Michigan's white-tailed deer hunting season is upon us.

I'm taking a very short break from my posts about our lives in New Zealand. We old guys like to relive the old days once in a while. 

I loved hunting as much for the quiet and solitude in the woods that it gave me (maybe more)  than I did for the harvesting of venison. I had wonderful years out there.  

Thanks to Lee, I have a DVD of some of the videos I taped while hunting. That is a treasure beyond words. It even shows the time a snowy owl sat down for a while on a branch just feet from my blind.  I was thrilled. 

I hadn't thought of this poem that I wrote back in 2010 for a long time. When I did again recently I realized that it was almost November 15th, the beginning of deer season, the perfect time to haul it out and reminisce.

Our lives are made up of many parts. This poem represents one part.

When I realized back then that I wanted to write something to commemorate the hunts Fred and I had shared, I knew I wanted it to be some sort of ballad. I started by reviewing The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service and went on to read a few other poems he had written.  I wanted to get the right 'tone' set in my head.  My poem didn't turn out quite like any of Service's, but it turned out well enough to satisfy me.  Here it is.  

The Ballad of "Fred the Great." 

Minnesota was the home of hunter "Fred the Great."
And many were the travels that he took beyond that state.
He went in search of Cervidae of every sort to shoot
And while hunting them he wore blaze orange, his favorite hunting suit.


But hunting had to wait sometimes, a job had to be done,
And though his arms grew weary and his eyes red from the sun,
Fred had to work, as most men do, to make his ends all meet,
He also worked to earn the POINTS that made his life so sweet.


Fred picked up cars and trucks and such, that fate had just struck down.
He'd load them up, two at a time, and haul them back to town.
All heads would turn when Fred pulled in, to see what he had brought.
He might just have that perfect truck or A.T.V. they sought.


His lovely wife had a gift for humorous oratory,
But her exploits are not told here, they're in another story.
She didn't care to share Fred's hunts, she preferred to set him loose.
All that she asked: that he be kind to her stuffed friend the MOOSE.


When leaves began to turn and fall, Fred's blood would start to boil.
He'd start again to plan his hunt, this time to Gourley soil.
He knew a Packer fan up there with hunting land so green,
It grew the finest white-tailed deer that Fred had ever seen.


Tall cedars fell to build Fred's blind, the "Butcher Shop" its name.
Fred sat among the tree tops there, on patient watch for game.
Lesser men would hesitate to shoot the gun Fred shot.
Their bodies would be black and blue but hunter Fred's was not.


A deer he shot dropped like a rock, his aim: extraordinary.
He shot just 3 or 4 each day, no more than he could carry.
He shared his game with all his friends and at least on one occasion,
He shared his blind and gun to boot with nephew, rookie Jason.


Fred continues to this day to roam those hunting lands.
He guards the acres that he hikes from drunken, poaching bands.
He stops now and again to rest, to drink a barley brew,
And talk to lesser hunters, as all the great ones do.


If you're up north of Packer Land, where mighty white-tails roam,
You may hear legends told of Fred by those who call it home.
They'll tell their stories quietly, with words of wit and awe,
About the hunting skill he showed, of wonders that they saw.


You may even catch a glimpse of Fred, he's fond of steak and beer,
As he heads to town for such a meal at Jill's, not far from here.
He'll have his lady on his arm, you'll spot her, she's first rate,
And friends and family near him, this hunter, "Fred the Great." 

Fred and McKenzie have moved on in life like Jeanne and I have. Michigan white-tails are no longer on his agenda. His thoughts are now turning to elk, and other western states' big game. Who knows what ballads still remain to be written?          -djf

This was my hunting blind.

It was 'the hunting 40 blind.'

This one we named the 'Notch.'

This was the 'Door.' I harvested my last buck out of this one. 

And last, but not least, the famous 'Butcher Shop.'  -djf