Blue wings and hearing loss

It’s barely 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning and my brother has already downed five ducks – one more and he’ll have reached his legal limit. We’re in the middle of a shallow, muddy lake, floating aboard a small hunting skiff anchored some 300 yards from shore. My brother stands near the front of the skiff and holds a loaded 20-gauge shotgun in his hands; a menthol cigarette juts out from his face like a tailpipe. I crouch near the back, silently watching the sunrise and savoring the complete absence of noise, people and $12 hipster brunches. Water and empty sky surround us on all sides; distant gun blasts roll through the morning air and I start to imagine we’re the last people on Earth.

It’s only a matter of minutes before my brother spies his final feathered target: a low-flying mallard. I watch the barrel of his gun as it follows the unfortunate bird across the water, over a clutch of faraway cattails, past our insidious army of decoys (carefully laid out in the cover of darkness over two hours ago), and now, quite suddenly, directly above my head. Without warning, he fires, and my left ear – only inches away from his gun – explodes. The ex-duck has barely hit the water before I realize something has gone very, very wrong. For the next three days, my right ear will be in constant pain and my left will be as good as dead. No sound. No ringing. Nothing.

The Blue Wing Hunting Club lays on the southern shore of Rush Lake, just shy of a hundred miles northwest of Milwaukee and a ten minutes drive from the nearest town of Ripon (Birthplace of the Republican Party!). I arrive with my father on a Friday afternoon, a guest of the private club where both he and my grandfather are members. My younger brother is next in line for membership, my name having been passed over some years before when it became clear that my pre-teen self preferred staying indoors and reading shitty Dragon Lance novels to freezing his nuts off in a fucking tree stand. The reason for tagging along now? I feel it’ll make for a good column – fitting in nicely with my new “Christ, I’m Really Sick of Writing About the Same Three Milwaukee Bands, So How ‘Bout I Get Drunk and Get the Hell Out of Town” angle – and, well, I enjoy spending time with my family.

(Before we go any further, some clarification: while many of you may have a problem with hunting, I do not – the killing of animals for food, sport and population control does not offend me. Nor do I have a problem with most of the hunters I’ve come across; my father and brother, for instance, vote Democrat, distrust the NRA and – just like us – believe Ted Nugent to be a complete and utter douche.)

The Blue Wing cabin itself is a thing of beauty: metal school lockers – each one containing a wide assortment of firearms, ammunition and camouflage gear – line the walls; an impressive regiment of retired La-Z-Boys (dubbed “Stud Row” by my brother) stands near the porch; eight bunk beds (16 beds in all!) dominate the long, narrow sleeping quarters. Throughout, black and white photos of former members and long-ago excursions hang next to yellowing signs that say things like “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink!” and “A bad day of hunting is still better than a good day of work!”

We spend the evening setting up blinds, playing cards, shaking dice and drinking our fair share of Busch Light. My father and brother are old hats – both are at the cabin nearly every weekend during hunting season. My presence, on the other hand, is something of an anomaly, though appreciated nonetheless: at one point, my father – apropos of nothing – simply says, “God, this is fun!” He’s right – we are having fun. True, I’ll be partially deaf by tomorrow afternoon and already contemplating what color hearing aid would best give off that certain “I’m a wounded, damaged soul; please have sex with me” vibe. But all of that lies in the future. For now, I’m safe within the warmth of cabin and family, finishing my drink and getting ready for bed – a 4 a.m. wakeup call looming like a threat.

“Which bunk should I sleep in?” I ask my dad.

“I’ll take your grandpa’s,” he replies. “You can have mine.”

Little more is said as we take our places and kill the lights. We each sleep in our fathers’ beds.

Less than three weeks after this issue goes to print, I will be 30 years old. It’s an age both alarming and comforting, loaded and meaningless. I approach it as one would approach a stranger on the street: hesitant, guarded, hopeful.

By the time my father was 30, he was married with three children and had already made a decade’s worth of payments on the only house my family will likely ever know. It’s always been easy to spot our differences, though lately I find it just as easy to identify the things we share: a singular sense of humor, an improbable flair for showmanship, an unspoken shorthand that can only exist between a father and son.

So for what it’s worth, I’m dedicating this column to you, Dad. On the eve of my 30th year, I’d like you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, everything you’ve given me. People always say we memorialize the ones we love when it’s too late. Here’s hoping I don’t make that mistake. VS

Matt Wild still enjoys reading shitty Dragon Lance novels. His ear is much better now, thank you.