Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sunday, October 24th, 1999. It's around 0-dark-thirty in the A.M., fairly close to 05:00 I'd guess,

when the alarm clock in the camper goes off. Rick is in the bunk over top of me and Graybeard

is snoring away in a double bed in the room on the other side of the kitchen. I've had a terrible

night.

Between Graybeard’s snoring and Rick’s "venting gas" which, heavy as it is, falls directly

downward to where I am laying, I did not get much sleep. Besides, I came prepared to sleep out

under the stars. I did not think that such amenities would be available in a "deer hunting" camp.

(My WIFE would have come had she known there was a place for her microwave and hair curling

irons!)

Rolling out of the sleeping roll to the smell of coffee, I get dressed for hunting. Rick told me the

evening before that he was gonna place me on one of his deer stands that overlooks a fine mast

of white acorns...(contrary to Graybeard’s rendition of this first-days "assignment"...um). Deer

stand I think to myself. [What is that? I came here to HUNT, not STAND]

And so, soon Rick has me waking through the darkened forest towards his "acorn deer stand"

whereupon approaching it, I dutifully climb into it and haul my firearm up via rope. Rick leaves and

there I sit.

In the dark.

In a tree.

With a gun across my lap.

My lap overlapping the edges of the seat.

No earthly idea of where I am or what I will see at first light.

As the light begins to come over the horizon, my eyes adjust to the world around me. I am in a

tree, on a very steep slope, overlooking laurel and other vegetation that would hide a Bradley

Fighting Vehicle...with engines running. The most I can see is about 40, maybe 50 yards straight

DOWN the slope. Oh well, maybe these gawgia boys know sumpthin' I don't about this here deer

huntin' sport? So I sit tight. Quiet, eyes slowing moving around in my skull. I see squirrels,

chipmunks, a critter that looks like a miniature WW I German tank (later defined as an

armadillo)and some other small forest critters. But no deer.

Noon. I move down out of the tree stand. This "stand" hunting takes a new meaning to me now. It

means "stand 'n' stare" and hope to see sumpthing worth shooting and putting in the freezer.

Why don't I just try my hand at still-hunting as I am most prone to do back home?

After about a two hour stint at moving about 100 yards across the forest floor, and seeing no

recent sign, I decide to return to camp for some hot coffee.

But before I can move to the tree to retrieve the rest of my gear, I hear a shot from somewhere off

to my southeast. Not too far. Perhaps 2-300 yards or so. Then, my little hand held emergency

radio crackles and its Graybeard.

"Junglerat, Graybeard here."

"Junglerat, go!"

"Dropped a spike, might need a hand getting him out"

(SH*T. A handgun no less!)"Roger that, on my way"

Knowing where his tree stand was, generally, I drive my truck towards that point on the earth. I

see Graybeard’s blue (yes, blue...not red) Bronco parked. As I pull up I see Graybeard walking

outta them thar woods with this shrunken rifle in his hands. He calls it a pistol. Oh well. Different

strokes for ..... um. But I still continue to look for the "real" gun he used. Anyway, we walk about

30 feet and see this spike laying on his side in some broom-straw grass near some young pines.

Dead weight, I'd guess him to be about 95 pounds on the hoof. We grab him by his front legs and

drag him to the rear of my wife’s truck whereupon we load the deer onto the tailgate and take him

to camp.

Stringing the deer up at camp (Rick and his pardners have a neat setup for fielddressing right

there in camp) we begin the process.

Three men. At least three knives. Starting at the anus, we begin with "Field Dressing 101". Only

this critter is weirdly different. All his internal parts are "glued" to his rib cage and elsewhere.

Even the gullet needs to be knifed loose. Then, Graybeard notices some green, thick, soupy

liquid oozing out of one of the back loins. It smells to high heaven...worse than Rick when he

sleeps....if'n you get my drift....and so we all take turns at trying to skin this critter out.

Finally, it is done. Some still photos are taken, especially of the loin meat that had to be removed

(it looked black). Then, Graybeard asks me if I'd like the meat 'cause he can't stand venison.

Venison is choice foodfare where I was raised and I agree to take the animal. Whereupon we

three jump into my wife’s black Ford Ranger pickem up truck and head into the little town of

Lumpkin and to a processor.

Finding the processor was not hard. But he had gone out of business. And so the rest of the day

was taken driving into Dawson, Georgia to a processor that, according to a local smokey-the-bear

we'd talked with, was the "best un around these parts".

Arriving at the processor/taxidermy shop we are met by a gentleman with a snowy white beard

(confusing, ain't it...all these beards around?). We tell him about the green, soupy liquid, the

rancid smell of it, and show him the black loin meat.

He takes one of his butcher knives and 'quarters' the hind legs to check the meat. Smelling the

fresh meat, he pronounces no firm decision. Rather, he suggests that there, "...are other deer out

there for eating." All of us mutually agree to not have this particular animal processed. After all, it

is only the first day of a weeks long hunt.

We return to the camp with the deer and dispose of it properly.

The evenings hunt for the first day is planned to be as the morning hunt.....same locations. Great,

more "sit 'n' stare" huntin'. But, these boys have natives to this area and they've been a-huntin' all

their lives down here. Just gotta stay with the war-plan, that is all. And so out I go and into the

evening to "sit 'n' stare".

Chapter 3 - Frog Bottom

Chapter 3 - Frog Bottom

Monday, October 25th, 1999: Around 06:45 I arrive at the tree stand in "frog-bottom" that Rick

B. has built. Actually, it is the second one in the bottom area; the first being closer to where the

truck is parked. Rick told me the night before that the first one was for "hog-huntin'". Um. Ain't

seen no sign of hogs around these parts.

It's dark as can be and the wind is still. Gently, quietly, I mount the tree stand. A little tough

because the resting-bar Rick had installed must be pulled down into place and then the hunter

must "weasel" his way onto the seat by way of going UNDER this bar. The first thing that enters

my mind at this point is, "...is this guy for real? Is this really a tree stand? or some Barby-Doll

cosmetic seat.?"

Finally, I am seated. I pull on the cord and raise my Weatherby VGX in .270WIN gently up and

into the stand with me. Quietly, I jack a round into the chamber and check to see if the safety is

on. Then, I settle down, using bio-feedback to settle my heart rate and pulse.

It's 07:15 and shadows are starting to appear as the day awakens. Finally I can begin seeing the

layout all around me. It's a good stand position (if you like tree stands, that is). Straight in front of

me I see a natural corridor that runs ahead for more than 120 yards or so. The corridor is

bordered on each side by a long line of hardwoods with some bushy vegetation between the

trees. Not bad I think to myself.

I mentally make note of judged distances from my position out to the end of clear lanes of fire, all

areas within 180 degrees of my position. I have a clear field of fire from my left to my right,

intermixed with some hardwoods. If the deer ain't busting mach 1, I should be able to get a good

kill-shot.

