the chanterelles

Spending time with my family is never dull. And it often proves interesting.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran down to the coast to visit my folks. Two of my brothers (the twins) were also visiting, for the start of deer hunting season. Slow, sweet days with my mother while the boys hiked over the pass were golden… And the days went by too quickly.

And I’m reminded again, of the cultural divide that exists within my sprawling family. On the one hand, we have the hunter-gatherers, fishermen and hunters who ooh and ah over new gun purchases, think McCain would have been our salvation, eat red meat and often work in dangerous or semi-dangerous occupations.

I am endlessly fascinated by them and forever asking questions:

“Bears? What kind of bears do you see up there?”

“Dead ones.” Because when you come face to face with a bear or a cougar and the animal isn’t running away from you, self-preservation quickly takes over.

“Why are there so many cougars here?”

“You can thank PETA for that.” According to my brother, the animal rights organization put a stop to the apparently abhorrent but time-honored tradition of hunting with dogs some years ago. Since then, the cougar population in Oregon has exploded ten times over.

But cougars still fear many types of dogs.

One day in the woods, my brother saw a cougar in a low clearing and for a joke went running down the hill, barking and baying like a bloodhound. Once at the bottom he looked around and realized, he could no longer see the cougar.

And not in the good way.

The same brother once stumbled in the snow and found himself kicking at air, with only his shoulders above ground.

That’s one way to find a bear’s den.

A hunter’s stories never cease to amaze me, and my dad and my brothers have many. I press and press for more detail, as much for myself as for my friends, who like me, live vicariously through their tales. They look like city-bred woodsmen, sagely nodding their agreement while I spin my family’s many tales in back-lit barrooms over icy gin martinis.

And then there are my other family members. A brother in tailored suits who isn’t too masculine for the occasional manicure (though the time he got home and realized they had used clear nail polish was “a little much.”) Brothers and sisters who refuse to wear fur, vote Democrat and work as engineers, executives and, a writer.

I even have my own (little) hunting story to tell. Once, when my friend Ann was visiting, my dad drove us up the pass so we could see where they hunt. We trundled up the mountain in his pick-up truck, the road becoming more winding and narrow as our elevation increased. Upon reaching the summit, we found a beautiful view of the valley. A photo opportunity.

I hopped out of the truck, barely glancing at the tall hedges on the other side of the eight-foot wide road. Happily snapping photos, I paused to consider a different angle… And heard a long, low growl from the hedge on the other side of the road. I jumped back in the truck, slamming the door and rolling up the window.

“What???” I told them what I heard and my dad sloughed it off in attempt to calm us down: It was probably a dog.

A dog? Three miles up from the rest of the civilized world? Are you kidding me?

Later, I relayed the story to my sister, who asked me what time we’d gone up the pass. Oh, it was around 5:30.

Ah, she smiled.

Dinnertime.

It makes for interesting family get-togethers. I really don’t know how we all manage to get along. It hasn’t always been easy. I think truly, we support each other, we’re interested in each other and above all, we make an effort.

The fellows didn’t have any luck this time around. Weather that’s far too warm and sunny for the beach at the end of October quickly put an end to any of their buck dreams. Dry leaves crackling underfoot and snapping branches meant that there was no chance of bagging a deer. Instead, they happened upon green glades overflowing with mushrooms.

So they picked Chanterelles instead.