TIME

TIME

Somehow, he sensed, the old Beagle knew. Was it the shorter days ? The colder nights ? Or maybe the short Training hunts getting ready for the opening day ?
“Who knows ?”, he thought, “but he sure nuff’ knows !”. “I don’t know just how, but that old gray muzzled Beagle somehow knows”.
Raised from a litter of pups that had been born not too long after deer season, he had been carried on deer hunts by his mother, even before he was born. It was like he had been born into the job. Before his eyes were open he had made many trips from the kennel to the house where he recieved supplimentary nutrients. Content then,with his belly full, he would doze on his masters chest, learning the sound of his heartbeat. The sound of his breathing. The warm scent of his master became his “safe haven”.
During this “socialization” period where he learned the sounds of home, his master watched the evening news, stroking his head gently.
This bond that developed would never be forgotten by his master or him for the remainder of their lives.
Not too long after their first steps, the litter of pups was taken out to deer camp to learn of things like the smell of a campfire, and the sound of a shot being fired. This time of romping in the freedom of the outdoors was especially fun for the litter, it showed in their actions and vocalizations.
They learned the smell of coffee brewing and laughing around the campfire. It became a second home to them all. It was clear that the genetic code in them was strong when one day they had a giant tug of war with a squirrel hide. The fun game suddenly turned into a sibling feud over possesion of the hide.
As their final puppy shots were administered and their records updated the master began to think of getting ready for the next deer season.
Many hunts and deer seasons passed.
The old Beagle had helped train many pups, mostly his own. Gray around the muzzle now, he didn’t move as fast as he used to. His hearing was not as keen as it was in years past, and he didn’t see as well.
Time had made its permanent changes in his life.
His nose however was still as good as it had ever had been, and he was nearly always the first to strike a deer track. His master had made a habit of “starting” him down a buck’s track when he was a pup, and he had turned it into an art form.
The whole camp knew his broken bawl when he “opened” on a buck’s trail. Everyone could tell by his voice when the was “moving the track”, or just “cold trailing”.
Everyone knew that when he was on a track that it was likely a buck, and he seemed to prefer the older, “stinkier” bucks. If he was in a cast with younger less experienced dogs, and they opened up on a track that he didn’t, the standers knew that it was likely a lesser deer. The club elders would know that it was time to slip away from the stand and go to the campfire. There they would meet to drink coffee and listen to the race while commenting on the direction of travel and which grandson’s deer stand they might be heading for.
Soon the old Beagle would loose intrest in the track of the lesser deer, and he too would return to camp.
All the oldtimers would understand, pat him on the head and covertly slip him a treat. For they also had little intrest in a lesser deer.
Laying by the campfire listening to the stories, you could tell. You could tell, and there was no doubt about it. When he was in deer camp with his old buddies, he was in his element. It just simply was not ever going to get any better than this. Then he would doze off. In his dreams by the fire he could be seen to be moving his paws while dreaming about running an old buck, occasionaly making small sounds in his excitement.
Yes, it was time.

His last deer season. Note the graying muzzle.

BIG

Big

We had been seeing him for several years and knew the approximate location of his “core” area.
His “ranging” area was wide, and we found his very distinctive scrapes and rubs over a large part of the hunting lease.
He was the buck that everyone in our club wanted to bag. He proved to be an opponent of great skill, for after all, we were hunting him in the area where he was the master.
The master taught some of us lessons that we will never forget. His core area was filled with deep ravines bounded with steep mountains. Those mountains caused swirling and fickle air currents that would give away the most skilled of our hunters.
Food plots, scent lures, rattling, feeders and stand placement all seemed futile. The master was truly the master of his core area.
Some of our hunters had went into the area specifically to hunt him.
Most never saw him. Some were even crowded out of the area by a black bear and her cubs.
The area was difficult to get in to and any kind of weather made it extremely hard to get to.
Our hunters would trade stories about their experiences of hunting him. These campfire stories would be told over and over. Suggestions of various strategies were the subject over many cups of coffee.
The extremely steep terrain even caused physical changes to the old buck, as evidenced by his tracks. When he walked on the steep mouintainsides, the outside half of his split hoof was constantly tapping against rocks. This caused wear on that hoof half, so his track was readily recognizable. The inside half actually curled around the end of the outside half when he left a track on level ground.
He preferred making scrapes on a certain “blue line” or hardwood filled streamside. His rubs were always on the same type of sappling. He preferred the softer more aromatic of trees to rub on, always of larger diameter than other bucks in the area.
His antler span was wide, as was visible when he was rubbing a tree where a nearby tree would have incidental marks on them.
For some reason, no one ever caught his image on a game camera, yet the few sightings by hunters kept the whole hunt club buzzing.
When one of the club elders stated that he was the largest deer he had ever seen in this area, it had meaning for many.
In the tale after tale around the campfires, he had became simply, “big boy”.
Some of our club members work for a local mining company that borders the hunting lease. These members always had sightings to report, adding to the mistique and legend of big boy.
It wasn’t a hunter, or any crafty ploy. Not a technique or a stand placement that did it.
It was the rut. Plain and simple, it was the old bucks inner urge that drove the old buck out into the haul road in the mine area. A 100 ton dump truck can’t stop on a dime, and the old buck didn’t either.
We are all talking about old big boy again. But mostly we are going to miss him, knowing that he is not there changes things somehow.
We had hunted him for six years . . . , say ! I wonder just how many sons and grandsons he has out there ?


