Casey, my companion during the Arctic years

November 17, 2012 – Saturday morning

33 degrees

Pentoga Road

I’ve not heard any booms in the woods surrounding our home yet this morning. The deer must be laying low. I forsake getting up early in favor of remaining in bed. Let’s think about this…

a)    get up in the dark and cold, stumble outside, tripping over logs and running into saplings making my way to the blind in hopes a deer might wander through

or

b)   remain in bed between the warm and soft sheets, snuggled next to Sargie, surfing in and out of consciousness

For this morning, at least, that was a no-brainer. Sargie has to work later today and didn’t have to arise until 6:30. I decided to celebrate the extra time allotted for the luxury of sleep and stay in bed.  

Friday began somewhat dubiously. I was up early and with the rifle slung over my shoulder, was making my way to the deer blind. I have a bright light I can use, but left it behind in favor of a Bubba light, the type that clips onto the bill of one’s ball cap.

Clothes on the dining room table (just where Sargie loves them) ready to be used for an early morning hunt

I walked and stumbled, then walked some more. Where in the heck did that deer blind go? Who could have moved it during the night?

When I reached the north property line, I knew I’d taken the wrong trail. Just call me Davy Crockett. I made my way back and eventually settled in.

No deer came my way. I heard no shots echoing through the neighboring woods so knew the folks across the road weren’t doing any better. Sargie was due to leave for work and I wanted to tell her goodbye so with that in mind, cut my morning’s hunt short.

During my Arctic days, I took Luke’s old SKS WWII surplus military rifle everywhere strapped to my back. I’ve noticed it’s become heavier over the years and seems to snag on every branch I walk by.

It was a no brainer. I’d leave it in the deer blind. After all, the small building is only fifty yards behind the house. Why lug it back and forth?

Seeing Sargie off, I turned my attention to the chore of the day, cleaning the garage. Where to start?

Well, there were the five half-empty gallons of house paint. They needed to find a non-freezing home in the basement.

Where to put them? If I moved the shoes from a bottom shelf under the oil tank, they could be placed there. The shoes really needed to be put with the others in the back room on the third shelf.

And so my morning went. I never did get back to the garage, but rather spent the next four hours cleaning, sorting, and putting away. Since we completed Sargie’s move two weeks ago, things have sat on the floor. I once made the remark that we might have submitted our names to the very sick, but popular show, Hoarders.

Before I started to put things away

OK, that’s an exaggeration, but I was happy to delve into the boxes and bags. As of this writing, the basement is half finished. The back is really nice with everything put away. The canned goods are in the canned good section, the back packing and camping equipment is where it belongs. The bottles of household cleaning products are in a row, ready to leap into action. Things are looking up.

It was time to take my walk. Once again, the day was sunny and the temperature perfect. I clicked the five miles off at a rapid pace.

I was folding a load of laundry in the living room and looking outside when she appeared; she being a deer. A BIG deer. A big doe deer. Since she was squarely between the house and the deer blind, all I could do was watch her graze.

Hmm, how close would I be able to get if I had my rifle?

I sneaked from the door and in a stealthy manner made my way closer. It was only when I went to pull the camera from my pocket that she noticed me and more curious than afraid, turned sideways to peer around a tree.

Helen Keller could have made that shot. All I could do was watch her watching me. Finally, in a normal tone of voice, I told her to be gone before I picked up a rock and threw it at her.

I was on my way back to the house when I saw something white in my peripheral vision. What the heck?

I walked towards the woodpile and sat down. There was something close by, stalking me, getting closer. A rat? A white giant mouse?

It was an ermine! Lord, he was a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed Elmo, by pet ermine, who lived with me for almost three years in the Arctic. Hmm, could this be Elmo reincarnated? What are the chances that I’d be outside contemplating throwing rocks at a deer and have an ermine come bounding up to me?

The new Elmo on Friday afternoon carrying a mouse

I sat on a stump and watched as he bounded around, begging me to play. Disappearing under the Blazer, he reemerged seconds later with a mouse in his mouth. He deposited his catch, turned in a circle three or four times, jumped towards me and chirped, then went back to his hunting ways.

The old Elmo used to enter my cabin through a hole in the floor about the size of a nickel. He’d bound up onto the couch and if I didn’t pay attention to him, grab hold of my hair and pull until I reached around and petted him.

The old Arctic Elmo seen here chewing on a caribou hide in the yard

His favorite activity was playing with my Jack Russell Terrier, Casey. They’d chase each other around the cabin and the time that Casey actually caught him, he opened his jaws and released Elmo onto the floor. In gratitude, Elmo reached up and bit him on the nose. They were my friends, my family, and I often miss both.

Taking a break from building the cabin and writing my log (via solar power and satellite dish)

So, the new Elmo is living in the woodpile. (All pet ermines are named Elmo, but every other semi-tamed wild creature is named Jimmy). I’m happy to have him in the neighborhood. No cat can catch mice as quickly or efficiently. Their appetite is voracious. He’ll escape being trapped later this season.

And no, Elmo’s not coming in the house. This isn’t the Arctic or the cabin. Besides, if he did, I’d be snuggling with Elmo on these dark and cold mornings, not Sargie. My mama didn’t give birth to a complete idiot.

Hilltop Camp in the Arctic

Sargie was home early last night. After a supper of super-huge omelets (where are the garden vegetables we so enjoyed this past summer?) we played a cutthroat game of rummy. She was victorious and at least for this 24-hour period, can be crowned the Rummy Queen of Pentoga Road.

I think I’ll cut and chip and load of popples today, no doubt hoof my usual five miles, then HOPEFULLY begin to clean the garage. I’m not going to venture too far into the woods. This is the first Saturday in deer season and those once-a-year hunters who work during the week will be stalking the mighty deer on the public land that surrounds our property. I’ve got a feeling there are some who may be suffering from the dreaded disease that strikes around this time every year, Hunter’s Blindness. It causes many to be unable to read the NO TRESPASSING signs that surround our property and in a moment of insanity, shoot at anything that moves.

It’s time to greet the day and get busy. A man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…