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The Great
Georgia Gun Hunt.....
By: The Junglerat
Saturday, October 23rd, 1999: Departed Greensboro, North Carolina in "Blackie", my wife’s 1993
Ford Ranger XLT extended cab 4x4 with two spare 'cans' of gas and two spare 'cans' of potable
water.
The trip to south Georgia was expected to take 8 hours and some change, depending on pit
stops, etc.
All was going according to plan until leaving I-85 in Georgia, a little south of Atlanta and taking up
I-185.
Traveling on I-185 at around milepost 37, with the traffic a little tight due to "something" up ahead,
the burgundy-colored soccer-mom van in front of me was cruising along at about 45mph when all
of a sudden it sort of bounced into air and the brake lights flared. I hit my brakes and felt a heavy
thump as I did so.
Coming to an abrupt stop, I was contemplating the events of the moment when this van's backup
lights come on. I lean on the horn but to no avail. She backs right up into my truck. I get out of
the truck and then notice the head of a deer stuck up between my front bumper and the rear-end
of her van. I tell her to pull forward, to which she sends several expletives but does so.
As the vehicles separate, I see the deer’s head drop to the highway. A rather nice looking deer
but dead as dead can be never the less.
After some 50 minutes or so, and small replica of an encyclopedia's worth of forms to be filled
out, we part and I continue towards Lumpkin, Georgia. Burgundy paint on my wife’s truck’s
bumper and a fog lamp busted completely away.
Turning off the paved road near Lumpkin and onto the dirt road (as per previous directions) I feel
I am quite close to the gate to the deer camp. This dirt road surely is the last turn to navigate.
The road is only 1.2 vehicles wild. As I come around a turn, another truck, a red pickup come to
me. We both pull to the side a little and stop. I lean out my window and see a middle aged man
with a full gray beard. Thinking this to be "Graybeard", I say "Howdy". Then, because we had
established a "relationship" for open candor and humor on the web - and because I feel this must
be Graybeard because it is so far out from everywhere and no one else could ever be that ugly, I
continue the discussion with "get your fat ass outta that truck and welcome me properly"....or
words to that effect. Well, several other things are said back and forth in a hearts beat of time.
Finally, I realize that Graybeard said he would be driving his Blue Bronco.
This was a red chevy. Ouch
Numerous attempts to render an apology are made. The only saving grace - perhaps - is all the
guns I have "mounted" in my truck? Anyway, I escape that ordeal and continue along the yellow
dirt road.
Arriving at the gate to the deer camp, I find it locked with no less than a dozen various warning
signs posted all about. Three locks on the chain and no key for either (later Rick would swear he
sent an email to me identifying the location of the hidden key...um).
Sitting there, I try once again to raise Rick on the cell phone number he had emailed me. No joy.
No contact. Left one message (but Rick later sez, "I don't check my messages"...another "um")
Perhaps 15 minutes pass when I hear a vehicle coming up the sandy road towards this gate. On
it is a man and a very young girl (who is driving the ATV). I consider that it might be graybeard.
And so, once again I begin with a pre-emptive level of "knowing this man" but quickly pull myself
up short when this gent looks me dead in the eye and asks what I want! I inform him that I am
merely a visitor from a long way off, here to meet some gentlemen from south Georgia for a deer
hunt and mean no harm or mischief.
He says nothing except to direct his daughter to turn the ATV around and head back to camp.
Eventually, Rick shows up with a key and I am allowed to enter the sanctum sanctorium of deer
camps.
And upon arriving at Rick’s gold and white camper, I then see the old graybeared one. Even uglier
than I had expected. (Later he would write that I was gravely overdue on arrival. um)
After a few moments of handshaking and a brief effort on my part to explain why I was (actually)
only 20 minutes past my 2PM-arrival time, we sit down near the fire to discuss the next days
hunt. And it is here that the truth does not take a holiday in my case. But from this juncture on,
ol' Graybeard has already proven that he is amongst Zane Gray and others when it comes to
"wild" stories about the "wild" west. The "west" in this case, being south-west gawgia.
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
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
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
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
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
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.