Its 09:30 and I've seen nothing that resembles a deer. Lots of gray squirrels and several other

"ground" species. A woodpecker likes my tree and has been driving me nutz the last 10 minutes

high overhead. I slowly rotate my head left to right - again - and as I pass through the 360 degree

angle (dead ahead) I notice a blur that wasn't there a moment ago. Coming back to eyes ahead, I

notice a darken shape far down the corridor. I slowly raise my Steiner Hunting bino's and WOW!

There HE is.

He is very slowly walking straight towards me. Head down, eating acorns. Walking very slowly.

His left side seems to be glued to the line of trees bordering the right side (my direction) of the

corridor of hardwoods. I count 6 beautiful and well-defined tines on his right side and what

appears to be the same on his left although he keeps working his head in and out of the trees on

his left.

A truly beautiful 6x6 I say to myself. Not a booker but a wallhanger to be certain. You are gonna

go right next to my elk I say to myself.

I slowly lower the Steiners and turn in the stand with my left shoulder forward while mounting the

rifle to my right. The Nikon 4x12x50mm scope fills with light. He continues to walk closer. Wait

until you can see the whites of his eyes I tell myself, almost laughing outloud at the thought. (I

can just see myself ambushing a British Redcoat from a friggin' tree stand...the thought is almost

too funny to hold back)

I had done some reading about hunting from a tree stand just before coming on this hunt. I hunt

on the ground, so this here tree standing was new to me. My readings alerted me to the fact that

tree stands squeak and are noisy. I am therefore aware of this and move very, very slowly as I

twist about and into firing position

Watching the 6x6 through the 'scope, he draws even nearer then, all of a sudden, decided to turn

90 degrees to his left (my right) and enters some shrubs still laden with leaves. Now, I am getting

concerned. He is about 15 FEET from leaving the leased land that we are hunting and if he does

so, he will step onto land we can't hunt and therefore I can't shoot.

He continues to eat acorns while he continues to move toward the property line. Do I give him

another moment and hope he changes direction and stays on legal ground for me to hunt, or do I

take the shot now because the decision must be made now.

His right shoulder is clearly viewable through the scope. Its a hunters dream shot. Broadside,

nearly standing still, and a wallhanger.

I decide to take the shot. Just like the corps taught me,,,two deep breathes, fully exhale, another

deep breath, let half out and hold it....trigger squeeze. The 2.5 pound pull on my Weatherby (and

absolutely NO takeup) sends the 150 grain boattailed spitzer Nosler streaking downrange with a

thundering clap. I am 100 percent confident in the shot and I slowly lower the rifle, hesitating for

just a moment.

The buck bolts into the air on all fours or so it seems. He jumps out of the brush, heads straight

for me. I immediately shoulder the rifle for a shot but he detects my movement and cuts 90

degrees across in front on me traveling mach 2.75 at least. He is actually "flying" through the air

about 4 feet above the ground...or so it looked like to me.

He is gone before I can settle the rifle. Cut straight across in front of me! Damnation! He just HAS

TO HAVE MY BULLET IN HIM! I hear just one noise as he bursts through some brush behind a

grove of hardwoods to my 10 o'clock position. The hills slope sharply up and away from me at

that point.

I wait a full 10 minutes before dismounting the tree stand. If he's hit lightly, I don't want him

running 10 miles. Let him stop and settle down, then he will simply drop and die. It might save

me some extra work if he drops close by.

Upon reaching the ground, I drop all gear except for my knife and rifle. I then move to the point I

last saw this buck before he disappeared into the clump of brush I'd heard him enter. I look

closely. His tracks are very clearly defined. No blood though. No hair.

I start a slow, cork-screw fashioned journey from that point. Every turn increases the search until

I've covered an area of perhaps 250 yards in diameter. No sign other than hoofprints. No blood, no

hair. And the distance between front & rear prints is huge, refusing to indicate a wounded animal.

The dew's are deep as well indicating this boy is serious about getting as far away as he can, as

quick as he can.

I scout the area for better than an hour and half but come up with nothing. Every conceivable

"dead drop" is checked out thoroughly but nothing evidences anything except a deer running full

out and away. OK.....lets go back and start over.

I return to the stand, re-mark my last known sighting of the animal and repeat the entire

evolution. Again, nothing.

At around 12:10 I decide to track-back. I go to where the buck was first seen by me that morning,

at the far end of the corridor. I pick up his sign and begin to backtrack. At 13:15 (approximate

time) I come over the crest of a ridge very slowly and see below me, in a deep ravine, a herd of

eleven deer. I glass them thoroughly with my Steiners and note 7 doe, 2 button-bucks, one

"yoker" (2x2) and another buck. This last one is almost identical to the one I'd shot at earlier that

morning except for a downward sloping G2 on his left. Atypical but a beauty. This one will not get

away I tell myself. I am close and will remain close until he drops from my bullet.

Chapter 4: Sniper

Chapter 4: Sniper

13:35 I'd been laying just at the crest for about 10 minutes, glassing the herd in the ravine below

me. It was a beautiful sight to see eleven whitetails just grazing. One, the smallest of the group,

seemed to want to play a little with a button buck. But the button was too busy feasting on the

white acorns.

I kept thinking that I should just take a picture or two and leave well enough alone. But I didn't

have my camera, and the freezer was almost empty of venison. I moved my Steiners to the big

buck. He was sort of trailing the herd, never actually moving in sync with it. The does would move

ahead a little and stop. The bucks would then move ever so slowly to catch up and then stop.

Then this big boy would do the same. Always the last to move though. And, he seemed to know

where every leaf on every bush was. His movements always permitted an appreciable degree of

cover.

Thinking back to the shot I'd had earlier in the morning, and how the bullet had been deflected, I

knew I would not make the same mistake again. The earlier shot had been made through what I

thought had been a clear hole in a lightly leafed bush the buck had stopped behind. Glassing that

critter with my Steiners did not reveal the small 3/8in round twig that stood smack dab in the line

of fire. And it was this twig that the bullet decided to plow straight into on its way to the "pie-pan"

on that bucks shoulder. Later investigation revealed the actual bullet marking on the twig itself.

This time, there would be not twig to stand between me and this big boy.

The herd moved again. An accordion of silent music was being played by this herd in this forest.

Not one step could be herd and I was only about 60 yards away! I watched that big buck "work

his forks" through some bushy stuff without making one sound. Now THAT is talent I say quietly

to myself.

By now the herd has moved approximately 100 yards away from my position. Ever so slowly, I

slink over the crest of the ridge and down about 20 feet before coming to me knees behind some

laurel, always keeping the herd in sight. I watch the does mostly. It's supposed to be the pre-rut

and I want to keep my focus on the does. They will spook the easiest during this time, the bucks

being slightly less alert because of their flirtations with the doe. If a doe senses my presence, the

buck will bolt immediately. So long as the doe are content, I am content.

