Resetting My Soul

It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear every pump of my heart in my ears as the rate with which it beats begins to subside, slightly elevated from the hike through the snow covered, undulating terrain between the cabin, and my deer blind, separated by half a mile, at least as the crow flies. I can hear the consistent drone of tires on concrete from the cars passing through on Michigan 10 in the far distance, almost as an indiscernible sort of white noise if I wasn’t familiar with the true source. There is rarely a train to be heard, and although I’m forever grateful for the opportunity that the railroad has provided me with, when I’m on vacation, the last thing I wish to think of is trains.

This is why I come.

To be brutally honest, I don’t much care about the hunting aspect. That’s where I don’t necessarily “fit in” here. Hell, nobody in my own household even eats venison except for me, and at the heart of the matter, I’m really not all that fond of killing animals in general, although I whole heartedly understand the ridiculous hypocrisy from a statement such as that with every cheeseburger I eat. As an aside, that’s an interesting epiphany I once had, and still occasionally reflect on. If everyone were required to kill, clean and prepare everything they were to eat, I suspect the world would contain an awful lot more vegetarians. It’s much easier to be calloused to where a meal comes from when someone else has handled the dirty work, but I digress.

I come here to reset my soul. To spend quality time with, in the past, my grandfather, and these days, my uncle, my father, and an occasional guest. After a day of hunting, we’ll eat good food, and listen to good music. We’ll play a game or two of Yahtzee, or Euchre. We may even watch a football game on one of the few channels we can pull from a basic digital antenna.

I come here to sit in this blind, where I can watch a day pass by in its entirety, and as the earth continues to rotate on its axis, I’ll watch the sun rising in the east, and in the span of about eleven hours, I’ll track its course across the sky, the shadows shifting with the ever changing light conditions, the movement of the sun, and the clouds, creating a dynamic effect that is unparalleled by even the most seasoned Hollywood lighting technician. Beneath it all, I am nothing more than a stationary fixture. A casual observer; That just happens to be posted up with a highly-accurized, state-of-the-art, .308 caliber rifle beside me in case an opportunity presents itself. (For those keeping score, it’s one of those crazy, military-style, fully-semi-automatic, weapons-of-war type rifles with ultra high capacity magazine clips. The kinda rifle that everybody claims can’t be, or shouldn’t be, used to hunt with. The actual truth is, I’m still legally restricted to a five round magazine, and the semi-automatic action in this rifle is not unlike many, more ‘traditional,’ hunting rifles- It just looks scarier.)

Either way, I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m simply not the hardcore hunter others may be. I don’t cover myself in doe urine, or study up on the latest trends and technologies in the hunting community. I don’t study their movements with trail cameras, or actively seek out deer runs to deduce where they are most likely to move. No, I’m just a passive participant.

Don’t take any of that the wrong way; I love this shit. In fact, when vacation selection comes around, while everyone else is worrying about having Christmas off, or some other holiday or vacation, this week is always my first choice.

Hell, I’ve been coming to this property since I could walk, and well before I could even hunt myself, I’d sit in my grandpa’s deer blind with him, burning leaves on his makeshift propane heater- A torch that rested inside a steel bucket turned on its side on the sandy floor of his blind, which actually worked remarkably well. I’d even burn sticks, and use the charred end to write on the inside of the blind as if it were some sort of caveman artwork.

In my deer blind, the one my father built three years ago, about fifteen feet from the remnants of my grandpa’s old blind, I have a small propane space heater connected to a twenty pound tank that serves to keep me comfortable. Today, it’s in the face of a gentle north wind, though my elevated body temperature from the energy exerted while making my way to this spot an hour ago is currently negating its usefulness, so I have yet to ignite it. I am plenty warm, thanks to being chubby, and, of course, Carhartt gear helps.

We painted the exterior of the blind in a sort of make-shift camouflage that features white, browns, and grays, arranged in a pattern to resemble natural vegetation growth, and with overlays of fluorescent orange I’ve added (since deer are colorblind) so any nearby hunters on the adjacent properties are well aware of my position for the sake of added safety.

Up here, I’m not concerned with bills. I’m not concerned with the performance of train Q14921-16, or how efficiently the L59161-16 to L50261-16 crew swap at Pontiac went down. I’m not concerned with what’s for dinner, nor am I concerned with a honey-do list or if the toilet requires cleaning.

No, I’m not concerned with any of that.

Up here, in this wooden structure that’s smaller than a shed, and barely larger than a bathtub, I’m simply concerned with being. Just, flat out, existing.

Sometimes you need a few days like this to clean your plate, especially when it was so full to begin with. Sure, there will be leftovers to tend to when I get back to the real world, but at least I’ll be able to attack them with a fresh appetite.

Meet Your Heroes.

I’ve always heard people say, “don’t meet your heroes.”

