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 ?”
Friday, September 26, 2008
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 ?
( 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 “!
>
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 !
( 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 !
TRAM
TRAM
( MS )
Years before, he had made the discovery. Now the knowledge gave him the ability to access the Caney Creek Wilderness at places other than the trail heads on the East and West sides.
The secret was the old logging railroad’s tram lines. The rails and ties had long been removed but the railbed remained in many places. Damaged by flooding, blowdowns and overgrowth, yet the tram lines were a good travel route.
Not comfortable “road trip” travel but instead,”huntin’ Mule” travel. Sometimes climbing steeply, sometimes not so steep, but always up, up towards the “saddle” of Porter Mountain.
Daylight was just a promise, yet unkept, when he slid the old Winchester into the scabbard, tightened the girt and swung up into the saddle.
They moved up the old tram line at a brisk pace, accompanied by the sounds of an occasional limb sliding over a stirrip or the gentle click of a hoof on a rock.
As the sunrise that pre dawn had promised arrived, he could see in the distance, the dim outline of the saddle they were journeying toward.
Leaning forward beside the mules neck while they passed under a large limb, he quietly said, “easy boy, the steepest part is yet to come”.
The black gelding mule knew the route for he had been here many times before. He also knew that when he got to the deer stand high up on the side of Porter mountain there would be a small treat for him, then a quick rub down and unsaddling.
A large white oak had fallen across the tramway causing a detour out onto the steep rock strewn mountainside.
When they stepped out onto the loose rock, a small stone rolled noisily down the mountainside.
That is when he saw the movement, way up ahead, on the trail. A soft “whoa” froze the mule in his tracks, as he silently pulled the binoculars from the saddle horn pouch.
A careful look revealed nothing. They moved from the loose rock back onto the trail. Travel was quieter there on the trail as they resumed their pace. Now they both watched up the trail for movement. Before they saw the movement, the mule flared his nostrils slightly, blowing gently. The mule had been at this for long enough to know that the smell of a deer usually meant a loud report of the Winchester followed by packing a deer out to the truck. They were both anxious.
Light was improving rapidly and they could see further up the steep trail. That is when they saw the movement again.
No “whoa” was needed this time. The mule froze in place. The binoculars revealed that it was a wide seven point buck. He was looking back over his shoulder down the trail toward them. The mule’s ears were pointed towards the buck like a radar antenna, his focus was unflinchingly on the deer ahead.
That’s when he remembered. His wife had said as he went out of the door, “I don’t want to hear a “trophy hunt” story when you get back, we need the meat in the freezer”.
The buck was presenting a low percentage shot that he was reluctant to take. Without a word he gently nudged the mule forward, slowly closing the distance. The buck’s tail, now plainly visible, though tucked tightly, twitched a bit. The buck moved slightly ahead and turned sideways for a better look.
When the binoculars were put away they had been replaced with the old Winchester 30-30. It had been laying in the crook of his arm. As he reigned the mule a step to the right and a bit sideways, he brought the rifle to bear on the buck. The mule “kind of tightened up all over” in anticipation of the shot that he knew was coming.
Gently, smoothly, he pulled the trigger. He was thinking, ” he ain’t no “wall hanger”, but he will sure fill up that “empty” in the freezer”.
As the buck went down he felt that age old hunters satisfaction, knowing that he had made the proper shot placement, insuring a quick humane harvest of the deer.
Stepping from the saddle he tied the mule quickly to a nearby tree, approaching the deer carefully. Satisfied that the bullet had done it’s work, he returned the rifle to the scabbard and retrieved a rope from the saddle. After placing his “tag” on the antlers and making a quick “dally” around the deers hocks, he used the mule to pull the deer to a more level place to work. When he was tied, the mule seemed to snort a reminder to him that said, “hey did you forget my treat ?” ” I did good too !”
( MS )
Years before, he had made the discovery. Now the knowledge gave him the ability to access the Caney Creek Wilderness at places other than the trail heads on the East and West sides.
The secret was the old logging railroad’s tram lines. The rails and ties had long been removed but the railbed remained in many places. Damaged by flooding, blowdowns and overgrowth, yet the tram lines were a good travel route.
Not comfortable “road trip” travel but instead,”huntin’ Mule” travel. Sometimes climbing steeply, sometimes not so steep, but always up, up towards the “saddle” of Porter Mountain.
Daylight was just a promise, yet unkept, when he slid the old Winchester into the scabbard, tightened the girt and swung up into the saddle.
They moved up the old tram line at a brisk pace, accompanied by the sounds of an occasional limb sliding over a stirrip or the gentle click of a hoof on a rock.
