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Grandfather Dunathan made a living trapping in the Tequamenon River (Upper Michigan) basin. His possibles bag carried trap baits and a whistle for his dog.
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Father and I used Grandpa’s bag for Thermos, food, and small necessities.
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Palm sized bullet bag has served as my possibles carrier for more than a half century.
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Even as a youngster, I knew something was not quite right about a man who carried a purse. But when Dad and I hunted, it bothered me not at all that he hung from his shoulder a possibles bag.
It was in fact a shotshell bag (the flap says “100 SHELLS”) grandfather used to carry coyote and wolf trap baits. When my father inherited it, he tried to wash out the bloodstains; they stayed; the straps got stiff.
I remember the contents: a well worn jack knife, a wad of string, a cardboard wrapped bottle of iodine, paraffin dipped kitchen matches stuffed into an empty cartridge case, a brass compass with US on the lid, a small flat tin of aspirin, Black Jack chewing gum, and a referee’s whistle.
The remainder was given up to a pint vacuum bottle and food: usually wax paper wrapped sandwiches – peanut butter and jam for me, liverwurst and onion for Dad. And always a candy bar. Half for me; half for him.
In time, the bag came to me. I wore it only once when a couple of college mates invited me on a pheasant hunt.
How ridiculous I must have looked, the northwoods bumpkin with his ancient bag bouncing against his hip, snagging brush and corn stalks as we marched fence row and field.
We broke for lunch at the car. They dined on deli sandwiches, potato chips and frosted apple squares washed down with Carling’s Black Label in long necked bottles.
I ate sardines in mustard, rye bread, a Baby Ruth and drank from my Thermos black coffee tasting vaguely of old cork stopper.
It was not my kind of hunting. Dad and I were free roamers. Whether it was mushrooms in May, trout in June, bass in July, blueberries in August, grouse in September, ducks in October, deer in November, or rabbits in winter, we seldom knew where midday would find us; only that we would eat lunch and hunt our way out by dark. Each day was one of endless possibilities and the possibles bag went with us.
It was a time too good to last. My generation, I learned, would prefer smaller more familiar spaces with cars, camps, and convenience stores close at hand. No need to carry food and drink.
So the old family shot shell, trap bait, lunch and possibles bag went to a nail in the garage and I downsized to a poke – a pocket-sized stash of bare necessities hedged against events that would certainly happen, but at an uncertain time. That is the definition of possibles.
There is no way to say what ought to be in a possibles bag. Common sense dictates a few starters. Experience takes care of the rest: adding some, deleting others until the contents become as peculiar as their owner.
I knew a hunter who carried a gun but never shot it. Instead, with the plaster of Paris, brushes, and water bottle in his bag he made castings of animal tracks and proudly displayed them on his desk and window sills. Why the gun? He didn’t want people to think he was a cuckoo.
I’ve always carried salt: makes any edible tastier, replaces what perspiration loses, and is an effective healing aid.
Years ago, I shot a goose who fell in an adjacent field, bounced hard, then got up and walked away. Running after, I crossed the downed fence, snagged barbed wire hidden in the grass, tore a gash through my boot and into my ankle. By the time I retrieved the bird I had a sock full of blood.
In the blind, I mixed a half-cup of coffee with a dose of salt, rinsed the wound, wrapped it in my handkerchief, rolled on the stocking, slipped on the boot and stayed the day. At home, cleaned up, the cut was already healing and within a few days was good as new. Dozens of nicks and picks have fared the same.
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Contents have evolved over the years.* Corn cob pipe is homemade.
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I also carry peppercorns. The toughest thing for me to do in a turkey, deer, or waterfowl blind is stay awake. Chewing one of those black little devils pinks me up every time.
One miserable wintry morning as I set decoys in the dark my pipe fell unnoticed into the water. Later, reaching for the comfort of Prince Albert, I found him; but nothing to smoke him with. To this day there is an extra bowl and stem in my poke.
I carry needle and thread for repairs, but don’t know if I could use it to mend myself. There’s a man famous in these parts for doing that – his chain saw bit him; stitched himself back together and drove 120 miles to the VA hospital to get a transfusion. Once a Marine, always a Marine. I’m old Navy.
Late one deer season afternoon, determined to catch the last bit of shooting light, I rushed from work to woods, changed clothes by the car, unzipped my case and loaded my 30-30 — or tried to. The ammunition was home, forgotten on the porch.
Nothing to do but flag down any car that came down the old road. The first waved back and went on. The next two stopped but were armed with 308s, 30-06s, and 270s — no 30 WCFs. Remarked one comedian, "My grandpa has some. Nobody shoots them anymore."
Salvation was a Department of Natural resources officer (baseball cap, combat boots, auto pistol and all). Said he had arrested a violator last week and had his shells in the glove compartment. They were 30-30s; he gave them to me; wished me luck; didn’t even check my license.
Guess he figured a guy who wasn’t legal, even one fool enough to forget his ammunition, wouldn’t be fool enough to flag down a Conservation officer.
I now carry an extra cartridge in my poke.
Four seasons ago I made a poor shot at a good buck. By the time I tracked him down I was in unfamiliar territory and had to use my compass to find a way out. I since carry 10 feet of blaze orange ribbon for back tracking.
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Almost any small bag can carry possibles. Maltster’s bag, front, is easily made from a dinner plate sized circle of lightweight leather.
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My poke has been a partner in my outings, for over 50 years: tucked in a hunting bag for duck and goose season, in a jacket pocket for turkey and deer, in my shirt pocket for grouse or foraging. Its familiar feel is as reassuring as an old friend who agrees with everything I say and stands by me when I’m wrong.
Any small bag will serve. Cloth is OK, leather is better; deerskin is best. Whether you buy one, adapt one, or make one yourself, keep it small enough to go easily in a pocket and light enough to be no burden. Then make it a constant companion.
But whatever you do, don’t use a ziplock plastic bag. Why not? For the same reason you shouldn’t carry a purse.
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Above is an ad that appeared in the 1905 Marble's catalog. Click image to enlarge.
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*THINGS I CARRY
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THINGS I NO LONGER CARRY
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Item
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Reasons Why
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Item
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Reasons Why Not
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Whistle
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Because Grandpa carried it
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Aspirin
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Hurts my stomach
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Whet stone, piece of
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Knife sharpener.
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Duct tape
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Messy
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Dice
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Passes time
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Candle stub
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Wax paper is better
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Jack knife
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Indispensable
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Butane lighter
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Unreliable
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Blaze ribbon, 10 feet
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Back tracking
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Compass
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Jack knife demagnetizes
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Extra cartridge
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Obvious
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Money
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Always spent it
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Pipe bowl and stem
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Obvious
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Candy
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Always ate it
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Needle and thread
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Repair stuff/self
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Rolaids
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Don’t need
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Magnifying glass
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Fun to have
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Bandaids
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Useless
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St. Peregrine medal
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Patron Saint of wanderers
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Fish hook and line
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Dumb idea
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Salt
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Spice, tonic, healing
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Pencil stub
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To write what?
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Peppercorns
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Spice, good wake-up chew
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Safety pin
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Used it/should replace |
Wax paper
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Fire starter
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Safety matches/ striker
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Obvious
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Rubber band
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Handy
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© 2008 Arni Dunathan
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