When good friends die you grieve while rereading their bundled letters and scrolling through their archived emails, often finding deeper meaning in words you brushed past the first time.
You almost hear your friend saying: “Oh. So I had to die to finally get your full attention, huh?”
Well … maybe so.
I just wasn’t ready for Charlie Alsheimer of Bath, New York, to die Dec. 30, even though he was 70 and had been battling serious ailments in recent years. The thing is, Charlie had always prevailed, vanquishing one challenger and then beckoning the next. Heck, he even survived a head-on crash with a drunkard driving the wrong way on an Interstate highway a few years ago.
Unless you’re a deer hunter, you probably don’t know of Alsheimer. But you’ve probably seen his white-tailed deer photos on calendars, posters, magazine covers and coffee-table books the past 40 years. He was a standout photographer, prolific writer, gifted speaker and hardcore deer hunter.
Alsheimer spent endless hours in the deer woods, and poured those observations into books and magazine articles on hunting strategies and deer behavior. He wasn’t an academic or scientific researcher, but no one in North America spent more time the past 45 years watching and studying deer; and photographing, interpreting and documenting the action.
Charlie Alsheimer nuzzles a white-tailed fawn he encountered during a photo shoot in May 2017.
As his friend and fellow New York hunter Craig Dougherty said, Alsheimer was deer hunting’s version of Jane Goodall, the famous primatologist who lived for years among Tanzania’s wild chimpanzees to learn and document their diet, habits, capabilities and social structure.
Some of us also considered Alsheimer the creative core of Deer & Deer Hunting magazine, a national title that was born and based in Appleton, Wisconsin, from 1977 through 1991 before moving to Iola, Wisconsin, in 1992. Alsheimer was D&DH’s most loyal and longest-serving field editor.
Alsheimer traveled nonstop around the country to discuss deer, wildlife and wild places during seminars and multimedia presentations at banquets, fundraisers and church events. He sometimes gave four talks a week, and regularly made 60 presentations annually across whitetail country.
Alsheimer was also religious, but didn’t make sure you knew it. He often shared whitetail insights one night in a rural hall and, when invited, widened his lens the next night to show God’s handiwork in nature. As Alsheimer packed his minivan with posters, pictures and projectors, Dougherty often called to ask, “What are you doing tonight, killing deer or saving sinners?”
And no matter how far he traveled or how long he went without sleep, Alsheimer made his audiences and well-wishers feel like kin. Those who followed his career were never surprised by his popularity.
When Deer & Deer Hunting magazine surveyed its readers in 2000 to determine the most influential deer hunters of the previous century, it listed 57 writers, scientists, celebrities, politicians, manufacturers and famous hunters to choose from. Alsheimer finished third behind legendary bowhunter Fred Bear and conservation icon Aldo Leopold. Next in line were President Theodore Roosevelt and camouflage designer/manufacturer Bill Jordan.
Charlie Alsheimer shot most of these bucks on his family’s 200-acre farm in western New York state.
Not bad for a guy who grew up on a potato farm and survived the Vietnam War while serving in the U.S. Air Force from 1967 through 1970. After returning home for college, and then spending seven years in the sales and marketing world, Alsheimer became a full-time outdoor writer and freelance photographer in 1979.
Few folks last four months, let alone four decades, when making such career moves, but Alsheimer never wanted for work, and always insisted on doing things right. A September 2015 photo shows him with the mounts of big bucks he killed on his 200-acre farm and faraway Northern forests. In an accompanying email, he wrote: “None were killed in pens, though some were harvested with wind chills below zero and wolves howling in the distance.”
And then, perhaps curiously, Alsheimer ended that note by writing, “Yes, it has been a very good life.”
The week before Christmas in 2015, he sent friends a beautiful photo of a buck in snow, along with a family update. He gave thanks that he, his wife, Carla, and son, Aaron, were in good health, writing: “We continue to manage our farm for wildlife, which reaps huge rewards. It not only provides us with great protein, but also wonderful photo opportunities. Yes, life has been good.”
Life wasn’t so good in late 2016. Alsheimer had two surgeries to clear a 95 percent blockage in his right carotid artery and an 85 percent blockage in his left carotid. “My doc said I was a stroke waiting to happen,” he emailed. “I mention this to encourage you to know your family history, and what that genetic code might be doing inside your body. Cherish every day because life is short.”
Three months later, Alsheimer sent a photo taken years before that showed him napping beside a fawn he found while photographing in late spring. That February 2017 email read: “It’s been a great life. Even my naps in the woods have been special.”
Charlie Alsheimer takes a cat-nap beside a newborn fawn.
In April 2017 he celebrated his 45th wedding anniversary by emailing two photos of him with Carla, one from their wedding and the other of them today. He wrote: “Yes, it has been a special journey, one I never envisioned 45 years ago. I’ve been blessed beyond measure.”
In May 2017, another fawn photo arrived, this one showing Alsheimer nuzzling a newborn whitetail. His email read: “Spring is special, especially when the first fawns take their first steps. Enjoy the season!”
My final email and photo from Alsheimer arrived Dec. 14, 2017, the day after he used a muzzleloading rifle to shoot a giant 9-point buck on his farm. He killed that buck with 10 minutes of shooting light remaining, after 26 straight days of gun-hunting.
Charlie Alsheimer poses with his final white-tailed buck, which he shot Dec. 13 on his farm near Bath, New York.
Again, his note ended with gratitude: “I fired and it was over, adding to the myriad memories whitetails have given me over my 40-plus-year career in the outdoors.”
Sixteen days later, Charlie Alsheimer was gone just as suddenly.
His memories, however, remain in the words and photos of eight books, hundreds of articles, and thousands of digital images and 35-mm slides — all celebrating a life well-spent.
