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Since
moving to Central Alabama almost nine years ago, when hunting season
rolls around I almost feel like I am in heaven. Where I grew up in South
Baldwin County (yes, there is a difference) the most available hunting
for me was dove hunting.
I
spent many hours in recently harvested soybean fields and fired many
shotgun shells at the little feathered rockets and enjoyed every minute
of every hunt. It is with great sadness when I now go home to visit to
see golf courses and subdivisions on the very same fields I hunted as a
boy. Turkey hunting in South Baldwin was unheard of and deer hunting was
available to the special few who either knew someone in the north end of
the county or were members of the few clubs that existed in the area.
When
I graduated high school and attended Auburn University, my friend and I
attempted to hunt deer in the Tuskegee National Forest, with little or
no luck (my roommate did manage to kill a raccoon, but that is a whole
other story).
When
I graduated from college I worked for a while in Dale County where a
family in Skipperville befriended me. I was invited to deer hunt on
their property and managed to kill my first deer there in 1983. Later
on, I left Dale County but I kept in touch with my friends and they
graciously allowed my brother and me to come back and deer hunt.
Usually, we were able to go opening weekend and that was it. My brother
was on active duty in the Air Force and had two growing sons and I was
farming. We managed to pack an entire season into one weekend and had a
lot of fun doing it.
When
hunting season draws near these days, it is a difficult choice as to
where I will go hunting on opening weekend, if I manage to go at all.
Those days of being in the woods only two or three days a year seem like
a bad dream. I feel like I am in heaven now because I get to hunt almost
all I want to every year.
Whenever
my brother and I get together we usually end up speaking of the days
when we hunted the river bottoms of Dale County.
Many
memories were made in those hardwood bottoms but one stands out in
particular that tested the bonds of brotherhood and hunting "buddy-dom."
I hope my dear brother will forgive me for telling this ….
This
particular year, my brother was riding his horse, a cantankerous old
gelding with a mean streak a mile wide and forty miles long. It had been
a while since ‘Ol Bill had had a saddle on his back and having caught
the horse for a visit from the vet, my brother decided to throw a saddle
on him and ride the kinks out of him. After all, it was a pleasant
November day, the horse was already caught and the saddle and bridle
were only a few feet away.
I’m
not sure exactly what happened next but suffice it to say that when the
dust settled, Bill was back at the barn and brother was not. When his
wife found him, he was cradling an injured arm. Subsequent x-rays
revealed a fractured elbow. When I saw him later I reminded him that our
annual trip was very near and quizzed him as to whether we would have to
cancel the trip. He resolutely said that nothing as minor as a broken
elbow was going to keep him from our hunting trip.
Our
departure day came and he picked me up after having to watch his dear
wife load his gear in the SUV we took every year.
As
we made our way through Northwest Florida, our discussions (in between
Jerry Clower albums - our traditional travel entertainment) centered on
the logistics of getting tree stands put up, climbing said tree stand
and actually shooting with a broken elbow. He assured me that he had
tested his elbow by raising his rifle to his shoulder and had no doubts
that he could shoot with his bum arm. Thoughts of recoil ran through my
mind, but I decided not to burden him with reality.
Finally
we arrived at our destination and proceeded to set up camp. Usually this
was a job us two former Boy Scouts accomplished in minutes if not
seconds. It took a little longer than normal due to the fact that my
young nephew and I had to do all of the unloading and tent pitching
without my brother’s help. Now when I was a little kid, I occasionally
got to go on a big time camping trip with my brother’s scout troop and
I remember watching in awe, as my big brother would cook our meals over
an open fire. (I was really impressed when he told me to go stick the
canned milkshakes my mother had bought us in a nearby Wyoming mountain
spring to cool.)
With
that in mind, I figured that I owed my brother that much.
Having
taken care of our camp first (good old Boy Scout training) we then set
upon putting up our tree stands. This particular year, it was my brother’s
turn to hunt the honey hole that never failed to produce a buck. He
decided where he wanted his stand and, with his arm in a sling, directed
me on how to put up his ladder stand. I’m not that comfortable with
heights but we got it up and I got that little warm fuzzy feeling you
get when you are able to help out someone, not to mention your big
brother.
Having
gotten everything in place for the next morning, we headed back to camp
and proceeded to amaze my nephew with our camping skills.
Sunrise
of opening day found us trekking to our stands. It was clear, cold and
shaping up to be a glorious day to be hunting. Ordinarily, there would
come a point where I would head off to my stand and he would head off to
his. This morning we both went to his so I could help him up into the
tree.
The
plan was simple, he would climb into his stand and I would bring him up
his pack and rifle and then go off to my own stand. I may be wrong in my
memory but I seem to remember something along the lines of climbing up
behind him with my shoulder under his rump to support him when he had to
use his bad arm to climb, but I may be wrong. I got brother into the
tree and then I made the numerous trips up and down to hand him all of
his stuff.
My
last words to him before I left were if he got down for any
reason, he was on his own getting back up. If I thought the hardest part
of this trip was getting him into his stand and back down again, I was
wrong.
Around
seven-thirty I heard the sharp crack of his trusty Remington and I knew
that when brother shoots, brother hits. (I have seen him head shoot a
running doe and drop her.)
I
sat for a little while to see if anything would show up where I was and
finally my guilt got the better of me and I climbed down to go check on
him.
As
I approached his stand I couldn’t help but feel sorry for my brother
as he sat lonely and helpless atop his ladder stand waiting for help.
Sure enough his deer lay about 150 yards from his stand and the poor
fellow was unable to get down and get his hands on the animal.
Arriving
on the scene, I climbed back up, got his rifle and gear and then went
back again for him.
We
got the deer cleaned and back to camp, somehow.
The
rest of the trip was uneventful; I have the theory that it was the Lord
looking out for me.
Our
last morning came and went, with the same procedure for getting him in
and out of his stand. It was time to strike the camp and head back home
to Baldwin County.
We
got everything done and loaded. Finally we made it to the last chore,
loading the deer. If one was driving a pickup truck this would be an
easy matter, but we were in an SUV and had to get the deer to the top of
the vehicle. (I don’t think those Hitch Buddy things were invented
yet.) Having done this before, it is no small chore for two healthy
strapping reasonably young men, but when it has to be done by one short
fat guy and his seven-year-old nephew, it gets tougher.
After
several different methods were tried that challenged the two college
graduates, the deer was loaded and we headed home, bringing home the
bacon, so to speak.
I’d
have to ask my brother, but I think the venison was just a little
tastier in those days.
Ralph
Ricks is the manager of Quality Cooperative, Inc. in Greenville. |