As I get to my hands and knees, and start to stand, the herd moves again. They are moving

towards the property line.

I move quietly to within about 40 yards of the herd and stop within a group of three large white

oaks, ground vegetated with laurel. The big buck is almost in the clear. He is alone, behind the

herd and in a moment will start to move towards the herd which will bring him entirely into the

open for a left quartering shot. A piece of cake! I dropped an Elk a few years back with a left

quartering shot and HE was at 190 YARDS! This fella was well under 100, maybe even under 40

yards once he stepped into the open.

The big buck moves towards the opening between a small grove of sweetgums. I bring my rifle to

my shoulder and take the glass. The only movement I see through the scope is the movement

caused by my heartbeat. Calm and deliberate. Silent and deadly. It is time! Take the trigger

between two beats.

BOOM! The sound of the shot completely destroyed the placidity of the forest entirely, all within

the timeframe of one heartbeat. The herd vanishes INSTANTLY. Like magic! Awesome how that

can happen. But where did the shot come from? It wasn't mine.! And it was close! Too close!

Memories from long ago jump to the front of my mind. SNIPER!

I hit the deck and immediately start digging for china. But in a moment, regain my composure. I

quickly but quietly crawl to a large tree trunk and plant my back against it. Taking several deep

breaths, I call out "Hey, who is shooting here?" No answer.

I call again "Hey, can anyone hear me?"

A reply comes back, "Where are you?" And the conversation goes something like this:

"I am on the ground, against a large tree trunk,where are you"

"Here"

"Where the hell is 'HERE'"

"In the tree stand. Who are you?"

"Names Bill. Who are YOU?"

does not give his name. "What are you doing here?"

"Hunting deer"

"Do you see any that are down" (I can't believe "he" is asking me this)

"Nope. I was following a herd when I heard your shot. Man you are close! Where are you?"

I heard some brush-movement ahead to my right. Out walks two young men with rifles. I rise from

the ground and walk to meet them. Between us stands a tree with a yellow painted band around

it. We meet at this tree. It marks the property line that separates the clubs leased hunting land

from the unleased land. These two gents have come from the unleased land.

"I am Bill Donahue. I've come from North Carolina to hunt with some friends from the Southern

Pickett Hunt Club".

The two men and I talk some and I find out that the shot was made by the younger of the two at

one of the button bucks. He had not yet seen the yoker or the big one. When I tell them about

the big one they tell me that they've seen it only once. Last year. They thought someone had

taken it and were genuinely pleased that it still walked the woods.

I offered to help look for the button the fella had shot at, but told them I'd be in violation of the

lease agreement if I left the leased property to help them track the animal on theirs. They

understand and thank me for my offer.

We depart. I start slowly walking up the ravine, knowing the hunt is over. At least for this day.

Eleven deer have vanished into thin air. Perhaps one is bleeding somewhere. I hope not. Then

again, if so, I pray the hunters locate it soon.

Sitting down halfway up the slope, I take a long draw from my canteen. It's really getting hot now.

Temperature must be in the mid '80's or more. Taking the dark forest green towel from inside my

jacket I wipe my face of sweat. The cammo paint has all but been sweated/wiped off. I decide not

to reapply it, opting to head back to the truck.

Later, at my truck, I drop my gear into the bed, rack the rifle and get inside. I start the truck and

turn on the A/C. Man, its good to have to rough it.....for only a little while. Thank you God for

air-conditioning. The boys at camp are never gonna believe this day. Hell, I can hardly believe it.

But, that’s why its called "hunting". And it is, indeed, a wonderful sport.

Chapter 5: Snakes and Cats

Chapter 5: Snakes and Cats

I can't seem to get the truck to move. I'm still thinking about the "missed" shot from the tree

stand, and then later, having to give up the "stalk" to two gents, thus, missing out on yet another

shot at a great buck.

The thought is plaguing me that I might have missed that morning buck. I have to find out.

Turning off the truck engine, I step outside, don my vest (don't want to be "invisible" anymore in

THESE woods) and move into the forest.

Fifteen minutes later I arrive at the tree stand. I climb back up into it to "replay" the mornings

shot-event. I climb back down and go to the place where the buck had been standing when I took

the shot. Again, carefully looking around I see no sign of a hit. No hair, no blood, but I do see the

twig!

Neatly shot through, the bullet left a visible leaded circle on the twig. I stoop down and sight

from the twig back to the tree stand. Yep, directly in the line of fire. Damn!

But to be sure, I take out a pair of field dressing gloves and cut a piece from one of them about

3x3 inches. Taking my knife I puncture this patch of orange and stick it right next to the broken

twig.

Remounting the deer stand, I sight in on the orange patch and take an aiming shot. Dismounting

the tree stand I walk to the orange patch. Yep, the bullet hole is right where it should be, smack

dab in the middle of the patch of orange. I am satisfied that my aim was true and that the broken

twig indeed deflected my shot.

Facing the path to head back to the truck, I take about 8 steps when a small covey of quail flush

from my right side. The total absence of noise in the forest is instantly shattered by the whirl of

the birds as they take flight. Not a good thing for the heart of a 56 year old man. Suddenly, the

seat of my pans feels a little "heavier". Oh Gawd...and I left the toilet paper back at the truck in

my daypack.

I have no choice. I must do what nature requires of me now. And, vegetation will have to suffice for

a quick cleanup until I get back to the truck.

Eventually I arrive at the truck, blessing Rick Brown out every step of the way for the meal the

night before...what DID he put in that food? Has GB had "a problem" yet? I wonder.

Its around 3PM when I arrive back at camp. I don't know whether to tell Rick and GB of my days

activities or just keep silent. Would they even believe me? Hell, they seem gullible enough, and

besides, it is good to talk it out...or so sez the shrink-community. And so, to ward off a

life=-threatening case of post traumatic deer-stress syndrome (PTDSS) I relay the events of the

day to my two hunting comrades.

Of course, and as expected, GB sat there the entire 15-20 minutes or so, pulling on his beard

and nodding his head ever so slightly in the negative. Rick seemed to pay me no attention,

content to whittle away on some stick that he was carving into some sort of voodoo doll. um.

The rest of the afternoon, Rick and GB sort of seemed to stay at arms length. I thought it might

be that skunk oil I'd put on first thing in the morning to cover my human scent. It couldn't have

smelled any worst than that deer that GB dropped when we opened him up, or the farts that Rick

kept bombarding me with at night.

But, being the thick-skinned jungle warrior that I'd been trained to be, I ignore any "put offishness"

they might seem to have.

Later, after a dinner of venison stew (for which GB thought consisted of venison, et alia, but wasn't

sure until after Rick told him)we all sat around the campfire talking lightly and softly kidding each

other. The scotch was flowing freely and I was truly enjoying the moment. Suddenly, GB jumps

up from his chair, disappears for a second and returns with a handgun and a long stick. I'm there,

sitting in a chair next to the wood pile, and wonder what in hell is GB up to now? He begins to

poke around that pile of wood with the long stick in one hand and the handgun (looked like a

.357Magnum to me) in the other.

