© Rankton LLC Copyrighted Material 1988,1990-1998, 2000 - 2016

A Hunting Camp

Memory

contributed by Kip

"...the sudden quiet from the cabin, and the hazelnut brush closing in on me; it was all I could do to not scream - really." Contact Kip by email or post on the forum email: Kip@abZorba.com

Lt Col Charles E. Peterson

He was called “Charlie” in camp, but preferred “Chuck”. He ranked Marksman with the Thompson .45 machine gun. He slogged it out in the hedgerows of France, and shared a few harrowing stories from his time in WWII. I am blessed to have called him friend. He was a man of few words and a born storyteller. His grasp of timing and the pregnant pause was on a par with the best comedians and stage performers. He was humble, utterly capable, and committed to whatever cause he chose. That cause be it, dealing with the Minnesota Legislature, Sportsman clubs or his friends, would always benefit. Charlie taught me an important lesson that took over ten years to complete. He was ever watchful and a teacher in this lesson, and I never knew it. He also knew his fellow man, better than they knew themselves. I was out on my buddy Roland’s stand hunting whitetail. The stand is probably only 100 yards from the cabin along the edge of a marsh and then through a short grove of pine. I could walk it in my sleep now, but it was only my third deer season and the first time I was in a stand all – by – myself. I hadn’t the notion up to that time that I should get to know, understand, and love the woods. How far I could see into the woods defined my awareness of where I was. If I couldn’t see my destination or had signs, meaning yellow signs with arrows on them, the destination wasn’t there. I wanted to come in for lunch and I could barely hear my friends chatting, so I left the stand. Before I got down, I reviewed my path in my mind. I walked down the short slope to the pine grove, looked back to make sure I was headed in the right direction and stepped into “the woods”. The words, “lions, tigers, and bears. OH MY!” were ringing in my ears. Roland’s father planted those trees in the early fifties and the grove was only 15 rows deep. To the city kid in me, they were an extension of the Black Forest in Minnesota. I was emotionally worn out by the time I got to the other side. All I had to do was take a left at the edge of the marsh, walk 40 yards and I’d see the cabin, cars, outhouse, and find safety from the savage wild. Wolves hadn’t been reintroduced to Minnesota yet, so the worst thing to worry about was a rabid red squirrel. I walked about 30 feet, and with the blood rushing in my ears, the sudden quiet from the cabin, and the hazelnut brush closing in on me; it was all I could do to not scream, really. So, in my panic, my mind raced through what little I remembered about survival when lost. I did what any sensible lost hunter would do. I killed a poplar tree with three rounds from the borrowed .300 Savage I carried. A few seconds later, I heard the screen door skreek open, five guys piling out excitedly and the explosive, expletive, exclamation point of the slamming door to my embarrassing admission of “I am really dumb, and I shouldn’t be in the woods” statement. There wasn’t anything to do but walk the last 40 yards to the cabin and take the well-deserved ribbing, poking and general gut splitting laughter at my expense. After about five minutes of that, my worst fears came to fruition. Charlie, the Lieutenant Colonel, came out of the cabin. A hush fell over my comrades in arms as he walked up to me. My face was still as red as my wool hunting clothes. I remember those sixty seconds as though I were still there. Charlie came close and softly asked me “Do you have a compass?” I stammered out a weak “Yes”. All he said was “Learn to use it” and walked back to the cabin. Slide forward ten years. I was hunting Roland’s land on the third weekend of the season and had all of Saturday to myself on the 80 acres. It was still big land to me and we were still getting to know each other. Charlie was coming up on Sunday morning and we were to meet on a knoll about 100 yards south of the cabin at 8am. I had been on Charlie’s stand that morning on the far northeast corner of the property, about ½ mile through the woods. At what I judged to be the right time, I left the stand and slow hunted to the meeting spot. I met Charlie on time, in the right place as he was walking up to me. We stood there in companionable silence for about five minutes. He turned and asked me “Do you have a compass?” Again, I answered “Yes”, but more confidently. He replied “Looks like you learned to use it. Good”. Those few short words of praise did more to inspire me than anything I’ve read, heard, or experienced since. I’ve stretched my mind, heart, and being to understand the plains, woods, forests, and mountains. The creatures that share that land with me know it better, but now I have respect for them and a lot less fear because of Charlie.

Born May 26, 1920     Died Mar. 15, 2005

Interred at Fort Snelling.

In Loving Memory by many.

