Posted in Stories by my dad

In Memory of My Dad #31

This article was written by my dad on April 8, 1995 entitled Springing Eternal the Hunters Spirit Mingles in the Greenery.  Perhaps some of you hunters can see yourself in the description, and most of your hunter friends too.

The days are lengthening; green colors are showing beneath the yellowish brown cover of fall grasses, buds are showing on the fruit trees and another long winter is about to end.

Early Spring burst out in the hills to the east of Tahlequah and the whites of the dogwoods and the pinks of the redbuds bring out another phenomenon:  The return of the deer and turkey to their accustomed haunts.

The fundamental instincts of these creatures brought about each year simply seem to make the animals disappear from the face of the earth.  Even for the last two months, it’s as if they had been swallowed up by the earth.  And it’s not until about the first of March that they come out again from the deep canyons and heavy brush and become visible to their human neighbors.

Many people will not believe what I am about to say.  I remember a few years ago, when I interviewed the last (at that time) of the Whooping Cranes, there were doubting Thomases who denied that I had ever, in the middle of Dismal Swamp, Texas entertained a family of cranes and held a prolonged conversation with the head of the family while feeding them canned shrimp and anchovies.

There has been a many-antlered deer out on Webster flat for many years now.  Neighbors have seen him flitting across the darkening landscape, and he has been the quarry of many an ardent hunter these past hunting seasons.  As a matter of fact he and I have an understanding.  He lives in a growth of cedars not far from Art Webster’s house near a hillside watering tank.  Often we meet out by a large block of salt and he licks while I talk.

Now if you don’t believe this you had better stop reading now—especially if you are a deer hunter–because my old friend may be discussing you with a frankness which will not do your ego any good.

The afternoon was mild as I sat propped against a sweetgum tree, and old Lucky Buck worked out on the block of salt.  Finally he turned to me and said:  “Mr. Bob, people are sure enough funny, especially hunting people.”  I don’t know why it is, but all sorts of animals call me “Mister Bob”; deer, fox, ‘coons and all sorts of flying creatures. 

“I suppose,” he went on, “that we deer here in Cherokee County have had about a good a chance as any to study the hunting human.  And believe me, they are a strange lot.  Now being that you want the facts, I’ll give them to you.  And you write them down.

One of the oldest types of hunter is the Housekeeping Hunter.

This fellow arrives on his hunting lease in the early morning hours with a truck load of equipment and one or more hunting partners.  He is the boss of his own camp and a great stickler for detail.  While his companions look longingly out over the hills, he is picking the ideal campsite.  This may take three hours.  Then the others in his party are handed shovels and boy scout axes which brings about the job of erecting the tent.  Cots are then set up and the kitchen is installed with all the painstaking care of Admiral Byrd setting up camp in “Little America” in the Arctic.

On about the second day there is a supervised hunt for a couple of hours with no results, and the third day is reserved for breaking camp, reloading and policing up the area.”

So our interview came to an end, and in the interest of brevity I have condensed the other observations of Lucky Buck.

THE EXECUTIVE TYPE:
According to Lucky Buck, this man hunts from a tree stand.  The game is supposed to come to him.  Often he has a hole bored into a live oak limb, into which he slips a swivel chair, so that he can feel at ease and face up or downwind at will.  he spends a good deal of time drinking coffee that his toadies fetched for him, while sighting his rifle in on imaginary rhinos or cape buffalo, against the time he is voted in as president of Alaska or the king of Africa.

THE MEAT GETTER:
Works under the old belief that there are two kinds of venison, that with antlers and that without.  This man is of special interest to game wardens.  This mean is an elusive character, found mostly at night equipped with a powerful flashlight, poaching on private property and later found in the county judge’s office.  Often has wife or children along as a decoy.  Cries like a baby when caught.

THE STATUS HUNTER:
Often is accompanied by his wife.  Easily recognized by outdoor and hunting plumage, station wagon, and a certain amount of hopping from one hunting camp to another.  Is not considered a serious threat to the deer population, but does make an occasional input on armadillo, field mice and owls.  Only disaster that can happen to this boy is getting shot by his wife.

THE DRINKING HUNTER:
A boon to conservation (deer conservation that is).  Full of laughter and practical jokes, conversation and ‘who hit John’.  Usually can be found at convenience and package stores around town, thus enlivening the hunting season.  Likes to frame hunting companions by pretending he’s the game warden over the telephone.  Keeps odd hours.   Returns home from hunting trips laden with plenty of meat:  cured hams, smoked bacon, sausage and a tame turkey that he tries to pawn off as a freshly killed wild turkey.

MISCELLANEOUS HUNTER:
Shows up on frosty mornings with a .270 rifle and plenty of .30-06 ammo.  relaxing in his snuggly sleeping bag, he awaits dawn and D-Day, then suddenly remembers what it was he forgot to bring–his hunting license.

THE DISCOUNT STORE HUNTER:
Can be seen wearing the bright hunter orange vest, cap and gloves, searching for an inch of uninhabited land to hunt on.  Not finding this, can usually be found around a companion’s truck checking out the spike deer that his friend has been feeding for six months.  Drinks tons of coffee and talks about how it used to be.  Can be readily identified by the trinkling gadgets that can be heard two miles away.

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Author:

I’m Angel, a.k.a. Rocket Surgeon, and these are my chronicles. I love writing and I believe our stories should be shared, so here you’ll find anecdotes of my life, loves, worries, fears, joys, and experiences. I blog about my mishaps and adventures as a wife, mommy, auntie, wanna-be writer, teacher, Texan, country/city/mountain girl, cereal killer and Jesus-freak. A few things you might discover about me: •Jesus is my everything; without Him I am nothing, but with him I can do all things •My family makes this world a better place for me to live in •I adore chickens, the live ones, although the cooked ones aren’t too bad either •I have 2 dogs: Grace and Ozzie. And one cat: Rocky Muffin •My dream job would be to raise chickens and write best sellers Thanks for stopping by. Kick off your shoes and stay awhile. I know your time is valuable and I honor you for spending a few moments here with me. I hope you find something to brighten your day, lighten your load, make you chuckle and remind you of the good in the world. “When you look for the bad in mankind, expecting to find it, you surely will." Pollyanna I’m always eager to meet new online friends, so leave a comment and introduce yourself.

One thought on “In Memory of My Dad #31

  1. Another “Saturday with Bob” post and I find myself once again amazed that this man can engage my tired and frazzled old mind and keep me reading line after line about something I know absolutely nothing about, have never experienced one iota, and never will! Yet I still “absorbed” every description like a sponge, mesmerized by his play with words, and will now go to bed with a smile and a lingering thought of Bob visiting with the deer at the salt lick down by the creek!! If Bob said the deer talked, then it must be so!! Until next time … Donna H.

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