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He was a tough man, full of vim
and vigor, and capable of dragging a downed deer 200 yards through the toughest
swamp. He had turned sixty-four this past spring and his hair was gray but
the arms were still knotted in muscle and he carried the heavy Browning Magnum
like it was a matchstick all day long. He cherished the out of
doors. Nothing stirred his blood like deer driving in the Carolina low
country and listening to the sound of the coursing hounds in pursuit of a
whitetail deer.He had the uncanny knack of knowing where the deer would run
most of the time and his skill at intercepting them was almost
legendary.
Deer hunting was the ultimate
big-game challenge back then. Each morning before a hunt, the members of his
club would gather at a local restaurant and wolf down huge platters of white
gravy, grits, speckledy eggs, bacon, sausage and biscuits. Plans for the day’s
hunting were made; details of each dog drive were laid out with military
precision, and the local gossip and high school football game scores were
bandied about the room. Usually a local minister called the room to
order and gave thanks for their well being and the sumptuous breakfast that
they had just shared, and asked the Lord to watch over them during the day’s
activities.
Afterward they formed a caravan
of trucks, passing through the sleeping town in the morning darkness, and drove
to their hunting club. Some of the members would have already scouted the
road for the freshest sign left by crossing deer and marked these for the dog
handlers. The President of the club would appoint several men to carry the
standers to their positions within the confines of the designated area to be
driven for game that morning. Each stander would be responsible for several
hundred yards of road or firelane within his assigned spot and he would remain
there until lunch or the trucks returned to take the standers to another area.
As soon as all the standers were
in position, the dog handlers would lead their packs of hounds into the forest
at the marked spots. They would begin to whoop and to call their
hounds. You could hear them for several miles, clapping their hands and
calling “Whuppeeoooooooo, you dog, whupeeoooooo." Smart standers were alert to the
possibility of wily old bucks sneaking out of the drive and they stood ready,
hidden behind trees and brush, waiting for the shot, still, quite, anticipating
the appearance of the deer…and then the trail dog of the pack would cry a long
wailing bark and in moments the entire pack would be at full cry, crashing
through the swamp, barking, in pursuit of the deer that they had forced,
jumped, out of its bed.
The excitement was intense and
this man, this graying hunter of sixty-four years lived for it. His
Browning shotgun carried the counting notches for each deer that he had taken
completely around the horn buttplate of the stock.
He was a rifleman and a
shotgunner. He didn’t have much use for a handgun; he knew how to
use one, just never had much of a need for one. But that summer was dry
and the pinewoods thickets and the swamps were working alive with snakes. Water
Moccasins and Timber Rattlers, more than enough to go around, were common this
year. So he purchased a pistol, a Browning Nomad .22, with a finely tapered
barrel and a light trigger. The handgun was lightweight, well balanced,
and carried enough firepower in its ten round magazine to dispatch the most
aggressive serpent.
I guess that he had seen
pictures or maybe a movie of British soldiers or Canadian Mounties wearing
sidearms with a lanyard attached to the butt of their sidearm. Maybe something
like in the movie “Zulu" or “Mounties are Us" or something like that. He
hadn’t found a holster when he acquired the pistol, so for the first morning,
he planned to put it in his pants pocket. Fearing losing the firearm in
the swamps, he fashioned a lanyard from a rawhide piggin string and tied it
through the trigger guard and looped the other end around his neck. So,
with the handgun nestled securely in his right hip pocket, spare dog leash
strung from his belt, hunting horn swung around his neck and hanging under his
arm on the left side, shell vest on, and his trouser cuffs stuffed into the
tops of his Northwoods lumberjack boots, and the long Browning shotgun tucked
under his right arm, he deemed himself fit in appearance and ready for the day.
He took a nice buck that morning
on the first drive, and during lunch, while the younger men hung and cleaned
the morning’s harvest, he and a few others tried out the little Browning
pistol. After their impromptu shooting match, he reloaded the firearm, set
the safety, and placed the gun back into his pocket and made ready for the
afternoon hunt.
I had just let him out on the
old rice dike stand and parked the pickup several hundred yards up the road at
the Washhand ditch. I was walking to my stand when I heard the muffled
pistol shot. I stopped, puzzled, and looked toward his area, listening,
waiting… "That’s odd," I thought, “That’s not like Skip to shoot or to
make noise when we’re beginning a deer drive."
I took a couple more steps and
froze, remembering that lanyard around his neck. I turned and lit out for
the truck knowing that he’d shot himself sure as shooting. I pulled up to where
I had let him out and looked out of the window into the woods, and sure enough,
there he stood… I let my breath out in one big whoosh. Thank goodness he
was alive and standing up…. The only thing that seemed out of place was that
his breeches were down and he was turned around trying to peer over his
shoulder at his bottom part that glinted white in the morning sun.
“Shot yourself?" I said as I walked up on
him. Embarrassed he muttered something under his breath.
“Let me see it. Quit turning around and hold
still!" I exclaimed as he continued to turn around, stretching to see,
just like an old hound trying to catch his tail. The wound was in the
fleshy part of the cheek of his posterior. Nice, deep, straight, not much
blood, just beginning to turn blue and get puffy from the impact of the
bullet. The wound was clean, more of a flesh wound, thank goodness.
I was trying to be nonchalant and appear unconcerned, trying hard not to
appear like he had scared me almost to death. And, I was beginning to sort
of enjoy the situation, don’tcha know. Sons don’t often get the chance to get
one up on their father, especially when one’s father was as rock hard as mine.
So I seized the moment.
“Sort of thought you might have done this, what with that
lanyard and all looped around your neck." I peered at the wound, hands in
my pockets, spinning out the moments. “Course, I’d figured at first that
you’d stepped on an ol snake. Then, well, I just supposed that you might
have accidently sorta shot yourself, so I brought something from the pickup with
me just for you." I said, savoring the moment and his acute
displeasure. He watched me fish the old bottle of methiolate that we
always kept in the glove box of the pickup out of my pants pocket. Slowly,
ever so slowly I unscrewed that old bottle of methiolate, holding it up in the
sunlight, wrinkling my nose, its orange reddish color staining my fingers from
the dripping lid, examining it like I was an intern fresh out of medical
school.
“'Suspect that this’ll burn a mite!" I exclaimed as I
poured the fiery liquid into the wound. And it did!
I have to give it to the old man
though. He had grit. That methiolate had to sting and burn, man,
cause I know, cause he used to pour it on my cuts when I was a kid. And
now it was my turn.
He never said a word. His
face colored a bit, he sort of frog-jumped about for a minute, fanning the air,
and then, trying to be graceful, allowed the band aid to be attached to his
posterior, snagged up his breeches, started out for the truck and uttered one
terse phrase…"You drive!"
He and I shared many adventures.
This hunting season would have been his 87th. Together we crossed a
lot of God/s good green earth and fished some grand streams.
We will again, one day. I
miss him. ©2008 Ted Gragg. All Rights Reserved Worldwide. |