Do. Be. Live. If you don’t move, you’ll rust.
abZorba Hunting - Camping - Fishing
© Copyrights 1988, 1990-1999, 2000-2006, 2010-2016 Leatrice Productions Unlimited, Inc

A Hunting Camp

Memory

contributed by Kip

"...the sudden quiet from the cabin, and the hazelnut brush closing in on me; it was all I could do to not scream - really." Contact Kip by email or post on the forum email: Kip@abZorba.com

Lt Col Charles E. Peterson

He was called “Charlie” in camp, but preferred “Chuck”. He ranked Marksman with the Thompson .45 machine gun. He slogged it out in the hedgerows of France, and shared a few harrowing stories from his time in WWII. I am blessed to have called him friend. He was a man of few words and a born storyteller. His grasp of timing and the pregnant pause was on a par with the best comedians and stage performers. He was humble, utterly capable, and committed to whatever cause he chose. That cause be it, dealing with the Minnesota Legislature, Sportsman clubs or his friends, would always benefit. Charlie taught me an important lesson that took over ten years to complete. He was ever watchful and a teacher in this lesson, and I never knew it. He also knew his fellow man, better than they knew themselves. I was out on my buddy Roland’s stand hunting whitetail. The stand is probably only 100 yards from the cabin along the edge of a marsh and then through a short grove of pine. I could walk it in my sleep now, but it was only my third deer season and the first time I was in a stand all – by – myself. I hadn’t the notion up to that time that I should get to know, understand, and love the woods. How far I could see into the woods defined my awareness of where I was. If I couldn’t see my destination or had signs, meaning yellow signs with arrows on them, the destination wasn’t there. I wanted to come in for lunch and I could barely hear my friends chatting, so I left the stand. Before I got down, I reviewed my path in my mind. I walked down the short slope to the pine grove, looked back to make sure I was headed in the right direction and stepped into “the woods”. The words, “lions, tigers, and bears. OH MY!” were ringing in my ears. Roland’s father planted those trees in the early fifties and the grove was only 15 rows deep. To the city kid in me, they were an extension of the Black Forest in Minnesota. I was emotionally worn out by the time I got to the other side. All I had to do was take a left at the edge of the marsh, walk 40 yards and I’d see the cabin, cars, outhouse, and find safety from the savage wild. Wolves hadn’t been reintroduced to Minnesota yet, so the worst thing to worry about was a rabid red squirrel. I walked about 30 feet, and with the blood rushing in my ears, the sudden quiet from the cabin, and the hazelnut brush closing in on me; it was all I could do to not scream, really. So, in my panic, my mind raced through what little I remembered about survival when lost. I did what any sensible lost hunter would do. I killed a poplar tree with three rounds from the borrowed .300 Savage I carried. A few seconds later, I heard the screen door skreek open, five guys piling out excitedly and the explosive, expletive, exclamation point of the slamming door to my embarrassing admission of “I am really dumb, and I shouldn’t be in the woods” statement. There wasn’t anything to do but walk the last 40 yards to the cabin and take the well-deserved ribbing, poking and general gut splitting laughter at my expense. After about five minutes of that, my worst fears came to fruition. Charlie, the Lieutenant Colonel, came out of the cabin. A hush fell over my comrades in arms as he walked up to me. My face was still as red as my wool hunting clothes. I remember those sixty seconds as though I were still there. Charlie came close and softly asked me “Do you have a compass?” I stammered out a weak “Yes”. All he said was “Learn to use it” and walked back to the cabin. Slide forward ten years. I was hunting Roland’s land on the third weekend of the season and had all of Saturday to myself on the 80 acres. It was still big land to me and we were still getting to know each other. Charlie was coming up on Sunday morning and we were to meet on a knoll about 100 yards south of the cabin at 8am. I had been on Charlie’s stand that morning on the far northeast corner of the property, about ½ mile through the woods. At what I judged to be the right time, I left the stand and slow hunted to the meeting spot. I met Charlie on time, in the right place as he was walking up to me. We stood there in companionable silence for about five minutes. He turned and asked me “Do you have a compass?” Again, I answered “Yes”, but more confidently. He replied “Looks like you learned to use it. Good”. Those few short words of praise did more to inspire me than anything I’ve read, heard, or experienced since. I’ve stretched my mind, heart, and being to understand the plains, woods, forests, and mountains. The creatures that share that land with me know it better, but now I have respect for them and a lot less fear because of Charlie.

Born May 26, 1920     Died Mar. 15, 2005

Interred at Fort Snelling.

In Loving Memory by many.

Do. Be. Live. If you don’t move, you’ll rust.
abZorba Hunting - Camping - Fishing