Found in the middle of nowhere.

First deer, 8pt., Muzzle loader, 1 shot

This past weekend marked the beginning of the hunting opener. When you live in northern Minnesota this means many things. The population of this part of the state quadruples. It begins early the week beforehand and continues until the very last day. The roads are over-run with trucks pulling 4 wheelers, old wood stoves, camping equipment and all manner of hunting supplies. The local businesses fill up, restaurants do a booming business, the bars are all full. As someone who walks daily, I change up my walking clothes to include blaze orange in the daylight and neon reflective for early and late hours. I pick up twice the roadside trash I usually do and I can't help but think the deer must think for lack of a better word. WTF.
Hunting season also is the start of the year that I always loved so much. It signaled the beginning of the end of the fire season. It was when we all started to turn our gaze west and wait for Mike's return. It also meant Thanksgiving was just around the corner. For all the events that Mike missed when he was based out west, he was always home for Thanksgiving. It became the holiday we all loved the most. The meaning of it aside, it is the easiest holiday preparation wise, no gifts, just food.

Then there is this: From the first day we moved north back in the early 80's our house became "hunting camp". We started building the opener of a hunting season and for each and every year after that, the hunters continued to come. Every year the mix was different, tree stands were moved around, some years were successful, all years made a memory. Each year brought different weather from hunting in a t-shirt to strapping on snowshoes. The preparation started weeks in advance with phone calls and lists. Who was bringing chili, what about that beef stew, what day were you leaving, what day were you arriving, are you hunting rifle or hunting black powder. By Friday night everyone had arrived and the girls and I were gone! Mike sat in a deer stand with his Grandpa, my Dad  from the time he was 4 until he was able to hunt on his own. He learned from the best. The first season he was able to hunt independently he shot an 8 point buck with a muzzle loader, opening morning. He was 12. The newspaper came out and took the picture you see posted above. Once the season was over, the very next Thursday brought Thanksgiving. For Mike the month of November was as good as it gets. For 30 days he got to see Gramps nearly everyday, his uncles came up as often as they could and at the end of the month Thanksgiving arrived.

Mike pulling the Thanksgiving Hayride

Mike's love of food is legend. By default Thanksgiving was hands down his favorite holiday. For many years Marty and I hosted the whole family each thanksgiving. I loved it. The house was full of laughter and people and everything smelled wonderful. Mikes job from the time he was about 12 was to pull everyone on the annual hayride. He would hook the John Deere to the wagon and after dark he would drive the dead-end roads around our house while we all sang Christmas carols in back. His Mom and his Aunts, tanked up on too much wine, singing loudly, talking louder. He thought we were the best.

This is what I know: Last weekend, Marty bought a hunting licence for the firearm season for the first time in many years. When Mike went off to college our house no longer was deer camp. Each year Marty waited for Mike to come home from out west and then  he and Mike bought licences for the muzzle loader season. My Dad still came North, he would hunt our land and Mikes land but he always stayed at Mikes. When Mike died on Dec. 3rd 2006 it was the middle of the muzzle loader season.  I won't ever know what it took for Marty to pick up Mike's gun in Mid-December and clean it and put it away. I won't ever know what courage it has taken for my Dad and Marty to still come together each and every year and hunt here on Mikes land. On Saturday of the opener, I glanced out the window as Marty walked out to my Dad's deer stand off Mike's hayfield. I had gone to the kitchen sink and glanced up at the wrong minute. Marty never lets down his guard, he models Mikes courage everday of his life but in that unguarded moment, when he thought no one was watching I saw what I can't unsee. He walked slow, his head down, showing everyone of his 58 years. I pulled on my orange clothes and joined Marty in his stand, a silent substitute for the memories of when.  It takes deep commitment and courage to continue a tradition that used to bring such joy in the hope that somewhere sitting in that stand, doing what you used to do, you will find some peace. You will find yourself in the middle of nowhere.

Next week is Thanksgiving, in the early 90's my brother Steve and I began trading years to host. We do some things differently but the things that matter, we do the same. We eat alot of great food and we always have a hayride.
In 2007 Marty and I hosted. We came together as a family and clung together like the survivors we were all trying to be. In 2008 I couldn't go to my brother's house. The photo you see is my brothers dog yard, the picture was taken in 2006 10 days before Mike died, it shows my Dad standing and watching as Mike and Steven leaned across the fence and shook hands, Mike home from the 2006 fire season, Steven so damn glad to see him. It was the photo I couldn't un-see. It was the last hayride Mike was on. It was me looking back in slow motion and seeing Mike and Marty smiling at me singing with my sisters. It was memories that were simply bigger than me.

In 2010 on Thanksgiving Day we pulled into my brothers yard. He was in the dog-yard just as I knew he would be. We pulled out bottles of High Life, walked over to the fence and toasted the man that tho we will never have him with us again, it doesn't mean he's not still here. Last year the whole family came to Mikes, we loaded everyone up and Marty pulled us on a hay-ride we will never forget. As we turned into the hayfield off the county road Marty underestimated the depth of the ditch, in a moment that could have gone so wrong, there is only one reason it went right. It may have been Marty driving the tractor but it was Mike leading the way.

 I read a quote recently: "Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere and sometimes in the middle of nowhere, you find yourself." I don't know who to give the credit for this quote but I know the truth of the words.
 When everything you see and hear for weeks on end is something that will never be again. You lose yourself. You lose all bearings in a sea of everyday. You want to hang on, the harder you try the more it eludes you. It is only with time and more time that you can even hope to begin again. You must let go of where you thought you were headed and find yourself in the middle of nowhere.

I set out to discover the difference between Thankful and Grateful...turns out they are synonyms of the same word. On Thanksgiving day I will be thankful for all thats good in the present and I will be forever grateful for all that was good in the past.

On December 9,2012 please join Marty and I for "Worldwide Candle Lighting" for child loss. At 7pm, wherever you are, in whatever time zone, light a candle for Mike. Let's light the night on fire.

till next time.

Marty Hayride of 2011

Dad, Mike, Steven