Canon Fodder – Sports Blog

By Craig Dumas

I have written the piece on the hunting meals and how they were prepared and consumed but what was omitted – and how I forgot this I’ll never know – was the most important meal of the entire trip ¾ the coveted heart and liver. (Not human mind you, the deer’s.) I don’t really know if this tradition is just in our camp and we are demented and grotesque, or if other hunters partake in this highly praised meal of the gods. I’m a big fan of the heart and liver of the turkey and even the gizzard so it’s only fitting that I share with you another camp favorite when the lunch bell rings. Heart and liver is just another one of the things keeps me coming back year after year.

As previously mentioned, it all starts with a call for the newbie to get dressed, for there’s a carcass to be dragged! (After all, he’s gotta earn his keep too) I really hated to get him out of his warm cozy bed but there was work to be done. Meanwhile, the hallowed meal lies in a pile of innards in the field waiting for the protection of a Ziploc bag. Until it’s safely hidden away, the prizes are begging to be lost or stolen forever by a hawk of some sort.

(No, hawks don’t typically eviscerate deer in the wild and make off with their heart and liver, but you never can be too careful with this stuff. If an armored car can warrant armed guards, heart and liver deserves its own armed and paranoid escorts.)

We all end up standing over the carcass, discussing the hunt and the shot, and trying to finish off the fifth of schnapps saved for this exact occasion. Then one of us admits to getting a chill and we proceed to hook up the deer and drag it to the truck or camp if it’s close enough. Inevitably, we almost forget the most important thing. For some unknown reason, with all the commotion going on, we pass this almost every year. But nevertheless, Denny, the senior of camp, asks if we have the heart and liver thus causing one of us to go bag it and bring it back.

As a rule, part of our get-up (uniform or outfit, if you will) must contain a large Ziploc containing a pair of surgical gloves (not for reasons or fear of disease, but just plain old not wanting to get too bloodied up), some zip ties, paper towel, and your tag or license. All these things are necessary in order to complete the job efficiently. If all goes right, you can eviscerate a deer in less than twenty minutes ¾ unless you’re like Uncle Dave and gag from the smell along the way. Now I personally don’t mind the odor. It’s quite an earthy ripe stench, but have you ever caught scent of any animal’s innards that smell of roses? I think not. As I said, if done properly and quickly, you don’t catch too much of the stink. David, who has gutted many more deer than yours truly, is a sight to be seen while performing this job. We can’t help but bust a gut (no pun intended) watching him perform.

Visualize a hapless fifty-year-old kneeling in a wet field. He’s wearing an outfit that is all but falling down his midsection due to his girlish waist and lack of a backside (and just for the record, I did purchase for him a set of suspenders just for the occasion, but he’ll have nothing to do with ‘em.), plus the weight of a pistol weighing his bibs down even more. (I also must add in all seriousness – and even though he jokes about it – I’m convinced that someday he’s going to bend over carrying all his gear and shoot one of us while trying to pull his pants up.) Years ago he stuffed Kleenex up his nose but has graduated to a set of swimmers nose plugs to alleviate the pungent odor. He, to this day, gags uncontrollably while we laugh in a like fashion. So gagging and spitting regurgitated beer, bent over a deer trying to pull up his pants with his elbows, and trying to finish up cleaning up his trophy is quite the look reminiscent of something from the old reels of the Three Stooges or Laurel and Hardy.

Some tangent, huh? Well, it needed to be said. Back to the heart.

Once in the kitchen, this precious hunk of meat, that’s no bigger than a man’s fist, must be prepared in the proper fashion. Due to the amount of blood still in the ventricles, it needs to be rinsed, re-rinsed, and rinsed some more. This is all done with the care and tenderness of a gentle hand knowing how to drain it and work out all the clots. If you can’t stomach sticking your fingers in an organ then you don’t deserve a taste. This requires just the right temperature of water to help in dissolving the clots, and having extensive knowledge of how a heart works to get all the areas clear.

The liver not so much needs rinsing as it does needing to be soaked in warm water to get most of the blood out. This organ, since it holds blood and filters blood, needs extended soaking time to get that overly wild taste out. To say deer liver tastes “gamey” is to put it mildly.

All the while, sliced and diced onion is steaming in a buttered fry pan over on the neighboring burner awaiting the meat. Once the meat is added, the cook needs to pay close attention to ensure the most is made of this tasty morsel. Depending on how many hearts we have (most of the time it’s one or two) will depend on how thin the pieces are to be. Our resident expert chef, Denny, is all but blind in one eye and has double vision in the other. (He still wears the old glass contacts from the eighties and refuses to adhere to the new and improved gas and breathable types of today. Old school is putting it mildly.) But when it comes time to divvy up exact amounts of heart for all of us, he has the trained eye of a laser-guided knife and there is always plenty of liver to go around due to his skilled hand.

And then the feast begins. Four grown men huddled over a few – always too few – scraps of delicious meat.

That, in a nutshell, is how we obtain it, how it’s prepared, and how it’s eaten. The coveted heart and liver of a longtime sought after trophy, the northern Michigan white tail deer. No matter the sex of the animal, it always tastes superb and melts on the palette. The succulent tender meat and soft, luscious steamed onion can’t be beaten for a dish best served in camp. There’s no finer fare served in any palace and for those few precious moments in deer camp, we are truly kings.

