Tradition.

Saturday, November 18, 2000

Tradition. Catching trout on a fly rod, taking a whitetail with a long bow. In other words, doing things that the modern world has made simple in the most asinine and impractical ways possible. For fun.

It was a taste of tradition I was after when I decided to get into black powder hunting recently. That, and the pleasing thought of two weeks of Minnesota winter set aside just for people foolish enough to prefer tradition.

November 25 through December 10 is the Minnesota black powder deer season, and I was bound and determined to take part in it during my first winter in Minnesota and the first time since high school that I’ve had the time and money to even dream of such an activity.

And dream I did. For the past three weeks visions of Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett danced through my head. Buckskin clad and carrying flint locks Dan, Davy and I chased whitetails through local WMA land. Every night the racks got higher – six, eight and then ten pointers – as we laid in ambush waiting, waiting for November 25.

Problem was, I hadn’t touched a frontloader since sneaking into my parents room and playing cowboys and … the other guys with my dad’s home-made musket.

Now there’s tradition, building you’re own hunting rifle. I can see it now, a bull elk carved on the stock, brass butt plate, curved side lock and a blued barrel longer than I was tall. He was so proud of it that when he finished he took a picture that I still have.

Unfortunately building my own is a bit too much tradition to handle right now and wouldn’t be the path I’d follow. No, I would walk down the Cabela’s catalog trail.

However these days hunters have something even pops didn’t, the Internet. Hurtling through cyberspace I found the self-proclaimed world’s foremost outfitter’s online catalog. Over extended lunch hours (don’t tell the boss) I poured through the options, searching for something that would make my buckskinning-brethren proud. Unfortunately, what I found would also make my checkbook bounce and fiancee seethe.

The guns I was dreaming of, traditional wooden side-locks like the days of old, were priced so high I could almost hear the whirring of old Dan and Davy spinning in their graves. What I did find was carbon fiber stocks, bolt actions, in-line ignition, and fiber optic sights. Guns that looked more fit for the Terminator than a deerslayer.

So with the help of trusty Herald sports guy Jason Feldman, I decided to go have a look for myself, and maybe do a story on this newfangled, old-fashioned sport. We headed West, or northwest anyway, to Owatonna and the sportmans mecca, Cabela’s.

There in the back of the store, next to the archery gear, is a wall of front loaders. Eureka. Behind the counter stood Steve and Morris. Steve is in his twenties, and stupid. Morris is in his fifties, has a white beard, and is a black powder genius. I got stuck with Steve.

Steve: "So you wanna get into black powder, eh?"

Me: "Yes, I have $200."

Steve looks perturbed, another cheap skate.

Me: "I’m interested in a traditional gun, I probably can’t afford one, but can I look?"

Steve took it off the wall, and in a trance, I saw the gun of my dreams float into my hands. It’s heavy. Barrel heavy, really barrel heavy and bounces off the glass showcase. Oops. Steve takes it back, still perturbed. I want to cry, Jason shifts uneasily. A red padded felt cloth is now introduced and the gun is set on the counter for me to admire. I still want to cry. The walnut stock glistens, my trance is thickened by the slight buzz from the oil on the hardware.

Somewhere I find my cahones,

"How much?"Steve: "$$$.$$"

Me: "$$$.$$? #@*#!"

I can feel myself falling, the gun getting further away and out of reach. The now visible price tag (thanks Steve) is like a nail in my coffin if I take it home to my fiancee.

Then like an angel plucking me from the fiery pits of "how much was it honey?" hell, Morris asks Steve to stock some shelves.

Morris: "Need some help?"

Me: "You’re an angel."

Morris: "I get that a lot, now let’s find you a smoke pole son."

Me. "Yessir."

After at least two hours of uninterrupted pedagogy on the whys and hows of black powder, Morris walked me out of the store with everything I needed to start muzzle-loading. It wasn’t a traditional rifle. It wasn’t pretty. It was practical, and affordable.

As we left the store it was snowing heavily, a sure sign from a benevolent, buckskin-clad God that this was going to be a good season.

And somewhere, I know it, Mr. Boone and Mr. Crockett are smiling. Or maybe just laughing. Happy hunting.