"From the Alders" cropped from the original watercolor
OSSWASSO IKE was a whitetail buck. In the hollow below our barn, at the end of the two track lane, there’s an old homestead turned hunting camp. Prior to that it was inhabited by the hermit Mark Poore--ninety three years old when I came to know him-- and getting by without running water, electricity, phone or central heat. When I was a kid, I’d visit and listen to his tales of the old days. But that’s a story to be told another time. When he was gone and the homestead sold to the hunters, I’d continue to visit when the men were there, listening to their tales. They had formed a hunting club called “Osswasso.” The tale that enthralled me most was of a trophy-class whitetail that inhabited the glen, showing itself at inopportune times prior to the opening of the big game season and becoming scarce thereafter. They called him Osswasso Ike and through the years his existence became more myth than fact until someone would stumble upon a huge buck in the hemlock swamp or in thick cover along the brook. It was always old Ike they saw and the encounters would fan the flame of his legend and feed the fire of their desire to “get a pop at him.”
Likewise my desire grew the more I sat among them and heard their stories. Thirteen and impressionable, I relished those visitations when I was “the kid” and welcome to come around and listen to the talk about hunting, firearms, politics, woods lore and more. There was no censorship from off-colored jokes nor was there a lack of advice for winning the ways of the fairer sex. I figured I was lucky to be a step ahead of my contemporaries in the knowledge I’d gleaned from this group of learned men, some of them old enough to be my grandfather. Only later did I learn of the importance of field research and hands-on experience--in all aspects of their teaching.
My close friend and grouse hunting buddy, Wayne, and I hoped to get a look at him whenever we were in the coverts. As young teenagers out small game hunting, we jumped a fair share of deer and once or twice caught a glimpse of large antlers. In that way we were able to perpetuate the myth. And it was Ike we hunted for when we first entered the woods as deer hunters. It was my resolve to show those old codgers who the hunter was among them. I ignored the lesser bucks that came my way, always holding out for the big guy I was certain would show himself. College intervened and then the call to armed service came for Wayne and me, and we were yet to bring home the venison.
Things had changed within me after I returned years later after my military discharge; although the traditions of the season still inspired me, the desire had diminished. I continued to take a pass on any deer that came within range, more out of inner conflict than with a need to sustain an old quest to harvest a “wall hanger.” I told myself that progeny of Ike roamed these woods and that if I got the chance at one of them, I should take it. All the while, deer seasons came and went; old hunting friends moved away or were taken away. It just wasn’t the same anymore.
Nevertheless I believe I came across Osswasso Ike or rather, the essence of what he was to the Osswasso gang--all gone now--one autumn day while grouse hunting. I was stalking the brook in the hollow, downstream and within sight of the neglected Osswasso house. A grouse flushed and dove into a patch of alders on the opposite stream bank, offering me no shot but a vivid image of a large antlered buck disturbed there from his bed. The scene was one of a lasting impression and inspired me to create the painting, “From the Alders,” a portion of which is shown to illustrate this story.
I like the fact that there was a big deer lying close to the old house that day, that I was near him when he rose from the bushes and fled. It’s consoling to be a witness to perpetuity, even as the house continues its slow but sure collapse upon itself and the likes of Ike and the Osswasso gang have been confined to memory.