As the sunrise that pre dawn had promised arrived, he could see in the distance, the dim outline of the saddle they were journeying toward.
Leaning forward beside the mules neck while they passed under a large limb, he quietly said, “easy boy, the steepest part is yet to come”.
The black gelding mule knew the route for he had been here many times before. He also knew that when he got to the deer stand high up on the side of Porter mountain there would be a small treat for him, then a quick rub down and unsaddling.
A large white oak had fallen across the tramway causing a detour out onto the steep rock strewn mountainside.
When they stepped out onto the loose rock, a small stone rolled noisily down the mountainside.
That is when he saw the movement, way up ahead, on the trail. A soft “whoa” froze the mule in his tracks, as he silently pulled the binoculars from the saddle horn pouch.
A careful look revealed nothing. They moved from the loose rock back onto the trail. Travel was quieter there on the trail as they resumed their pace. Now they both watched up the trail for movement. Before they saw the movement, the mule flared his nostrils slightly, blowing gently. The mule had been at this for long enough to know that the smell of a deer usually meant a loud report of the Winchester followed by packing a deer out to the truck. They were both anxious.
Light was improving rapidly and they could see further up the steep trail. That is when they saw the movement again.
No “whoa” was needed this time. The mule froze in place. The binoculars revealed that it was a wide seven point buck. He was looking back over his shoulder down the trail toward them. The mule’s ears were pointed towards the buck like a radar antenna, his focus was unflinchingly on the deer ahead.
That’s when he remembered. His wife had said as he went out of the door, “I don’t want to hear a “trophy hunt” story when you get back, we need the meat in the freezer”.
The buck was presenting a low percentage shot that he was reluctant to take. Without a word he gently nudged the mule forward, slowly closing the distance. The buck’s tail, now plainly visible, though tucked tightly, twitched a bit. The buck moved slightly ahead and turned sideways for a better look.
When the binoculars were put away they had been replaced with the old Winchester 30-30. It had been laying in the crook of his arm. As he reigned the mule a step to the right and a bit sideways, he brought the rifle to bear on the buck. The mule “kind of tightened up all over” in anticipation of the shot that he knew was coming.
Gently, smoothly, he pulled the trigger. He was thinking, ” he ain’t no “wall hanger”, but he will sure fill up that “empty” in the freezer”.
As the buck went down he felt that age old hunters satisfaction, knowing that he had made the proper shot placement, insuring a quick humane harvest of the deer.
Stepping from the saddle he tied the mule quickly to a nearby tree, approaching the deer carefully. Satisfied that the bullet had done it’s work, he returned the rifle to the scabbard and retrieved a rope from the saddle. After placing his “tag” on the antlers and making a quick “dally” around the deers hocks, he used the mule to pull the deer to a more level place to work. When he was tied, the mule seemed to snort a reminder to him that said, “hey did you forget my treat ?” ” I did good too !”
RICH
RICH
( MS )
The high leafy canopy kept much of the sunlight from reaching the earth. Direct sunlight seldom appeared here. The effects were profound. Nearly eighty feet above his sitting place he could hear a squirrel foraging, unseen, chattering occasionally. It had been described to him once, and he wasn’t sure then, that the story teller had been careful with the facts. Now he knew why. The pristine beauty of this very hard to get to place was absolutely awe inspiring. He knew now, why the story teller had difficulty describing the place. It was so very, very, different from the everyday surroundings of the “outside world”.
He knew when he had walked into the horseshoe shaped valley, that it had to be the one that he had been told about.
His muscles were stiffening up from sitting in one position for so long. Checking the time he realised that he had been sitting with his back against the tree for well over an hour.
It wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t enough. He needed more time to absorb a satisfactory amount of this wonderful place. He knew, somehow, that this was one of those rare and wonderful places that was just “good for your soul”.
Almost no under brush grew amongst the very large hardwoods. Large ferns of a type he was unfamiliar with, grew randomly on the forest floor.
The moisture in the air was very high, he guessed, because the rare shaft of sunlight that would appear briefly, would glisten brightly in the vapor/air, then dissappear. Sitting on the mountain side he could see all the way to the bottom of this special valley.
A spring flowed from a steep cutbank at the upper end of the valley. The soil was coarse textured and a rich dark color. A light mist arose from the spring and it was evident that the wildlife had been digging in the soil there. “A mineral lick”, he thought, “Man that is such a large licking place that they must have been using it for who knows how many years !”
Soaking it all in, as well as he could, he began to marvel over the immense size of the large hardwood trees that filled the valley, shutting out the sunlight.