"Graybeard, what in hell are you doing there?" I ask.

"Rattler in the wood pile." he says. Longwinded cuss, I think to myself.

"HUH?" I ask. "Snake?" I ask again. GB keeps poking around that woodpile. I am now on my feet

and have backed away 15 feet from that woodpile.

Snakes and me have absolutely nothing in common. I care less what the wildlife biologists or the

Ladies Society for the Preservation of Legless Critters says, the only GOOD snake is a well-done

DEAD snake. And I had nothing in my hands to kill one at the moment.

GB continues for about the next 15-20 minutes to search out "THE" snake. Finally, he gives up

as Rick walks out into the darkness, outside the ring of light from the raging bonfire that I've

stoked up. From the dark Rick calls back, "Snakes don't like to move around in wood ashes.

'gets unner neath their scales. Thats why you won't see any sign of 'em in the ashes around that

bonfire JR."

GOOD I think to myself. I'll keep that in mind ... but won't bet my life on it in the future. By now

I've retrieved my own .357Magnum with snake shot and feel much more confident about the world

in general, and THIS place, THIS night in particular.

Around 9:45 PM I walk to my truck that is parked around the back side of the small camper Rick

has set at the site. I wanna check my gear for the next mornings hunt before hitting the sack. My

back is towards the forest as I work on my gear laying in the bed of the truck.

Suddenly, a loud sound emitts from the forest. A sound I ain't never heard, not even in the

movies. And I HAVE been to see the Blair Witch Project....I turn around, .357magnum in hand

and shine my flashlight into the forest.

From the campfire, GB and Rick yell at me, "JR, that you????".

"Hell no that ain't me. That one of you boys?"

Silence. Screw this crap I say to myself. I start to move towards the edge of the forest when this

noise emits again, but sounding more to my right than before and a little deeper. I glance to the

right and see Rick and GB also looking out into the forest as they stand near the bonfire.

"What the hell is that?" I ask out loud for anyone to respond to.

"Don't know" says Rick.

"Ain't never heard it before m'self" says GB.

The noise lets go one more time. Rick and GB head into the woods with a million-plus

candlepower flood lite and I am right behind them. Damned if I'm gonna be left alone in camp with

this crap going on tonight. First snakes, now this. Damnation!

We check out the wooded forest all around the campsite for sign or evidence of "whatervers"

existence. Finding nothing, we eventually return to camp. I go straight to the table containing

partial bottles of scotch. Gulp. Thats better. Now where in hell are these things from hades.

Another gulp. I am ready now.

GB looks over at me.

"JR, aint'cha gonna leave any for tomorrow night?"

"We might not be alive tomorrow nite GB and I don't want this fine liquid to go bad."

"Gimme a glass of that", says Rick as he holds his hand out.

"Hell yeh. Here!" I hand a bottle to Rick who pours himself a little.

"Just what to you two think that thing was. I ain't never heard anything like that before. Not even

in the 'nam." I ask

Rick says, "You know, what we have here just might be one of those Florida panthers. After all,

we ain't too far from the Florida line here"

GB adds, "Yep, quite possible. They's been reported getting outside their boundary. Could well

be a 'gator cat."

"Then, lets go get the sunavbitch and kill it" I say. I am getting sick of the theatre this night."I am

ready right now to go in there", pointing to the black forest of devils from hell "..and stay until

either I'm dead or IT is dead".

"Nope" says Rick. "10 years and 10 thousand dollars in fines for killing one of 'em. Protected

species".

Protected? What about US? I ask myself. "I'd like to reduce their numbers by at least one" I say.

"Ricks right," says GB. "We don't need to go the jail. Especially down here in a gawga jail. JR,

you don't wanna go to no gawga jail son. Believe me. They feed you ONLY grits".

Um. Grits only! He's right. To hell with the cat. But the .357 goes under my head tonight.

"Rick, y'know, that might could just be a whumpus cat, ya know". GB is sort of thinking outloud.

"Yep, hadn't thought of that" says Rick. "Perhaps the most dangerous 4-legged critter on the face

of this planet."

"What in hell is a whumpas cat GB?" I ask, not quite sure of what is to follow.

"Well, he's a cat, a biggun, whats got the head of a cougar on one end, and the head of a lion on

da other end." says GB

"If that is so," I ask, "then, how in the world does he crap?"

"He don't crap a'tall. Thats what makes him the meanest critter in the whole world" says GB.

I know I've been had. Payback for the dead cat joke I told on the first night. OK. Just fine. The

.357 still goes under me head this nite.

Chapter 6:Prisoners

Chapter 6:Prisoners

It's now Wednesday. The weather has turned against us. No one has seen anything worth

shooting at, much less eating. Last nite was so warm, most of us slept outside our sleeping

bags. At breakfast it was already 68 degrees.

I've decided to let Frog Bottom alone for a few days. I've Still Hunted it thoroughly the past two

days and don't want to disturb the neighborhood any more. Besides, I can't help but think of

those two bucks I'd seen, and want another whack at 'em.

So, as Rick has decided to let me hunt on my own, I elect to go back to the tree stand I hunted

from on the first day and start the days hunting from that point. Arriving with 30 minutes of dark

still ahead of me, I quietly mount the stand then rope my gear up.

Settled in, I start "tuning" my eyes and ears to the silent world around me. It's very warm this

morning and I'm dressed lightly but in full camo.

It takes only 5 minutes for it to begin. First comes the feeling of tightness, then the full-force

pressure and you just know you are lucky if you have even one minute left.

I hurriedly climb down from the tree stand and, not considering that this might happen this

morning and therefore no pre-planned for, I simply move back up my incoming trail as far as I

think I can make it before dropping my trousers.

Whew! What a relief. Rick’s chow has really been good up to this point. It usually does not call on

Mother Nature until mid-noon. But for some reason, it called loud and clear and the sun ain't even

up yet.

Finishing nature's call, I clean up, thankful that I have made it an unbreakable habit over the years

to carry at least 1/4 roll of paper every time I take to the field. I use the heel of my boot to dig out

a hole I hope is deep enough and, using leaves, scoop the stinking mess into the hole, covering it

with leaves and whatever else I can find in the dark (it's too close to daylight to chance using a

light now).

Returning to the tree stand, I once again get myself settled in. Whew! That was close. But I'm

feeling better now.

For the next 3 hours I sit in that tree stand. The sun has long been up and I've seen no sign of

deer. Several gray squirrels and two armadillos have been sighted but nothing more. So, at 11:15

I decide that I must get something moving of this day will also be a bust.

I dismount the tree stand and begin moving down the steep slope and into the patchwork growth

of laurel that is growing in the bottom. Moving in and out of the laurel as stealthily as I can, I see

no sign of deer having been there recently.