By Craig Dumas

First off, I do live in a rural setting. The country. The sticks. Podunk, if you will. And I do realize that certain (most) things can, and do, happen go undetected by the law. There are certain liberties one can enjoy more fully in my neck of the woods. That being said…

I would like to inform you that there seems to be no reprimand for those whom engage in poaching and illegal hunting in general. I’ll explain. Two weeks back, I happened to notice a pair of large garbage bags rippling in the breeze and a fresh carcass lying in the ditch within 100 feet of my driveway. As I inspected the corpse, I realized this was the work of a true master as the deer was stripped of all its meat leaving little more than a head, four feet, and skeletal remains. It kind of looked like an anorexic with socks, gloves, and hat. I know this because I am an avid hunter and do my own butchering, thus recognizing the technique and skill taken to harvest this unfortunate critter. Every scrap and morsel was gone from this deer. This was a clear-cut example of an experienced butcher knowing what to take and leave under time constraints plus doing said act in the dark. Any law-abiding hunter should have nothing to hide having taken a deer legally with a tag or proof of license, and disposing of the remains in the proper fashion instead of dumping them along any given road late at night to conceal the crime. It’s not like there isn’t an abundance of wooded property out here to do the dumping. And what’s with the bags? Isn’t it easier to just leave the disembowelments and skinning where they lay for the ease decay? Here is where the guilt comes into play. They must have done the killing on their own property and didn’t want to catch hell if the DNR came a-knockin’!

First, I contacted the local sheriff’s department. They said there was nothing they could do referring me to the local waste department (DPW). They told me they would not pick it up nor could do anything with it. Next, I called the state police. They said, “All we do is push aside the carcasses, if possible, not remove them. Let nature take its course,” is what I was told. Then I contacted the RAP (Report All Poaching) line and they told me if I didn’t see it happening, there was nothing they could do. (Whatever happened to the CSI-type techniques we have available? Oh yeah, this is real life.) I could try burying it or even try disposing of it myself if it bothered me. (With my luck, the authorities would be sitting right around the corner and bust me for the crime with bloody hands!). I’m sure I’ve seen and/or heard of some sort of company or local county branch of the government removing the animals from the roadways. Maybe it was just my imagination.

I’m not naïve enough to think poaching doesn’t happen here; it does. And it will continue to do so as long as we have rural settings. I am, however, in wonder as to why the local, state and federal governments try to instill the fear of Big Brother in us not to do these illegal acts when literally nothing is done about it when reported. I mean, who doesn’t at least visually locate your weapon when the DNR officer comes knocking on your trailer door anticipating trouble? (Editor’s note: Huh?!) I agree to living off the land and supplying for the family to an extent but isn’t that how we got the government involved in the first place? They saw that we, the people, were starting to rape and deplete the land of free-ranging wildlife and figured, Hey, can’t we, the government, make them pay for a license to hunt, thus keeping the herd count at a viable number, all the while encouraging future seasons of hunting and monies collected? How am I, or any law-abiding hunter, supposed to respect and stand by the laws and support the DNR or the MUCC when they do not return the favor by utilizing our tax dollars and make the most of them to reinforce the laws and encourage us to do things properly? No, they try to encourage us by hiring (with our money) some yahoo or two to host a show (with our money) on our local public TV station to show us the benefits of hunting and how great it is to spend your entire time outdoors. If anyone is interested in hunting in any aspect, don’t we already know these benefits?

Editor’s note: At this point, I know Craig’s face was beet red. He may have even yelled at his dog because it was desperate to go outside and relieve itself but master was too busy cursing and poking angrily at the glowing box he’s always talking to. I’ll bet his blood pressure is jettisoning up the dial because he really, honestly, believes his nearly 800-word rant. (This is the main reason why Craig doesn’t work in the office environment anymore; the littlest things drive him crazy. The only profession he’s currently fit for is school bus driver. And he’s considering it. Seriously.)

Like what you’re reading so far? Keep passing Canon Fodder to friends, family, coworkers, and those weirdos you meet on the Internet. And look for some big changes in the near future. More writers. More articles. More funny, odd stuff.

Desperation, Closure, and Hope

By Craig Dumas

There comes a time where once you were cruising along spending time in the woods enjoying yourself, camp, friends, and family when all of a sudden it dawns on you what day it is and how much longer you have before the trip home. This is when the panic mode sets in and you’re desperately trying to spend every last minute out there thinking – hoping – something will come along in your range of sight. This is when I spend the most of my time trying to figure out the best trick shots feasible and how to manage these shots while making the best and most humane kill. I have done this in the past drilling a deer in the front shoulder which just so happened to slice the lungs as well. A good, clean kill is the goal and henceforth should be at the top of one’s list when contemplating these shots. I have also vividly imagined a shot thru the back of the skull when one is walking straight away from me. That is how desperate I become when my departure day approaches. Nevertheless, all this mental preparation is for naught as the last few days are on an equal plain to the previous days as deer continue to hide. Thus the grumpy and grinch-type mood returns to my person as another year comes and is gone.

It’s this endless hope that drives us back into the woods year after year. The tradition, the camaraderie, the meals (especially the meals), and the urge – the drive – knowing there are animals out there just taunting us to come back and try to figure out their routine long enough to catch the ‘dumb one’ daring enough to appear in our sights for that anticipated shot ringing out through the silence. I think it is the silence that drives you crazy in the end. It’s the silence that makes you believe napping is okay because you’re sure that upon awakening, you’ll be delightfully greeted by a number of parading deer. It’s the silence that makes you sit there day after day just itching for an excuse to dirty your rifle. This, my friends, is what eleven-and-a-half months every year is worth waiting for.