In the photo the antlers, taped togather for measuring, are held by Tom Green. All of the antlers was not recovered. If the antlers were symetrical they would have scored 176 on the BTR system.

ROAD

Road

Easing down the old logging road with his trusty ol’ .22 in his hand, he thought, “another couple of years and this old log road will dissapear”.
It is squirrel season and “Patch” is making ever widening circles out ahead of him, casting about for a squirrel trail.
Even though there had not been a vehicle down the old road for years, it was obvious that it was still well traveled. The road traveled down a ridge towards a small stream. Wild life was using it even though man was not.
Nearly grown over with saplings of various species, it was difficult to walk, without stooping occasionaly, to pass through a more grown over area.
Coming out of one such area, he had found a recent Buck Scrape under an overhanging tree branch. Further along he found several Buck Rubs. This particular Buck seemed to prefer the small dogwood trees that grew in the edge of this old road. He thought, “seems as if the rut may be a little early coming on this year”.
About that time, Patch struck a trail that really “grabbed” her by the nose. She had turned sharply with her nose very close to the ground, following a sent trail for a short distance. Going just a few feet off of the road, Patch suddenly stopped and looked over her shoulder, waiting for him to walk up.
Patch had been scolded for “working” fresh deer sent before. Remembering the lesson, she had picked her nose up off of the ground and looked at him as if to say, ” nope, I ain’t a’ working that track” !
When he walked up to where she had stopped to wait for him, he could see a freshly “serviced” Buck scrape. Patting her gently on the head he told her, “good girl”, “ok, get ahead”.
As he stepped back out into the old road, he could see that Turkeys had been scratching for grubs and so forth in the tire ruts where leaves could accumilate.
A loose Turkey feather lay there on the ground. As he reached for it, he hears Patch giving that squeal that he had been waiting for.
She had found that Squirrel track she had been searching for.
Nearly as soon as Patch dissapeared into the streamside hardwoods, he could hear her giving her “treed” bark.
About the time he got to where he could see which tree Patch was on, it struck him just how beautiful this place was.
Early morning sun light was shining through slightly yellowing Hickory tree leaves, lighting the whole area up with a kind of a “glow”. The nearby stream gave off a gentle gurgling sound that added to the beauty of the place.
Pausing to take in the beauty for just a second before going to Patch’s tree, he was reminded of a line from the Wizard of Oz.. Dorothy had said, “there’s no place like home”.

CELLAR

CELLAR

The ground under the old hickory tree was covered with hulls and nut shells. The squirrels had been having days of feasting on the abundance provided by this very large old Hickory tree. As he walked up, .22 in hand, he could smell the hickory nut smell hanging heavy in the air.
Two rat terriers were “treed solid” and looking up into the heavy foilage above. Dillon the retired drug dog was sitting a few feet back from all of the rowdy activity of the terriers. He looked over his shoulder towards him, as he arrived, as if to say, “come on, we ain’t got all day here !”
As he approached, he had passed by an old rock fence, and had thought to himself, “hey I didn’t know there was an old house place here”.
Dillon was sitting on a mound of dirt and rocks that was likely the remains of the old cabin’s chimney and fireplace. Sticking up out of the ground nearby was the remains of an old fireplace grate made from wagon wheel rim material. Some blacksmith’s work was still holding up well.
Thinking to himself, “this squirrel will be hard to fetch, up in that heavy leaf cover”, he took time to look the old house place over.
The next thing about the old house place that he located was the “root cellar”.
He grinned to myself as he remembered what a dark, smelly, scarey place a cellar could be for a mountain child that had been sent for a jar of preserves.
The door would squeal in protest when opened, then the dank smells would almost over power you as you entered the cellar.
The last thing you herd as you left for the jar of preserves was, ” I saw a snake last time I was in there, you be careful ! ”
Then as you stepped down the rickety steps into the darkness, a spider web wrapped around your face !
His daydream was shattered as a terrier nudged him as if to say ” you gona’ get this squirrel, or what ?”