I continue walking around the base of yet another finger ravine and as I clear a growth of laurel I

sense something ahead to my left. I stop and render myself part of the forest.

As my eyes calibrate the forest, I notice two young doe snipping away at some young twigs on a

bush about 150 yards ahead of me. I rotate myself around and behind a large tree and carefully

prepare my Steiners. Moving again into position, I glass the area around the doe. They have not

detected me and continue their meal.

Nothing. The area is relatively open around the doe and I can see no sign of other deer. The doe

slowly move off and into some piney trees.

I remain in position for another 15 minutes just in case the doe had a buck in trail.

Ensuring all is clear, I step forward to continue my hunt and fall flat on my face. No ceremony, no

grace. Simple "PLOP".

My right boot had become entangled in some ground vines and I'd not noticed it. When I tried to

lift my foot, I'd lost my balance and fell into the tree and then to the floor of the forest. I had to

have sounded like a battle tank crashing the woods.

I immediately sit up and look around. Feeling like a stupid idiot I look at the ground vines that had

tripped me up. Age is really getting to me now I think to myself. That is a mistake I'd not have

made years ago.

What other mistakes have I made that age has camouflaged for me? Eating Rick’s food last night

was the one to come to mind first. Oh well, I'll be more alert from now on. Just accept this

incident as a wake up call.

I look at my wristwatch. It's now 13:20. Having seen nothing of hunting value, and given that the

temp is now breaking 70 easily, I decide to head back to camp and rest up for the evening hunt.

Returning to the tree stand, I pick up the trail back to where I'd parked the truck. I had traveled

only a few yards when my right foot sank into the ground.

Flop. On the ground again! A second time today! My right foot again! Damnation! But, this time, a

familiar odor is detected.

That damned hole I'd dug in the dark! And it's all over my damned boot, too. Out comes the

canteen and I wash my boot off as best I can.

I know I've extra water in the truck which is only about 15 minutes away. But walking back to the

truck, with a soiled boot, will leave a scent-trail for perhaps days.

So, I take off my soiled boot and decide to hoof it out barefooted. Only a few steps convinces me

that it's either both boots on or both boots off. I take off the other boot.

And that’s how I returned to my truck.

Barefooted, with crappy boots hung around my neck, and nothing to show for it. I decide NOT to

say anything about this day to anyone on the whole, entire planet earth.

Washing my boots off at the truck, I put them back on, climb in and start for the camp.

Arriving at the campsite, I see Rick and GB. Rick is busy working like a bee, trying to get his

camper's hot water system working. GB is sitting there, with a cold soft drink in his hand. It's

obvious neither of them had taken a deer. I don't feel so bad then. Then again, screw Graybeard!

He's already dropped one...and with a shrunken rifle at that! Helluva way to hunt too. A real hunter

will have a real gun. But, I must admit to having some admiration for a man who could take a deer

with a handgun.

The evenings hunt goes the way of the morning hunt. No one see's anything in the evening and

therefore, no fresh deer-liver or heart for the plate. I'd love to have just one fresh venison meal in

camp. If for no reason than to have it offered to ol' Graybeard. Haha.

Tomorrow is Thursday and Rick wants to take us to Andersonville to see the infamous Civil War

Prison. Being an avid student of history myself and keenly interested in the Civil War history, I

am eager for the visit. GB, I think, could take it or leave it but being the gentleman that he is, he

is going along with the plan. But his eyes seem to have a peculiar gleam in them as well. What is

he up to now?

Then, come Friday, we will hunt some more.

Saturday is the first day for either-sex and our luck should change. A lot of members of the

camps club are expected to arrive during Friday and Friday evening. And, with the additional

"hunters" the deer might be feel pressured into moving a bit more than they have been.

I'll have two more days to get my deer before I have to head back north. But tomorrow will be

Andersonville and I am looking forward to that.

Chapter 7: The Absolution

Chapter 7: The Absolution

Thursday, October28th, 1999: We get up a little later than we had been because today is a

"holiday" for ol graybeard. He got to sleep in because we are going to visit Andersonville, Ga.,

site of the infamous Confederate Prison where more than 12,000 Union soldiers were reported to

have died.

We leave the camp in my Ford Ranger XLT. The extended cab has provisions for two "drop" seats

in the rear. Large enough for a child but somewhat small for the butt of an adult, Rick has been

elected to ride in one of them. Graybeard uses a shoehorn to get into the passenger side front

seat, 10 feet of rappelling cable to "seat-belt" himself, and we are off. I glance over my right

shoulder just to see how Rick is doing. He is crunched up back there like a pretzel. Um. He will

have to ride like that all day. Just how long of a day can I make this? Payback time for that

unexpected nature call.

First stop is a small diner in Lumpkin where we chow down on a good breakfast. The waitress

tries to get me to partake of some grits as well but she instantly see's that THIS Yankee ain't

gonna have anything to do with them grits ! Period !. It's bad enough that I have to sit at the same

table with GB and Rick eating them.

After breakfast we head for Andersonville. Rick is the navigator. And I must presume that he can

navigate. Such was my first mistake of the day. A "straight shot" he has told GB and me, several

times. "A Straight shot". RIGHT ! What would normally have taken 1-1.5 hours results in a 3 hour

journey. There were hints of my traveling cross country with my wife navigating. I should be used

to all those U-turns by now I suppose.

On the highway, Rick tells us (from the back "jump" seat) that we are "....100 yards to the gate"

to Andersonville. I keep driving. I keep driving. I keep driving. I keep driving. Finally, in

exasperation I ask Rick, "just how in hell LONG is 100 yards down here in Georgia?".

Almost as if on cue, a large sign looms immediately in front of us with a large painted arrow

pointing leftward. But the highway engineers in Georgia have the same level of difficulty with their

engineering that the rest of the population has with distances; there are two entrances to

Andersonville. One is an EXIT and the other is an ENTRANCE. The signs arrow points to the EXIT

side. Um?! Oh no, not another day in Georgia. How in the hell did these people ever think they

could have won that damned war, anyway? When I try to explain my frustration to Rick, he merely

replies with something about a bumper sticker he once saw, "If I'd have known it was gonna

cause all these problems, I'd have picked my own damned cotton". One could interpret such a

statement to be racist on the surface, but on second thought, it very well could apply to any

YANKEE who wanted to live below the MDL. (Mason-Dixon Line for southern readers).

We finally get ourselves into the tiny town of Andersonville. And is it ever tiny! A huge obelisk

commands the center of the little town square. Erected in the memory of the Camp Commandant

of the Confederate Prison at Andersonville (who was courts-martialed and hung by the Union after

the war), the obelisk was covered with bird droppings, and, was showing its weathered age. I

spend a few moments moving around its four sides to read the engravings, dedicated to salving

the reputation of Captain Wertz, Confederate Army officer and Camp Commandant at the time.

I start looking for Rick and GB. How in the dickens could they simply disappear in a town that is

no larger than a football field>?

