Big game rifle season opened in the the area last weekend. I’m not a hunter, but I support the folks who go into the woods and harvest meat for their families.
“Big game” means both deer and bear. Deer, of course, are the larger commodity. It’s only recently that bears populated the area in numbers sufficient to support hunting.
I have a lot of memories associated with deer hunting.
It seemed like a very big deal when I was a kid in the 1960s. Like Thanksgiving, it was a late fall ritual. I remember my grandfather and other older men talking excitedly about their plans to get out to deer camp and about big bucks they had been keeping track of. I don’t remember any female hunters in those days.
Today, hunters wisely wear blaze orange to increase their visibility and decrease their chances of getting shot. The uniform back then was red plaid — what Scottish folks would call Rob Roy Tartan and what it commonly known here as Buffalo Plaid. Woolrich was the brand for those serious about staying warm outdoors.
When the red plaid coats came out, deer season was nigh.
Though he died when I was young, I remember my grandfather as a good hunter. I remember a buck hanging from a tree next to his garage, and my dad and uncle and others admiring it.
I’ve never cared for the taste of venison and I remember Grandpa trying to pass it off as beef. I wasn’t fooled.
I remember the huge influx of hunters from outside the area, particularly the metro New York City area. They filled the local hotels and guesthouses, or trod the aisles of the grocery store with carts full of provisions that seemed to be mostly beer.
You always knew a “city hunter.” They wore their back tags and camouflage clothes everywhere. Most had great, big knives strapped to their hips (imagine THAT today) and the local guys snickered at that.
Those were the days before cellphones. I remember one night, at about 12 years old, I completed my paper route and headed to a payphone to call for a ride home. I found at least 25 city hunters lined up, waiting to use the same phone. I took my place in line, but was relieved when, about five hunters in, my mother drove up, wondering why I had not called.
Later, as a teenager, I saw some of my friends get excited about deer hunting, too. The season started on a Monday back then, and a lot of guys were missing from school on the first day. Opening Day was a valid excuse for missing school, it seems.
I remember restaurants opened early and taverns added staff and extended hours to accommodate the hunters. There was one place that sold a “hunter’s lunch” and included a handwarmer and a pen to fill out a deer tag. I always thought that was clever.
Later yet, when I was old enough to spend time in taverns, I learned that a lot of those hunters really weren’t all that interested in hunting. It was more like a vacation from their families, a “boys’ trip.” They joked about hunting on Mahogany Ridge — a reference to the mahogany of the bar where they sat far too late in the evening to have a chance of hitting the woods at first light.
A lot has changed. Bowhunting and hunting with muzzle-loading weapons have grown, and those hunters were out for their extended seasons before the rifle guys got their chance. Buffalo plaid Woolrich jackets — at least on hunters — are rare. Bears are no longer rare. Women, while still outnumbered, are among the avid hunters. Technology in the form of trail cameras, GPS devices, tree stands and warmer clothes have changed everything.
Mostly, though, there just aren’t as many hunters, local or from downstate. There’s not much need for restaurants to open early or for taverns to put on extra staff. Motel rooms are not impossible to find. There aren’t so many guys in grocery stores with tags on their backs and cases of beer in their carts.
Hunting is still important, though, both to the hunters who count on meat to supplement their food budgets and the niche businesses that serve hunters. I don’t know the economic impact of hunting on the region, but I’d bet it’s still measurable.
I wish the hunters well. I’ll put on my red plaid flannel shirt and think about Grandpa.