The Hunting Shack
A Coming of Age Tale in the Most Unlikely of Places
Tucked away in the backwoods of Athelstane, Wisconsin stands a little red hunting outpost known to my family as “The Shack.”
Built in the 1930s by my great grandfather and his brother from a recycled horse barn, The Shack is a stoic reminder of Depression-era minimalism.
A circular driveway winds its way around the property, revealing a red water pump and a small outhouse. Once you’ve ducked through the 5-foot-9-inch doorway, you’ll find the typical assortment of male paraphernalia: deer antlers, Native American battle scenes, posters of pinup girls holding beer mugs, and old maps with curse words scrawled on them.
The Shack’s siding is made from sheets of shingle wrap, and the roof has, well, seen better days. The absence of insulation leaves a rustic, airy feel. Think Order of the Elks meets Lincoln Logs wrapped in a cloak of nicotine and gin.
It’s the kind of place where boys become men and girls have an excuse to skip bathing for a week.
I was just 11 years old when the ghosts of The Shack summoned me to take up arms. More so than the homecoming dance or getting my driver’s license, something within me knew that bagging my first buck was a requisite rite of passage.
In any case, I was too awkward to place much stock in typical teenage exploits. I’m sure the lack of electricity and running water further enhanced my country bumpkin appeal.
For the first year of hunting, I had only planned to sit with my dad on his stand. Even still, my grandpa was against female infiltration of his old boys’ club. Thankfully, his objections were met by a few choice words from my grandma, to whom he wisely yielded.
I still remember the inaugural outing in 1996 with Dad, Grandpa, my Uncle Mike and Uncle Charlie. I was so overdressed for the weather that I looked like a lumberjack on steroids.
Despite his initial misgivings, Grandpa was in a good mood when he handed me a king-size Snickers bar.
“Wait until things are nice and quiet, and then peel this open,” he chuckled.
We were on Dad’s stand for an hour or so when I heard something creep through the brush. I perked up and nudged him.
“It’s just Mike,” he whispered, who was making a drive along the edge of the ridge. I could already feel the adrenaline after just a half-second of thinking it was something more.
Later, we all joined up with Charlie, who had just finished gutting a deer. He poured a bit of “boom boom” from his flask into the buck’s ear — a baptism ritual of sorts in our family. Each hunter took a swig from the flask, and eventually, it was passed to me. It tasted like pure rubbing alcohol.
I was in.
Over the next few years, what I lacked in precision I made up for in dedication. During my freshman year of high school, I wounded a young buck Dad had to track down. Then, on a separate partridge hunting excursion, Grandpa’s vague instructions to follow an unmarked trail had me wandering in the opposite direction, lost from the group for over an hour.
During the perpetual waiting game that is whitetail deer hunting in Wisconsin, I did a lot of what I like to call “sub-zero meditation.” I was so in tune with nature that I’d start at the slightest snapping of a twig — usually a squirrel or some other woodland creature seemingly planted to make sure I wasn’t nodding off.
Most days I just listened to the wind. As time passed and the shadows grew longer, the northern chill would seep into my toes, and I’d start to envision myself as a female protagonist in Jack London’s To Build a Fire.
After so many years without a kill, the guys eventually told me to go sit on the edge of our bait pile and shoot the first buck that came along. When it did, the prime opportunity ended with a resounding CLICK.
I’d forgotten to load my gun.
Upon returning to the Shack, Grandma would usually be waiting inside the door. She’d ask, “How big?” even though she already knew I’d come back empty-handed. But her optimism kept me going.
Unfortunately, she never lived to see me bag any big game, as she passed away from cancer in 1999.
On Thanksgiving Day of 2001, I took my first decent shot at a beautiful buck standing 40 yards away, and hit the tree directly in front of it. With my head hung in disappointment at dinner that night, I thought of Grandma between sinewy bites of Grandpa’s overcooked raccoon.
Whether from a broken heart or sheer stubbornness to ever see a doctor, Grandpa passed away the next year. We were at a sporting clay range when he suddenly collapsed from cardiac arrest. After watching him take his last agonal breaths, I remember sensing his spirit standing next to my sister and me. (Ironically, I grew up to become a cardiac nurse, and have had many similar experiences since then.)
The same year Grandpa passed would also be my last season as a deer hunter, as I was college bound the next fall. On the morning of November 17th, my Dad said, “Why don’t you take the Bobbie,” referring to Grandpa’s Ruger M77 rifle.
Hours later, as I sat there flexing my frozen toes, I was struck by déjà vu when a big, fat, 6-pointer strutted broadside about 40 yards in front of me.
This time, I didn’t miss.
When my Dad found the downed deer, he hollered a celebratory cry and lit a cigarette. I gutted the buck and accidentally cut myself, our blood mingling in a strange, cultish manner.
That day, I had entered the woods as a girl with a gun and left as a woman with her stag.
Looking back as an adult, I think of all the times I’ve had the grit and sense to hang in there when times were hard, and I think of the Shack.
I think of all the ways it shaped my identity and sense of what’s truly important in life. And the way it defined home as a place where you can always go back.
Though utilized less often now for hunting purposes, its rafters still echo with late night laughter, gin-fueled arguments, and the clomping of boots returned from the field.
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