Upon closer observation he noted that what he had thought was a smaller tree was, instead , a extremely large muscadine vine. It was so large that the bark didn’t look like those vines he was familiar with. Traveling upward through the leaf canopy the vine dissappeared from sight in it’s quest for life sustaining sunlight. Looking on the ground for leaves or fruit from the vine, he found none. “Wild life”, he thought, “they have cleaned it all up”.
Deer tracks were every where. Closer examination told him that some of the tracks were quite old. Thinking about it he realised that the rain and wind had trouble penetrating the heavy overstory to erase the tracks.
Beautiful mushrooms grew here in strange shapes , some brightly colored, some not.
Here and there were the acorn caps that had been discarded from the acorns as the deer and other wild life had eaten them. He thought, ” they are the same color as the dirt ! I wonder if………”
Before the thought was completed, his attention was diverted to a patch of sunlight in the distance. There had been movement. Not much movement, but enough. He focused the binoculars on the spot. It was where a large ancient oak had falen leaving a break in the tree tops where sunlight could penetrate.
It wouldn’t last long, he knew, the trees competing for sunlight would soon close over the opening.
Grass had sprang up in the patch of light and his binoculars revealed two deer bedded down in that grassy place in the sunshine.
“Well, fooey !” He thought, “I was so engrossed in this place that I almost forgot why I came here !”
“Too far for my old .30″, he thought. “If I tried a shot from here, it would be a “maybe” thing”.
“I can’t make a stalk from downwind, it is too open, I would be seen.”
Then, there were other factors, for after all this was the Caney Creek Wilderness, rough , mountainous, wild and unforgiving.
The climb back over Porter Mountain would take serious time and effort. He had been here long enough that his hike back to the pickup truck would go well past dark.
It was a difficult decision that he had to make. If he did shoot the buck that he could see in the small opening, he would be past dark, skinning and quartering. Then it would likely take two trips to pack out the meat, hide and antlers.
Finaly he knew, “I just ain’t up to it, by myself”.
Slowly the solution came to him.
A few carefully taken photos with the camera in his day pack, and he began the long climb back out of the rich woods. Back to the “real world”.
The long difficult hike was filled with thoughts of, “should I tell others about this place ? Or should I just not speak of it at all ? After all, I know now, just how hard it is to tell people of this place”.
Only one photo came out well enough to tell much detail, likely because of the subdued light conditions.
The photo lays in a desk drawer, looked at from time to time. Mostly on those days when he feels the need to “escape” from the “real world”.
( MS )
The high leafy canopy kept much of the sunlight from reaching the earth. Direct sunlight seldom appeared here. The effects were profound. Nearly eighty feet above his sitting place he could hear a squirrel foraging, unseen, chattering occasionally. It had been described to him once, and he wasn’t sure then, that the story teller had been careful with the facts. Now he knew why. The pristine beauty of this very hard to get to place was absolutely awe inspiring. He knew now, why the story teller had difficulty describing the place. It was so very, very, different from the everyday surroundings of the “outside world”.
He knew when he had walked into the horseshoe shaped valley, that it had to be the one that he had been told about.
His muscles were stiffening up from sitting in one position for so long. Checking the time he realised that he had been sitting with his back against the tree for well over an hour.
It wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t enough. He needed more time to absorb a satisfactory amount of this wonderful place. He knew, somehow, that this was one of those rare and wonderful places that was just “good for your soul”.
Almost no under brush grew amongst the very large hardwoods. Large ferns of a type he was unfamiliar with, grew randomly on the forest floor.
The moisture in the air was very high, he guessed, because the rare shaft of sunlight that would appear briefly, would glisten brightly in the vapor/air, then dissappear. Sitting on the mountain side he could see all the way to the bottom of this special valley.
A spring flowed from a steep cutbank at the upper end of the valley. The soil was coarse textured and a rich dark color. A light mist arose from the spring and it was evident that the wildlife had been digging in the soil there. “A mineral lick”, he thought, “Man that is such a large licking place that they must have been using it for who knows how many years !”
Soaking it all in, as well as he could, he began to marvel over the immense size of the large hardwood trees that filled the valley, shutting out the sunlight.
Upon closer observation he noted that what he had thought was a smaller tree was, instead , a extremely large muscadine vine. It was so large that the bark didn’t look like those vines he was familiar with. Traveling upward through the leaf canopy the vine dissappeared from sight in it’s quest for life sustaining sunlight. Looking on the ground for leaves or fruit from the vine, he found none. “Wild life”, he thought, “they have cleaned it all up”.
Deer tracks were every where. Closer examination told him that some of the tracks were quite old. Thinking about it he realised that the rain and wind had trouble penetrating the heavy overstory to erase the tracks.
