The legend of ARGO

To appreciate the legend of ARGO, I need to tell you another story or two, to set the stage. Slide that footstool in front of your favorite chair and get comfortable while I begin this rather winding tale of events.

This all started when I e-mailed a copy of a bear-hunting story I had been involved with about 10 years before to my friend Paul in New Hampshire. Another friend and I were hunting off my boat, the ARGO III, in Prince William Sound, and had encounters with killer whales, icebergs and bent propellers, but that's another story altogether.

Anyway, Paul asked why the name ARGO was up to the third edition -- had I owned two previous boats with the root name ARGO or what? I explained that I had named the boat in my father's memory. He had passed away shortly after my wife and I finished installing a cabin on the hull of the boat, upgrading it from an open skiff to what looked like a miniature commercial purse seiner in silhouette. Since I figured we would use the boat for deer-hunting access, among other things where we were living, the name commemorated and continued that of my father's deer-hunting camp back in Michigan.

My wife and I were at Kitoi Bay, on Afognak Island just north of Kodiak, at this time. The portion of the island where we lived was a Sitka black-tailed deer-hunting mecca during our resident years. My father had hunted white-tailed deer his whole life back in Michigan. He had introduced me to the outdoors through hunting trips for small game and, ultimately, the wily and elusive whitetail as I was growing up.

After I had moved out of my parents' home to attend college and begin life on my own, I was able to accompany my dad twice during the mid-1970s on hunting trips to his deer camp in the Upper Peninsula. Dad and his two hunting partners of 35 years, Max Dietz and Marv Holler, had established this particular camp, the second one since they had started hunting together, probably 10 years before I first saw it on these hunting trips with my father.

The camp was located on a private parcel of land Max and my dad had purchased in the middle of a state forest. The trailer that served as the main camp building was situated maybe 20 yards off an old abandoned, overgrown runway that had been used during World War II as a refueling stop for airplanes being shuttled to Russia to help the war effort against Nazi Germany. The guys had created a cutout wooden sign that hung off a birch tree near the trailer's front door with the camp name: ARGO II.

During my second hunting trip to the camp, I curiously asked where the guys had come up with the name ARGO and why the II. That's when my dad began the history lesson.

According to my father, the guys had originally established a tent camp for deer hunting near Baldwin, Mich., probably 25 years before. They had gone there for many years, setting up the big "circus tent" in the same spot and hunting the surrounding area. It was a common practice in those days for groups of Michigan hunters to establish a campsite in a specific location and return to that same campsite year after year to hunt. The regulars from each camp got to know who belonged to which camps in the area and where each group of hunters tended to hunt.

The Michigan deer season historically opened on Nov. 15 and usually closed the Saturday evening after the Thanksgiving holiday.

The main thing I hadn't known before was that the guys had named that first tent camp, calling it ARGO. I thought the name had some tie to a lake or something near the original site of the camp, but when I asked my father about the origin of the name, he was reluctant to elaborate.

The following morning, when we all met back at camp for a coffee break, Max brought up the topic of the camp name and said he would explain everything to me if my dad didn't object. I saw my father give him a relieved go-ahead nod, and this is the story I was told.

The guys used to enjoy listening to the local Baldwin radio station in the evenings at their tent camp or during the day if they were in camp.

The station usually aired a live "man-on-the-street" interview each Saturday, where passers-by were asked their opinions about the news of the day or who would win the big football game or some local event. The announcer was trying to ask something that would evoke a response from folks walking by.

One Saturday, the town drunk wandered by as the announcer started the live interviews. Apparently, "Mr. Inebriated" could barely walk and his speech was badly slurred, but he was bound and determined to have his say on the air. Every time the announcer would approach someone walking by to ask a question, the drunk would follow and loudly voice his thoughts, generally using less than FCC-approved vocabulary in the process.

The radio guys were having a fit attempting to avoid the drunk and keep his "language" off the live broadcast while still trying to do interviews. After about a half-hour of trying to dodge the drunk, the announcer realized the only way to get rid of him was to interview him, just like any other passing person and let him have his say, trusting that the sound engineer would have his finger on the "bleep" button if the drunk got too colorful.

Max told me the announcer had explained this strategy to the listening audience just before going to a commercial break. After the live broadcast resumed, the "gentleman" staggered up to the microphone and the announcer went through his whole routine and asked the drunk the question of the day. The drunk hesitated momentarily and then answered in a loud, slurred voice: "Ahrg, go &$#% @$&%#%$@," and staggered off, quite pleased with his answer to the question.

This exchange was broadcast live in its uncensored entirety because the sound engineer wasn't ready. The "bleep" button was untouched. The announcer was mortified and immediately began to apologize profusely over the air for this serious breach of FCC etiquette.

Max said the guys had been sitting around in the tent and playing cards while getting dinner ready. They had the radio on and were listening to the interviews and exchanges between the radio crew and the drunk. The guys were all speculating about what would happen next. When the fateful phrase was uttered, they all just "lost it" and, according to Max, literally fell laughing to the tent floor.

The catch phrase for the deer camp that season became -- you guessed it. When talk of a name for the camp came up sometime later, somebody threw out the catch phrase and somebody else took the "Argh, go…" and combined it into the ARGO, and the rest, as they say, is history.

At the time Max told me this story, I was still a bit na•ve. But even I could smell a set-up and I accused Max of having done just that to me while telling this tale. My dad and Marv both immediately came to Max's defense and said the story was true. That's how the origin of the ARGO camp name came into being. Or, at least, that was their story and they were sticking to it!

I still chuckle whenever I think about that morning because, if Max was pulling my leg, he should have gotten an Academy Award for his performance. My father and Marv would have tied for best supporting Oscar in the voting, too.

I recently asked my mother if she had ever heard this story. She replied that, while her memory was a bit foggy since the occurrences happened more than 50 years ago, she still had a vague recollection of my father telling her about the interview with the drunk and how the guys had used the now legendary phrase to name their tent camp.

What can I say? With that as background, I have to assume the story is true and the name is legitimate. Even if the events happened exactly as detailed here and were not made up, the story still seems almost too good to be true. I guess that's why it's known as the legend of ARGO.