I've walked by the old jack pine tree hundreds of times in the last 30 years. It sits high on a ridge overlooking a small brook that gurgles below on wet years and is hardly flowing this year. When I first spied the old tree, it still had a bit of green in its very top needles. Today the tree has lost all of its live limbs and stands full of woodpecker holes and broken branches.
The old jack pine has been witness to a progression of deer hunters over the years. Next weekend is the beginning of the Minnesota deer season and it was comforting to me to see the old tree was still standing a few weeks ago as I rebuilt a deer stand that had started to decay. Years ago when sap still coursed through its veins, a hunter or two nailed steps up to the first huge branch and made a seat where the hunter hoped a wary whitetail might wander by in the middle of the afternoon. I never sat in the old tree, but others did.
My youngest brother's oldest son is going to join our party this year. He received his hunting certificate this past summer and at the grand old age of 12, he is going to join the fraternity that has enjoyed this small piece of northern Minnesota woods. He is understandably excited at the prospect of possibly harvesting a giant buck or portly doe. My brother will sit with his son in a tree somewhere in our woods and wait to hear the crunch of leaves or the breaking of a twig as a deer enters their hunting area. It will be an exciting time for both and neither will ever forget it.
The old jack pine on the ridge has seen such hunters before. No one will ever know how many deer have strolled under its bent and broken boughs. Sometimes a hunter would sit among the branches and sometimes the stand was empty. Sometimes a shot was fired and sometimes the deer slid from view without a rifle's report. Sometimes a deer came to the cooking pot and sometimes the deer's white tail disappeared over the hill to the east, toward the Gowdy Meadow. The old tree has seen it all.
As I pounded a new nail into the rebuilt stand, a pileated woodpecker came chugging through the woods and landed with a thump on the old tree's base. Instantly, chips of wood began to fly through the air as the woodpecker drilled for some unseen bug or grub. I noticed all the holes along the base of the tree and it was obvious that this deep forest woodpecker had been there before. I wondered how long it would take the woodpecker to drill through the entire girth of the tree and fell it to its final resting place. It would be appropriate, I thought, for such an event to be the end of the old tree, rather than a chainsaw or a mechanical wood harvester.
We lost one of our hunting party this year. His name was Harlan Houg and he knew this old tree. I caught him sitting in it a few times as I wandered through the bush, as I was looking to "jump" a deer along the way. I don't know if Harlan ever shot a deer from this tree, but I wouldn't bet against it. Harlan knew a good spot when he saw it and I think he thought this was a good spot. The old tree knew others of the hunting party over the years and many of them won't be sitting there again. Only their memories remain in those woods.
As I finished nailing the final armrest to the deer stand, a gust of north wind pushed through the aspen and oak woods. As the gust hit the old tree, the wind made a lonesome, whistling sound, almost haunting. I looked up into the branches and saw that the tree had started to bend about halfway up. A strong storm or two this winter and the tree might be on the forest floor. Only resin and tree tar are holding the old tree together. Kind of like some of the old hunters that will enter the wood next weekend.
The old tree stands there tonight, as I write this column. A timber wolf may saunter by in the moonlight in search of a deer that is a little slow. A porcupine may climb into its branches only to discover that there is no green growth to gnaw on here and then move on. A bald eagle may land on the top branch, searching the forest floor for dinner. Insects are hollowing out the inside of the old tree and if a storm doesn't topple the craggy old jack pine, they probably will.
The old jack pine tree is still there, still hanging on to the top of the ridge unwilling to go down easy. But, some day or some night it will topple over and the forest will be an emptier place without it. Somehow it signals the same fate for some of the hunters who used it over the years. But, in its place, perhaps after a fire, a young jack pine will sprout from the many seed pods that lay at the base. Maybe one will take its place.
Just like my nephew who is heading for his first opening morning of deer season with his dad, no doubt, it will be a special day.
See you next time. Okay?