Beautiful mushrooms grew here in strange shapes , some brightly colored, some not.
Here and there were the acorn caps that had been discarded from the acorns as the deer and other wild life had eaten them. He thought, ” they are the same color as the dirt ! I wonder if………”
Before the thought was completed, his attention was diverted to a patch of sunlight in the distance. There had been movement. Not much movement, but enough. He focused the binoculars on the spot. It was where a large ancient oak had falen leaving a break in the tree tops where sunlight could penetrate.
It wouldn’t last long, he knew, the trees competing for sunlight would soon close over the opening.
Grass had sprang up in the patch of light and his binoculars revealed two deer bedded down in that grassy place in the sunshine.
“Well, fooey !” He thought, “I was so engrossed in this place that I almost forgot why I came here !”
“Too far for my old .30″, he thought. “If I tried a shot from here, it would be a “maybe” thing”.
“I can’t make a stalk from downwind, it is too open, I would be seen.”
Then, there were other factors, for after all this was the Caney Creek Wilderness, rough , mountainous, wild and unforgiving.
The climb back over Porter Mountain would take serious time and effort. He had been here long enough that his hike back to the pickup truck would go well past dark.
It was a difficult decision that he had to make. If he did shoot the buck that he could see in the small opening, he would be past dark, skinning and quartering. Then it would likely take two trips to pack out the meat, hide and antlers.
Finaly he knew, “I just ain’t up to it, by myself”.
Slowly the solution came to him.
A few carefully taken photos with the camera in his day pack, and he began the long climb back out of the rich woods. Back to the “real world”.
The long difficult hike was filled with thoughts of, “should I tell others about this place ? Or should I just not speak of it at all ? After all, I know now, just how hard it is to tell people of this place”.
Only one photo came out well enough to tell much detail, likely because of the subdued light conditions.
The photo lays in a desk drawer, looked at from time to time. Mostly on those days when he feels the need to “escape” from the “real world”.
SNAP
SNAP
( MS )
Snap ! It sounded thunderous in his ears !
There was no large billowing cloud of smoke hanging in the air, or recoil from the old muzzle loader.
Hopeing for a “hang fire” he kept the sights steadily on the shoulder of the buck deer.
It didn’t happen, no hang fire. Seconds passed as he wondered, should I try another cap ? Can I manage to put on another cap without being detected by the buck ?
The snap had made the buck nervous, looking about almost casually, his nervousness only told by a slight twitching of his tail.
Hopeing the buck would return to browsing, he waited.
As he stood very still, he thought over the events that had led up to this moment.
A light rain had fallen overnight, so he had decided to walk down the ridge on the “old Settlers” trail, knowing that the leaves would be damp and silent.
Walking with his face into the gentle breeze, he moved slowly and cautiously.
For lack of a better expression the old timers had called it “still” hunting.
He wondered why. The slow and carefully measured steps certainly wern’t being still.
The large white oaks were dropping their acorns and he knew that after the rain there would be a fresh supply on the ground for the deer.
As first light faded into full dawn, he could see that the trail was full of deer tracks and “sign”.
Sunshine beamed over his right shoulder, deep into the woods ahead of him. He could see down the ridge into the forest for quite a ways.
His steady movement had kept him warm during the early morning chill. As he was considering shedding a layer of clothing for comfort, he saw movement ahead.
He froze, watching down the trail intently.
Gradually they came into focus for him. There were four bucks, apparently still in a loose bachelor group. They were grazing from his left to his right, scattered out over forty yards, in single file. Like him, they were moving into the wind as they fed on the acorns.
A slight change in their direction of travel gave him an opportunity to move silently into position.
Soon he was waiting for them to feed into range.
Closer they fed. He had to consciously work on controlling his breathing, his heart rate was way up.
The first deer had fed by at about fifty yards, a shot he could make, yet he waited.
The buck that had caught his attention was the second in the line, and was nearing a opening in the trees where he could be seen clearly.
When the buck entered the opening he was facing him. Not a good angle, wait, wait. Then as the buck turned slightly to pick up an acorn, the shot he wanted presented it’s self.
Placing the front sight bead carefully on the bucks shoulder he gently squeezed the trigger.
That’s when it happened.
Snap !
As the waiting game drug out, muscles began to cramp, the old muzzle loader was heavy when extended from his shoulder.
The buck dropped his head to continue feeding.
Now, he thought, now is my chance to put on another cap.
Lowering the black powder rifle he reached into his “possibles” bag for another primer cap.
WHEEZE !!
Busted !