THIRTY

30
( MS )
Standing there quietly, a visitor would hardly notice. But he knew. He knew that it had been carefully wiped down before putting it up in the cabinet.
There are those that would think, “he’s crazy to waste such time on that old worn and scratched thing”.
Each time that he passed nearby and glanced at it, he knew it was there. It would remind him of many good times in the woods, shared often times with good friends and dogs he had raised.
The bluing is badly worn through to the bare metal where it rested in the gun rack or was carried by a damp hand for many miles.
The wood forearm and stock that looked so beautiful when new, has little of the origonal finish on it now. Briar scratches and brush marks are clearly visible on the wood.
The origonal front bead was lost during a fall into a creek one deer season. It has been replaced, and the replacement has lost it’s brass post bead.
As he takes it from the cabinet memories of many great hunts flood through his mind.
Wiping it lightly and getting ready to go the rifle range to check the “zero”, he thinks, “nearly every imperfection has a story to tell.”
Stories of frosty mornings, the bay of beagles working on a track, the smell of a campfire and coffee with friends. Stories of hours on a stand high up in “ease on gap” and awakening from a “power nap” with the sunshine on his face and wildlife making scurrying movements nearby.
Sometimes he wonderd about the workers at Winchester that assembled his old 30-30.
Could they possibly imagine the Ouachita mountian deer hunts that their product would go on, and the the meals it would put on the table ?

BRIGHT

BRIGHT
>

Four squirrel dogs and he, had loaded into the cammo truck before daylight. It was squirrel season in the Ouachita mountains.
The chill of the night air was still present as they rolled towards the area that they planned to hunt.
Shivering, he thought, “Ol’ Dillon isn’t hanging out of the window, so it may be a bit cooler than I thought”.
“A little heat in the floorboard will let us keep the windows open”.
The smaller “wet weather” branches of the streams are still dry so they are casting into large hardwoods near streams that have plenty of water.
The dogs are anxious to get on the ground so he stops in a likely spot and drops the tailgate.
The dogs immediately run several circles to burn off a little tension energy, then come back to him as if to say “whatcha’ a’ waitin’ on ?”
Early sunlight shoots bright rays of intense light through the heavy tree cover.
The earth is warmer than the air so it is giving up a small amount of moisture in the form of vapor.
As the very bright streams of sunlight cut through the light mist they look like the lazer beams from a science fiction movie.
The “bottom” they are in was an old homestead house place many years ago. The mostly oak trees are very large and shut out the sunlight to the extent that there is little under brush. Walking is easy and it is a most beautiful sight as the dogs spread out searching for the scent of the elusive squirrel that they hunt.
The reverie of this beautiful moment is broken as the Jack Russel Terrier “Patch”, squeals.
She is dancing on her back legs looking into the tree tops and moving backwards at a quite incredible speed, as she keeps track of a squirrel moving fast through the tree tops.
As the other dogs come to her to help, he thinks “ain’t it great to be in the woods with a gun and a good dog “!

SUNUP

SUNUP
( MS )
Quietly he had turned the alarm clock off.
The clock was set for 0430 hours, but he had slipped out of bed, early, carefully, so as to not wake his wife.
When he checked the time on the front of the computer, as it booted up, it said 0340 hours. He left the computer sound system off, again, not to bother his wife.
As the outlook express brought up the email that had arrived overnight, he thought, “I bet i’m wasting my time, she is probably awake anyhow”.
Email checked, he shut the computer down. Then he noted that he could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. “I was right,” he thought, she is not only awake but, she has already made coffee.
The squirrel dogs in the kennel are restless as he takes the thermos jug and the .22 out to the cammo truck.
They know.
She checks a last few things while he loads the rat terriers into the dog box.
By now they are vocalizing loudly in anticipation of the hunt to come.
Now, they know for sure.
They drive out on the lease to the “heilo pad”, the nick name for their campsite.
In the pre dawn the whipporwills call nearby.
One more reason why they picked this campsite.
With all the windows down so they can hear better, he hoots like a barred owl. The whipporwills take exception to the owls presence and increase the tempo of their calling.
They grin at each other in the darkness while pouring another cup of coffee from the thermos.
Opening morning of squirrel season !
Ain’t it great to live in the heart of the Ouachita mountains !