Well, I did it anyways.
…and, I’m glad I did.
It wasn’t some elaborate ordeal. In my mind, I’d built it up to be so much more than it would, or could, be. I think that’s where people struggle with such things. They harbor unrealistic expectations of what an encounter like this should be. I’d envisioned having the charisma of offering to buy him a beer or two, just to listen to the stories he could tell, helping me to relive my childhood memories of watching him play, but through his own eyes, first hand. I wanted to ask if the stories I’d heard about him, like drinking two beers before every game to calm his nerves, were true. I could’ve, but I didn’t.
It’s such an impersonal thing, these public autograph signings. One by one, items are signed, photographs and selfies are taken, and then they’re on to the next paying customer. Red marker for this item, silver paint pen for that, and the iconic black Sharpie for most items.
In that moment, you’re so fixated on what’s happening, getting your items signed, or your perfect picture taken, that you aren’t thinking about all of the questions you want answers to. You’re simply living in the moment, somewhat in awe. There’s a beautiful innocence and honesty to it all.
25 years after Mike Vernon was traded to Detroit from Calgary in exchange for defenseman Steve Chaisson, I was finally able to meet the man that inspired me not only to be a goalie, but to play hockey in general. His tenacious, feisty persona was wholly indicative of an individual having had a life long battle of being small in stature, and standing a mere 5′ 7″ tall, who could blame him?
He took absolutely no shit from anybody, regardless of how much bigger, or badder they were, or seemed. He never backed down, even when that put him toe-to-toe with arguably one of the greatest goaltenders of all time in a knuckle chucking blood-fest that saw him come out on top, quite literally, regardless of him having a height discrepancy of more than half a foot.
I admired that.
On top of his physicality, he was an absolutely underrated wealth of talent, serving as part of the NHL record setting goaltending duo that still holds the title for most wins in a regular season. Then, in 1997, he helped Detroit to their first Stanley Cup in nearly 50 years, his second Cup, and winning playoff MVP honors in the process after sweeping the Philadelphia Flyers.
As a 13, nearly 14, year old kid living through it, I would never be the same. My best friend at the time, Dave, and I celebrated their Stanley Cup win by shaking up 2-Liter bottles of Mountain Dew, and spraying one another with them in his driveway as if we were in that locker room as a part of their celebration.
Leading up to that moment, I’d rush into baseball card shops whenever I could find a ride, scraping together money through performing chores or whatever other odds and ends I could handle, likely violating a few child labor laws in the process. I’d find myself buying up any and everything with Vernon’s likeness, from cards to Starting Lineup figurines, to posters and anything in between. For my thirteenth birthday, my parents had surprised me with a 100% authentic Mike Vernon home jersey. I was floored. It was about a million sizes too big, but I’m grateful for that as it allowed me to continue wearing it well into adulthood, finally retiring it about 20 years later after the final game at Joe Louis Arena, where Mike Vernon was in attendance at the closing ceremonies, introduced to a raucous roar of applause from a crowd of over 20,000. I was so elated to see him step onto that “Joe” ice again, my voice cracked amidst my screaming, emotion that bordered on fanaticism had taken over. Suddenly, I was 13 again.

Today, I met Mike Vernon.

Me: Approaching the table- “Mike, I think I have something here that nobody else will have. This is a ticket stub from your first NHL game.”

I slid him an original ticket stub, front row, from his first NHL start, December 12, 1982, ironically against the same Detroit Red Wings that he would backstop to a Stanley Cup 15 years later.

MV: “Holy crimeny, that was a long time ago, eh? 1982. Yep. I got pulled in that game. I think Ogrodnick scored twice on me in that one… John Ogrodnick…” His smile shone brightly, as he was clearly reliving a moment from his past.

Me: “Johnny O, what a talent.”

MV: Continuing to look at the stub, talking to the assistants- “Wow, $12.50! How times have changed, eh?” Looking back at me, “Were you at that game?”

Me: “Oh, no sir, I wasn’t born yet. I had to track this thing down.”

MV: “I can’t imagine there’s many of those left.”

As he went on to sign my jersey, I mentioned that I’d received it as a gift for my thirteenth birthday, “Oh, my,” he responded, like a parent acknowledging a toddler. Not disingenuously, mind you, but more so in a manner that said he wasn’t really sure what else to say.

He signed my game used stick, and then I piped up again.

Me: “Alright, now I think I might have the strangest thing you’ll sign all day.”

I began rolling up the left sleeve to my black Under Armour polo shirt…

Me: “I have a tattoo of your original Detroit mask,” I beamed

MV: “Well look at that…”

Me: “I’d like you to sign it.”

MV: “You’re kidding!”

Me: “Nope, I’m dead serious. I have an appointment at 9PM to get it tattooed on.”

MV: “Weird, are you sure about this?” His voice resembling that of a concerned father.

Me: “Absolutely.”

Seeing the sincerity in my face, he smiled, “Ok!”

There was some discussion amongst he and the assistants about what to use; Fine tip, bold, what color… we all agreed that a standard Sharpie would likely be the best option to avoid fading before I could find my way to my appointment.

I helped stretch the skin to ensure as much of a taunt surface as possible, and right beside the tattoo likeness of his original Red Wings goalie mask on the head of my bicep he signed his name, along with his iconic number 29.

Granted, it was a marker onto flesh, leaving it even more illegible than his normal signatures, but it was his, and it indicated that he’d personally seen the level of illogical, almost unhealthy appreciation, bordering on obsession, that I’d had for him.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but amidst him signing my arm, people were apparently surrounding us, snapping pictures, immortalizing my moment in their camera rolls. A bit humbling, I guess, but perhaps they needed photographic proof of just how crazy I was.

As we left, I had my ticket stub officially authenticated by Beckett Authentication Services, the representative noting in the description that it was a ticket stub from his NHL debut, along with the date. I began to gather myself to leave, and as I did, fan after fan that had watched what transpired, wanted to see my tattoo, and his signature. In those moments, I almost became the main attraction.

Perhaps they were impressed, but I’d like to think they felt pity for me. Let’s be realistic, I had another grown man write his name on me, and I was just crazy enough to plan to have it permanently embedded into my skin. If that doesn’t border on lunacy, I guess I don’t know what does.
Regardless, I wouldn’t back down from my plan.
So here I am, not even twelve hours later, with my arm wrapped in cellophane to assist with the initial healing. The signature, exactly as he signed it, begins to heal, along with the little bit of red that my artist had touched up a bit.
Due to scarring, and a still healing process, the remainder of the tattoo, along with its white fill, will have to wait a bit longer…
Until then, I’ll ride the high of meeting my childhood hero.

It wasn’t so bad, regardless of what anybody says…