The dreaded sound he was hopeing he could avoid, happened. A loud alarm wheeze !
The first buck that had fed past him was looking right at him and as soon as he moved, he snorted the alarm.
Leaves scattered, twigs snapped and rocks rattled as the deer fled away.
Then, silence.
Stepping from his hiding place, rifle in one hand and primer cap in the other, he thought, “man, there were way more deer there than I had seen, the whole world came alive when that snort happened”.
Replacing the primer cap with a new unfired cap, he considered each step he had taken when loading the muzzle loader.
He had done it many times over the years, with very few misfires. What had gone wrong this time ?
Those new muzzle loaders he had been reading about seemed very tempting to him. Using a inline firing method and shotgun primers, they reportedly had longer range and more power, as well as being more dependable.
Yet there was something pleasing about continuing with the traditional black powder methods.
“Nah”, he thought,” there will be another day, and another buck. I will build a buckskin cover for the primer cap and hammer to keep moisture out.”
“I have carried this old charcoal burner for so many miles I would hate to give up on her now.”
( MS )
Snap ! It sounded thunderous in his ears !
There was no large billowing cloud of smoke hanging in the air, or recoil from the old muzzle loader.
Hopeing for a “hang fire” he kept the sights steadily on the shoulder of the buck deer.
It didn’t happen, no hang fire. Seconds passed as he wondered, should I try another cap ? Can I manage to put on another cap without being detected by the buck ?
The snap had made the buck nervous, looking about almost casually, his nervousness only told by a slight twitching of his tail.
Hopeing the buck would return to browsing, he waited.
As he stood very still, he thought over the events that had led up to this moment.
A light rain had fallen overnight, so he had decided to walk down the ridge on the “old Settlers” trail, knowing that the leaves would be damp and silent.
Walking with his face into the gentle breeze, he moved slowly and cautiously.
For lack of a better expression the old timers had called it “still” hunting.
He wondered why. The slow and carefully measured steps certainly wern’t being still.
The large white oaks were dropping their acorns and he knew that after the rain there would be a fresh supply on the ground for the deer.
As first light faded into full dawn, he could see that the trail was full of deer tracks and “sign”.
Sunshine beamed over his right shoulder, deep into the woods ahead of him. He could see down the ridge into the forest for quite a ways.
His steady movement had kept him warm during the early morning chill. As he was considering shedding a layer of clothing for comfort, he saw movement ahead.
He froze, watching down the trail intently.
Gradually they came into focus for him. There were four bucks, apparently still in a loose bachelor group. They were grazing from his left to his right, scattered out over forty yards, in single file. Like him, they were moving into the wind as they fed on the acorns.
A slight change in their direction of travel gave him an opportunity to move silently into position.
Soon he was waiting for them to feed into range.
Closer they fed. He had to consciously work on controlling his breathing, his heart rate was way up.
The first deer had fed by at about fifty yards, a shot he could make, yet he waited.
The buck that had caught his attention was the second in the line, and was nearing a opening in the trees where he could be seen clearly.
When the buck entered the opening he was facing him. Not a good angle, wait, wait. Then as the buck turned slightly to pick up an acorn, the shot he wanted presented it’s self.
Placing the front sight bead carefully on the bucks shoulder he gently squeezed the trigger.
That’s when it happened.
Snap !
As the waiting game drug out, muscles began to cramp, the old muzzle loader was heavy when extended from his shoulder.
The buck dropped his head to continue feeding.
Now, he thought, now is my chance to put on another cap.
Lowering the black powder rifle he reached into his “possibles” bag for another primer cap.
WHEEZE !!
Busted !
The dreaded sound he was hopeing he could avoid, happened. A loud alarm wheeze !
The first buck that had fed past him was looking right at him and as soon as he moved, he snorted the alarm.
Leaves scattered, twigs snapped and rocks rattled as the deer fled away.
Then, silence.
Stepping from his hiding place, rifle in one hand and primer cap in the other, he thought, “man, there were way more deer there than I had seen, the whole world came alive when that snort happened”.
Replacing the primer cap with a new unfired cap, he considered each step he had taken when loading the muzzle loader.
He had done it many times over the years, with very few misfires. What had gone wrong this time ?
Those new muzzle loaders he had been reading about seemed very tempting to him. Using a inline firing method and shotgun primers, they reportedly had longer range and more power, as well as being more dependable.
Yet there was something pleasing about continuing with the traditional black powder methods.
“Nah”, he thought,” there will be another day, and another buck. I will build a buckskin cover for the primer cap and hammer to keep moisture out.”
“I have carried this old charcoal burner for so many miles I would hate to give up on her now.”
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