I find Rick in a small shop where Civil War paraphernalia could be bought, at an inflated price of

course. Rick wants to purchase the "words" to the music "Bonny Blue". It is almost an

obsession with him that he obtain these words. He also want a Bonny Blue flag but it is the

words he "needs".

It is hot and balmy. Sweat pours from my brow as I follow Rick around the tiny town looking for

"words". I am following Rick when we pass an elderly gentleman. He looks to be around 80 years

of age. He just looks at me as I pass him but I could tell from the look in his eyes just what he is

thinking. Poor man, following that damned Yankee around 'cause the Yankee wants "evidence"

that they won. I want to stop and just chat awhile with the man, but Rick is insistent. Onward we

trudge into another store. We run across a lady who is hawking her wares and we find out that

she, in fact, owns many of the tiny tourist stores that we've walked in and out of. She tells Rick

that the words he is looking for are in the first store we entered. So, another U-turn. This one on

foot. Into the store. The man shows Rick a book with the words and Rick buys it. What the heck!

I purchase a 2-cassette tape of the transcript of the Andersonville trial, the one where the Union

courts-martialed Captain Wertz.

Rick is happy now. We all meet, climb into the truck and leave the main gate of the little town of

Andersonville and go about 1/2 mile to the entrance of the actual site of the Andersonville

Confederate Prison.

As we enter it, I notice what appears to be a "southern Arlington" Cemetery. More than 12,000

graves, laid out in perfect precision. The graves of Union soldiers. For the next hour or two we

spend in reverent silence walking among the graves, reading the inscriptions on the monuments

placed by several northern states. I've been to Arlington several times. Both as a member of a

funeral guard, and on my own just to pay my respects. This is no different. The feelings are

familiar to me. Lost comrades, pain and suffering, orphaned by the north and killed by the south.

There are even graves of Confederate soldiers inter mixed with those of Union soldiers. "Rebels"

who were guards at the prison but who also suffered the same sweltering heat, freezing winter

cold, lack of potable water, disease, malnutrition, and whatever else the prisoners suffered. The

only difference that I could discover was that they - the Confederate guards - were on the opposite

side of the wall.

We slowly drive around the perimeter of the actual site of the prison. A very small portion of the

original prison remains intact. Else, the only evidence of its horror are indentations in the earth.

The small brook that was the sole source of water for all at the prison, and its downstream

location the prisons collective "latrine" still runs through the site as it did more than 100 years

ago. It is a very sobering afternoon for me.

It's time to leave now. We stop by the main building at the prison site. This building houses the

new International Prisoner of War Museum. State of the art technology has gone into its

construction and content. We tour this building and see P.O.W. artifacts from virtually every war

the United States has participated in, to include Vietnam. Again, a very sobering moment.

We finally agree to head back to Lumpkin. Our plan is to have dinner at the diner where we had

breakfast.

Having driven TO Andersonville and now driving BACK to Lumpkin, I am convinced that those who

live in southern Georgia simply cannot count past 10 with their shoes on. To wit: 100 yards is

actually 1.3 miles. One mile is, in all actuality, 4.9 miles. And all this on flat road as well! I must

remember these "translations" if I am ever to get out of Georgia and back to my home. I must

remember that yards and mileage that are posted are NOT necessarily "started" at the physical

location of the posted sign(s). There is a "place somewhere" beyond posted distance signs where

the real distance measurement begins. And I doubt than any human alive knows precisely where

that location is now.

Arriving back in Lumpkin, we go into the restaurant and order dinner. My memory evades me as

to what Rick and GB ordered and I don't care. I ordered boiled cabbage and Lima beans as two

side orders. That part I am certain of.

We finish dinner and return to the campsite. Satiated with food and now sipping a little scotch,

the world is fine. Tomorrow is Friday and the last day to have the area to hunt all to ourselves.

Camp members will start arriving in mid afternoon, some will perhaps even hunt Friday evening.

But for now, I am content. I fall asleep thinking of Andersonville.

Rick is yelling something about "forgetting to set the alarm". It's 07:10! And Rick is jumping

around the camper yelling at us to get up. I look at my watch and yep, its 07:10. Damnation! The

deer have already had their breakfast. It takes me a little under 4 minutes to suit up, grab my rifle

and head to the truck. I'm going to Frog Bottom this morning. I am going to get that buck I

missed.

I back up, put the shifter in "D1" and start down the very bump road towards the spot where I'll

park the truck and then walk in. I hate the thought of having to do this so late in the morning as I

usually like to be in my actual hunting position at least 30 minutes before sunrise. Whatever this

will work out.

Ten minutes later, I arrive at the spot where I will park my truck. It is fairly secure and flat. I get

out, move to the rear and put my gear on. Checking to see if the truck is locked, I quietly close

the door. Something catches my eye as the door clicks shut. The keys! The damned keys are in

the ignition! The truck is locked up and I don't have a spare set of keys!

No coat hangar! I can't slide anything down between the window glass and the door because I

don't have anything long enough. THINK ASSHOLE! The rear sliding window. Maybe. But the

truck has a tool chest bolted to it and it spans the entire width of the truck bed making access to

the rear sliding window nearly impossible. And I've no tools to unbolt the tool chest. Deep

dung....again! To hell with it, I'll just have to contend with this problem after I'm done hunting. I

turn to enter the forest and stop. Wait!

What if I drop a deer? I will have no way to get it out, to save the meat. I need that truck! I turn

back to the truck. Removing all gear, I climb onto the tool chest and examine the rear sliding

window. Maybe, I hope! I take out my survival knife - the same one I'd carried all those years in

Vietnam - and start working it between the layers of glass on the rear sliding window. Just about

when I am thinking of putting my booted foot through it, the latch is popped open with my knife.

YES!

But I can't get in. The hole is made for someone under 200 pounds. Not over 220 for sure.

Sweating, angry, and impatient, I tell myself for the second time that morning, THINK ASSHOLE!

I don't like calling myself names.

But I haven't yet lost all my marbles. Close but not yet there. I grab my Weatherby rifle and work

the sling a little tighter. Using the rifle, I manage to get the key ring caught between the sling and

forearm swivel. Gently I nudge the keys out of the ignition. They come out and stay lodged in the

sling. Gently I pull the rifle back to me, with the keys. THANK YOU GOD. God takes care of fools

and marines. Both are one and the same this time to be sure.

From reveille to now, nearly 1.5 hours have lapsed. I remount with gear and start off into the

forest. It's getting nigh onto 9:15 AM by this time and I am almost certain that not a living

creature on this planet is moving. It is very warm and getting warmer still. I arrive at the tree stand

where I'd taken the shot days earlier. Hanging out some scent tabs, placed strategically around a

180 degree perimeter of my stand, I mount the stand, rope my gear up and settle in. I am

sweating like a Kentucky racehorse on race day.

