1-1½ lbs. venison round steak
cut into thin ropes, d” thick

2 cloves garlic
1 tsp. coriander
3 Tbs. diced yellow onion
1 Tbs. brown sugar
2 Tbs. light soy sauce
Dash Tabasco
2 Tbs. lemon juice
3 Tbs. dry sherry

People are getting more adventurous when it comes to eating venison. In addition to the traditional roasts and pan-fried recipes, venison is working its way into all kinds of regional dishes. Today, we’re going for an oriental touch in a simple yet exotic dish using delicious Missouri venison.

Combine garlic, light soy sauce, coriander, tabasco, diced yellow onion, lemon juice, brown sugar, and dry sherry
In a glass bowl & mix well. Cut venison round steak into thin ropes, add it to the marinade and refrigerate at least one hour.
While the meat is marinating, we’ll make the peanut sauce. Sauté diced yellow onions in butter. Add brown sugar, lemon juice, soy sauce, tabasco and chopped dry roasted peanuts and warm it through.
Remove meat from marinade and thread pieces in an shape on bamboo or stainless steel skewers. Place on a broiler pan and broil 4 to 5 inches from the source of the heat. When the top side is well-browned, turn the skewers. Top with peanut sauce and serve immediately.

Add chopsticks and a fortune cookie provide an additional oriental touch but most of your guests will already feel lucky just to experience this unusual venison dish.

I was in surgery around midnight that night to rebuild the shattered bones. To this day I have 5 pins in my ankle and I can feel the weather change about a day ahead of time.

I truly am lucky and I believe me, I NEVER go into the woods alone without telling someone where I’m going and when I’ll be back!!!!!
Anyway, I leaned the ladder/platform against a likely looking tree and tested it. There was a branch in the way which needed trimming, so I grabbed my machete and climbed the ladder. When my head was just above the platform (12′ off the ground) the whole thing shifted and began to fall. I tried to jump clear but my boot got caught in one of the ladder rungs. When I hit the ground I felt a dull sensation in my right ankle. I looked down to see my foot bent at a perfect 90 degree angle to the right. yep, a real bad break.

I was a mile from my truck, no cell phone, no one knew I was there and it was cold and a freezing rain was just beginning. I had no choice so I began to crawl out on my hands and knees keeping my right leg bent with the foot suspended. Every time I moved the leg forward, the boot bobbed up and down and the pain seared through me.

The crawl took 4 1/2 hours to get back to the truck, another 20 minutes drive out of the swamp on an old logging road and then about 30 minutes back to town (all driving with the left foot)

Needless to say by the time I got to the hospital I was hypothermic and shocky. I also had a foot-long cut on my back from the machete from when I fell.

By Fred Wahls

At first, everything went well; the coals started to flame slowly. Minutes later the flames were getting a little high out of the rim of the can I had placed on a log in my ground stand. I became concerned the flames may cause the log to start on fire. So with my heavy gloves I lowered the inferno to the ground. That was enough to really get things going and the flames shot out like a blow torch three feet into the air with sparks flying everywhere! I was now worried. I quickly got out of the stand in search of some snow but I could only find a handful or two. Each handful caused a steam cloud to belch into the air with a loud hissing sound. The flames kept growing …I needed some water but none around. I was desperate to find a way to dowse the flames when I realized the only way out was to use my own biological fire hose.

With a full load of back pressure, I positioned the hose with tender care; not to get too close to start a wiener roast but close enough to do the job. Acres away the steam could be seen rising in a mushroom cloud formation. Fire under control. I heard the hooves of frightened deer bound out of the swamp from the down-wind side of the meltdown. It took years before another deer came close to that spot. My friends at camp saw the mushroom cloud 40 acres away. Needless to say, I didn’t see any deer that morning and have never used the homemade warmer again. It wasn’t a good idea after all.

This really happened to me!
(Name withheld for obvious reasons.)

I bend closer to the wall to see the detail in the old photograph and to listen closely to the long-since silenced whispers of the fisherman passed. Antionetti explains, “This was taken nearly fifty years ago right here. That’s my Dad and my Grandfather. I’m sure you’ve caught larger trout, but back then we could catch a stringer like that on nearly any stretch of the Net River.”

It was upon hallowed ground that I was identified as the Troutmaster.

Through the door to camp from the black and cold of the November hunting night, came one neighbor after another. Neighbors considered friends by the Antionetti host; neighbors considered brethren by their only qualification as eager companions to share in the rite of the Antionetti deer-feed. Neighbors from Iron Mountain. Neighbors from Negaunee and Marquette. Neighbors, as we, from Menominee. The neighborhood of Nine Miles South of the Baraga County Line was vast. Neighbors had to visit from away – far away.

“We understand you keep the fly rod in the trunk of your car and stop at the creeks between appointments? Everyone says the Troutmaster is a salesman who travels the U.P., but we expected you to be a bit older. What was your biggest brookie? I bet 15 or 16 inches? A 17-incher maybe. Bigger? Oh, of course you don’t want to brag, but let me ask, was it bigger than the one on the wall?”

No time to reply, only to extend my hand with introduction as one new neighbor after another approaches with an accompanying pronouncement from host to each that I am the Troutmaster. Purposefully, by host and audience, I am not allowed time to reply – the downbeat of interruption metered perfectly to deny my response. I am here to entertain. I see the glow on each neighbor’s face as they are introduced to the Troutmaster like that of a child on Christmas Eve. A legend in life to be enjoyed by all in attendance – a once-in-a-lifetime camp treat.

“I bet you’ve fished every creek in the U.P. haven’t you? I remember talking to one of my buddies a few years back who told me stories of the Troutmaster, but I never expected to meet you. You been hunting up this way long? We didn’t know the Troutmaster was a deer hunter but we should have expected it.  Let me get you some more venison and a beer.”

Look around. Camp table from 1930, built by Grandpa Antionetti. Woodstove salvaged from an old C.C.C. camp and cared for through generations. How many deer-feeds have been served from it? Only north-wood’s time can yellow the pine beam rafters long ago cut, dragged and sawn on site. The pleasing gleam of varnish applied when host Antionetti helped his father one long-ago weekend, “spruce-up the place a little”. The sad picture, clinging to the knotty-pine wall like a fisherman to his last good dry fly, taken of a contented Dad Antionetti with stringer of trout and pipe in hand just a week before the ticker ran down.

Am I to deny the existence of Troutmaster? Could I steal story, fantasy, hope and lore from the lovers of the outdoor and the keepers of dreams?No, not I. 
Not the Troutmaster.