Hunting Season at “The Branch”
As a kid, hunting season proved my favorite time of the year because that’s when The Long Branch was busiest. It was exciting to have the hotel full, to encounter groups of people on the stairs and in the halls. In the late afternoon, men loitered in hallways and leaned in open doorways, joking and laughing, sharing stories and comparing notes about their day’s hunt, their good-natured banter warming the drafty old hotel far better than its steam radiators. After showering and changing, these men made their way downstairs to the barroom, already busy with the happy hour crowd. The Rock-Ola blasted “Take This Job and Shove It,” and Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille,” a wood fire roared in the red-brick fireplace; a blue haze of cigarette smoke hung close to the ceiling; two-quarter stacks lined the rails of both pool tables; the cigarette machine clang-clunked with each pull of the lever; the front door opened and closed, open and closed with a squeak…whoosh, squeak…whoosh; people shouted, laughter boomed, bottles clanked, the telephone rang; boots clomped; billiard balls thwacked; air hockey pucks clacked; the foosball knocked and rolled; ice cubes crashed into the stainless-steel bin; chairs and barstools squeaked and scraped against the plywood floor, and I took it all in from the blue plastic seat of my Big Wheel.
November brought deer hunters to the hotel from all over the northeast, places like Boston, New Bedford, Tiverton and Philly. These men--iron workers and firefighters, meat cutters and contractors--arrived in groups of two to more than a half-dozen. Most were hunting season regulars at the hotel, returning year after year and staying for a week at a time. Before sunrise each morning, they made their way to the second-floor dining room for a breakfast of bacon or ham, eggs or omelets, home fries and toast. They poured coffee from the large stainless-steel urn and orange juice from the glass half-gallon bottle. They took their meals at long rectangular tables that looked north toward the railroad trestle and the lake. They sopped egg from their plates with bits of toast and drained their coffee cups, gazing out at the dark water that stretched toward the horizon like an inland sea.
After breakfast, many hunters filled their thermoses with coffee from the urn. Some men began their day feeling very tired, either from their barroom adventures or from the trains that passed in the night. The trains always proved popular breakfast conversation at Moosehead Lake Hotel. Few guests ever forgot the sensation of bolting waking to the rumble of diesel locomotives, their whistles blaring urgently, light from their headlamps blazing on the wall.
Before departing for the day, the hunters stopped by the kitchen to grab one of the boxed lunches my mother had prepared the night before, an Italian or deli meat sandwich on a bulky roll with a bag of chips and a can of Fanta soda. From the kitchen, they either exited the back door or returned through the dining room to the hallway and descended the weathered wooden stairs. Frost glistened on the handrails. The men’s exhalations shone like tiny bursts of fog in the early morning air, and their boots crunched against the frozen gravel as they crossed the parking lot for their pickups. Remote car starters were still uncommon then, and most hunters spent cold minutes waiting for windshields to defrost before departing for the Great North Woods in search of “Bambi,” as they liked to call their prey. The hunters usually returned to the hotel between four and six o’clock. They entered through the front door dressed in wool pants, black and red checkered coats and blaze orange hats and vests. They waved through the open barroom door to my dad. “How’d you make out?” he’d call to them, and they’d stop to report before heading upstairs. Those lucky enough to tag a deer had already dropped by our house and hung it in the garage. We often had to park both our F-100 and the Kharmann Ghia outdoors for all the bucks and does hanging from the rafters.
Around 7:00 pm, the hunters, bottles of beer or drinks in hand, made their way upstairs to the dining room for a homecooked meal that varied depending on the night of the week and my mother’s mood. Each November 13th, though, she made spaghetti (my favorite meal), in honor of my birthday. A school friend would come for dinner, Aunt Isabel would bake a cake, and with my family and all the hunters singing “Happy Birthday,” it seemed like the entire world had come together to celebrate my special day.