A woodpecker is deliberately trying to annoy me. What IS it with this particular tree anyway? He

is high above me somewhere. But his work is sure loud. I squirm around, reaching for my canteen

that is hanging on my left side when I feel an all too familiar pressure. Oh No. NOT AGAIN! Yep!

This time it ain't Rick’s cooking. It is the combination of Lima beans and cabbage the night before.

Down out of the tree stand I go. But I ain't a virgin at this any more. I move OFF the trail and into

some heavy underbrush and drop my pants. After cleaning myself I stand up to pull my trousers

into place. I catch a briar patch on the back of my trousers as I pull them up. RIGHT ! OUCH! The

right cheek of my butt now bears witness to yet another "hunting murphy". Is there NO end to the

lessons to be learned while hunting? I've been hunting all my walking life. I ain't NEVER had so

much happen in so short a time frame as has happened on THIS hunt. What sort of hex has been

placed upon my mortal soul? Perhaps there IS a true Whumpas cat...a cat from Hell maybe?

Regardless, I finish and remount the tree stand. I don't really care now whether or not I even see a

four legged creature in the woods. I just want some sanity back into my life.

For the next 2 and 1/2 hours I sit in that stand. Settling down. Listening, watching. Nothing is

moving. Not even a squirrel. The temperature has to be in the '80's.

Finally, at high noon I decide to head back to camp. Dismounting the tree stand, I lean over

pickup the rest of the gear I'd left on the ground. I collect all and start the 15 minute walk back to

the truck.

Arriving at the truck, the first thing I do is take a long swallow on my canteen. I keep a 6-gallon

container of potable water in my truck at all times and refill my canteen from this supply. Having

placed all my gear in the bed of the truck I move the to door. The keys! Where in the hell are the

keys? I search everywhere. I can't find them. Now I really start thinking that I must simply shoot

myself with my .45 ACP sidearm. That is the most sane thing for me to do. I am a menace to the

world this day.

THINK! Where could they be? THE BUSH . They must have fallen out when my trousers were

dropped. Leaving everything but my rifle, I go back to the spot where I had to answer natures call.

Sure enough. There they were, mixed in with everything else. DAMNATION! This cannot be

happening to me. I left my canteen back at the truck too.

Taking a handful of leaves, I scoop up the keys and return to the truck. Laying the keys on the

ground at the rear of the truck, I hose them down with water from my supply. I gotta get outta this

place! This place is out to get me! All this and more as I drive ever so slowly back to camp.

Arriving at the entrance to the camp, I see Rick working on a friends camper roof. I halt on the

road and shut the engine off. Hard as it is, I try to act "normal" as if nothing has happened.

"You see anything this morning?"

"Nope", I said. "Nothing at all. Very quiet morning" The hell it has

"It's the heat JR. I am certain of it" Rick says, trying to reassure me I guess.

"Yeh, its the heat alright". I am standing about 20 feet from the truck with Rick when Rick

moves slowly to the tailgate and signals me to be quiet. Man, this guy has ears like a

Turkey!

I grab my rifle from the truck very quietly and move to the rear and pull up on Rick’s left

side. He indicates something in the woods and turns to me and whispers, "armadillo".

I peer into the woods and see the movement. In a few seconds I've located the animal

about 40 yards into the woods.

Taking off-hand aim, I place one shot where I want it. The animal simply stops moving.

Rick and I enter the woods and as Rick approaches the animal says, "it ain't dead yet".

To hell it ain't. A 150 grain Boat tail spitzer where I put it will MAKE IT BE DEAD. Rick

touches the animal with his right toe. It doesn't move. It is, in fact a very dead animal.

"Take him back to GB" Rick says. "Maybe he will make some 'bama stew for us tonight."

"You eat those things down here, do you?"

"Yep. They taste something like a turtle. Five different kinds of meat." Rick says sincerely.

"Yeh, right!" I say, recognizing a setup when I see one.

I throw the critter onto the tailgate and return to the camper. GB walks over and asks who was

shooting so close. I told him about the armadillo and take him to the tailgate. GB laughs out loud,

something about "the great white hunter". I ignore his insane comment. But I do fall for posing for

a picture which GB takes between laughing spells. I have no doubt that picture will be ill-used

against me someday.

We eat hot-dogs for lunch. Resting up, I decide to try hunting once more. This time I am going to

try a place I'd not been. It is close to where GB dropped his spike buck.

Arriving around 3:45PM, I gear up and head into the thick piney forest. I am going to Still Hunt.

It's actually "hot" today and the deer won't move unless prompted to . I don't see the benefit of

sitting in a tree.

Moving out of the pineys I come to a steep slope in a hardwood forest. The bottom is relatively

open. I start a very slow descent down the slope, keeping as many trees and laurel bushes

between me and anything along the bottom as I can.

By 5PM I am nearing the bottom. I have not seen any fresh sign of any 4-legged critter being in

these parts. I step up my movement, keying my alertness-factor up as well. Walking through the

bottom, I cannot find sign of any fresh movement. I cross the bottom and start up the other side.

Near the top of the slope I enter the pines again. These are really thick. I change my plan. I back

out, and choose a circuitous route that bypasses the thick pines. I'm too hot and exhausted to

try moving through them. Besides, I'd never get a shot off in that thick stuff.

Coming out on top, I am at the dirt road that I came in on. The truck is some distance to my

right, parked along side this road. I turn and head for the truck. As I round the one and only bend

between me and my truck, a covey of quail break the air with that undeniable sound. A sound

that, if unexpected, can soil a man's pants (IF he has anything left inside with which to soil his

pants). For a fleeting moment, I thank my stars that I had a nature call that morning. After my

heart settles itself back into my chest where it belongs, I move on. Damned but those 5 quail

could make a whole lot of noise.

Arriving at the truck, I refresh myself with water, unload and climb in. I start the engine and turn

on the air conditioning.

Arriving back at camp, Rick has supper in the making. It is to be spaghetti tonight. My favorite

meal.

GB was sipping on a coke and stoking the fire. Rick’s friend George (and Club President) has arrived and will be having supper with us. George’s wife Beverly is also there.

We exchange niceties all around and I reach for the scotch bottle. What a day this has been.

During the evening, small talk is passed around but mostly the talk centers on the unusually

warm temperatures this time of year and how it might be affecting the game. Rick, George and I

talk about the next days morning hunt. As it is Saturday (and more than likely my last day to

hunt because of pressing concerns back in North Carolina) George suggests to Rick that he take

me to a tree stand that another member had put up. A tree stand that had not yet been used

during the previous week. Rick agrees and so do I. What do I know, right?

Saturday, October 30, 1999 - last hunting day: Reveille and we are on the road again. I follow

Rick in my truck. The pull off point is not far from the main campsite. Rick motions me to park a

certain place. I get out, and as I don my equipment, Rick explains that we are close the the

boundary line and exhorts me to be mindful of not moving off the leased land else problems could

arise. I indicate that I shall indeed be a good boy and we set off on foot.

