagine me in the deep woods of northern Minnesota, using his new gun to fill my freezer.

I find myself wishing for a couple of simple things for the future. I hope my great-great-grandson finds himself 12 feet up a birch tree on a snowy November day. And I hope he gets a chance to read this. I would like him to know that all the Baker boys are proud of the man he has become and that we were all young once.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, educator 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.