Our journey takes us through a lot of fallen timber and along the edge of a deep ravine. I heard

George tell Rick the night before that the "trail to the tree stand" was clearly marked with ribbon.

But neither Rick nor I could see any. We press on until we've walked about 450 yards. Rick and I

are standing at the edge of a slope that is heavy with hardwood and overlooks a rather large

ravine. I indicate to Rick my thanks and that I'll take it from here. Rick turns and heads out to his

truck. I sit down for a few moments to listen and observe.

I've hunted many places in my lifetime. From the high-altitude "PTA" saddle between the two

volcanos on the big island of Hawaii to Kodiak Island to the jungles of Panama. And I've been

skunked my fair share of times. But I've never been through what I've been through these past 4-5

days. I've hunted everything Rabbits to Moose. I've taken virtually every species of small game

permitted as well as Whitetail, Mulies, Elk, Moose and even a Brownie. But I've never been so

badly skunked as in this past week. And so, I resign myself that this afternoon, history will be

remade. I shall find and take a monster buck.

But after only one hour of moving through the forest, the heat has me totally convinced that not

one creature is moving. And I don't know where the Deer Motel is for me to check them out of.

So, I reluctantly return to the campsite.

Rick has a large pork ham in the smoker for supper. GB had elected to not even try hunting this

day. A smart move even I had to admit. Sitting down, I grab a cold beer. In a little while I

announce to Rick and GB that I am through and that I am gonna hit the road back to N.C. (I'd

talked with my wife earlier on the telephone on our trip to town and she'd told me of extensive

damage to my boat in Morehead City, N.C.). I relayed to Rick and GB that I wanted to drive

straight to Morehead to check out my boat and then homeward before the start of the week. I had

a business trip planned and needed to attend these personal matters beforehand. They both

understood and we stood and said our goodbyes to each other. As I was about to climb into my

truck, George came walking into Rick camper site. I again thanked him and Rick for the superb

hosting and graciousness extended to me. Finally, I was in the truck and on the road. It was

around 2:20 PM in the afternoon when I finally departed the "Southern Picketts" Hunting Camp.

As I drove out onto the paved highway, I had to smile a little to myself. Yes, it was true, I did not

get a deer. Yes, it was true, I'd done some stupid things. And, yes, it was true, I'd learned a lot.

About myself, and hunting in general.

GB introduced me to "Bright Eyes". A neat little thing that consisted of thumbtacks covers with

reflective paint so that they "shine" at night when hit by a flashlight beam. Great for sticking into

trees to mark a pathway.

Rick demonstrated an almost bottomless benevolence towards both GB and I. He did not, at any

time, ask for assistance in anything. From cooking to cleaning up the dishes, he did it all. If only

he had longer hair and a better figure to his frame, he'd make one damned fine wife....with some

other physical changes I might add.

It was obvious to me that Rick and GB had met before and that their friendship was well on its

way to being cemented quite firmly. That was a good thing to behold. And, given the fact that I - a

total stranger to the both of them - was invited to come spend a week with them, well, it meant a

lot.

A man can learn a lot about himself and others under such circumstances. I found out that my

age was barking back at me. While my senses, when commanded to perform, were nearly as

sharp as they had always been, I was made to be acutely aware that their edge was getting

smoothed with age. Old wounds, having started their arthritic change, barked as I climbed steep

ravines and descended deep slopes. My tolerance for the sweltering heat was surprisingly high.

As I drove up I-185 towards Columbus my mind replayed the events of the week. Even I had to

laugh out loud, now, at some of the things that had happened.

But, that is why it's called "hunting" instead of "killing".

And so long as there are men like Rick Brown and Bill graham, this country will continue to

survive. It is when such men no longer live that our nation will really be in peril.

The sport of hunting has a whole lot more to it than putting a bullet into the flesh of an animal.

That "instance" is not the end....it is only the beginning.

And my hunt to the great state of "Gawga" with "them thar Johnnie Reb's" was not the end of

anything. Merely the beginning of yet another chapter in my life. A life that I hope I can say, at

the end, was one "that I earned".

My deepest gratitude and thanks to Rick Brown for his limitless efforts prior to and

during the hunt to make this hunting trip a quite memorable one, and to Bill Graham

for his humor and wisdom. They made this a fine week indeed.

Epilog

Epilog

Why this story?

I decided to write this story for several reasons. In no particular order, they are:

Provide a little humorous "folklore" to fellow hunters

Record a memorable trip for myself

Demonstrate to the younger breed of hunters amongst us the total experience of hunting.

And, perhaps, to prove that one need not kill an animal to truly enjoy the hunt.

Although hunting has been an integral part of my life since my eleventh birthday, there have been

more "peaks and valleys" than "flat land". In other words, I've hunted a whole lot to take a few

game. But in doing so, I've experienced the greatness of the outdoors. I've been deep into the

wilderness and high onto the mountain. I've sat high above the clouds and watched natures family

at play. And I've had remarkable moments when the reverence of it all has influenced me deeply.

Is this story true?

Yes.

It has been asked many times. Does "art imitate life" or does "life imitate art?"

Once, during a rocket attack near Chu Lai, South Vietnam, a buddy of mine said to me that the

"truth" lies somewhere between Heaven and Hell. He gave it a wide berth. For him, the truth was

only the moment at hand. Anything and everything immediately prior to or forthcoming "the"

moment was - to him - of no significance in the greater scheme of life.

And so, Yes. The events portrayed in this story actually occurred during the seven day period of

this hunt. But attempting

to recall everything that happened, with precision being homaged to dates and times was not my

concern. Certainly, some of the cited events may have occurred on a different date or at a

different time. But they occurred as portrayed. And that is the significance of such "things" in the

greater scheme of life.

I am certain I've left out some things, mis-dated some events, and perhaps have even taken

poetic license at times. But nothing deterred me from the truth of the whole matter as I lived and

witnessed it. What has been reported is what actually happened.

It was a Week To Remember

A week full of twists and turns, of surprise and anticipation. A week of fulfillment and let-down. A

week of hunting. A week to remember.

Regrets? A few.

History

As this story settles into the dust of history, there will remain vivid certain events in my mind.

Such as Graybeard chasing a phantom rattle-snake from a woodpile that I just happened to be

sitting near. Of mythical "Whumpas cats" in the night. Of Ricks cooking and giving up his own

hunting time so that his "guests" could maximize their own. And yes, even the heavy but friendly

banter about the internet as everyone who chooses piles "it" higher and higher.

It is this aspect of a good hunt that cements the total experience. It is the frosting on the cake. It

is what makes it all worth it.

I've had fun putting this story together, taking ribbing from friends whom I've never met. For me,

this hunt exemplified what the sport of hunting is truly all about. Good friends. Good food. Good

bonfire B.S. And sometimes, with a little luck, something to take home other than scent-stinking

clothes and muddy boots.