Hunting Humor & Tales

A BASS THAT GOT AWAY, AND ONE THAT DIDN’T
I do have a couple of fish stories that I need to write about in this series. When the boys were at home I used to go fishing with them and enjoyed it very much. However, I haven’t been fishing in years. But there is one fishing trip I now mention because I have never forgotten the experience. The family and I had gone up to visit my parents in Summerville, Georgia. It was before my father died in 1970. We were living in Greenville, Alabama at the time. My brother Willard was the game warden in the northwest corner of Georgia. He loved to fish. So Dad, Willard and I drove down to Cedar Bluff, Alabama which was only about 25 miles from Summerville. We were near Lake Weis but were fishing in back waters off the Coosa River. It was getting late in the afternoon and I had cast a long way from the boat. I was using a reel and rod that my brother had loaned me. Eventually I began to reel in my plug but not very far because I felt the tightness on the line. My brother quietly said, “You’ve hung up on a log.” I kept on trying to reel it in when all of a sudden this large Bass came flying out of the water and I shouted “I’ve caught a fish!” That Bass was pulling like a grown man. I got him closer when here he came again a’flying out of the water. I could readily see he was one big fish. I finally got him up to the boat when all of a sudden he swam around the other side of the boat and 'pop' went the line. This time my brother quietly said, “That line was rotten.” First of all I didn’t have the experience to reel in a fish that big but what really hurt was learning that the line was “rotten”. I could have died. You talk about feeling low, discouraged and down in the dumps, I experienced all those feelings. I couldn’t sleep that night for seeing that big Bass that got away. But there is one that didn’t get away.
Our second son, Joel, is what you call a ‘natural’. The first Christmas that we gave him a Zebco reel and rod he went fishing with his buddy and he catches a nice bass. When he was 14 he was visiting with his grandmother and aunt near Wildwood, Florida. My wife’s uncle Gilbert had mining done on his land for lime rock when the workers hit springs of water. The gaping hole filled up with water and was stocked with bream and bass. The boys and I would go fishing in the pond (that was no telling how deep) and we would usually catch blue gill, bass and bream, and have enough for a nice meal for the family. But this time he was fishing with a great aunt and he had to walk down into the gravel pit to get to edge of the pond. He says that he had a purple worm on the line and had cast it way out and let it sink down deep. All of a sudden something hit that worm and the work began. The ‘old’ pro knew how to deal with that big boy and he got him to the bank, grabbed that large mouth bass and hightailed to the car. He wrapped it in his army jacket and sat in the back seat and closed the door. He didn’t want that trophy to get back into the water. When they got back to the house his grandmother Slaughter asked, “Joel, did you catch any fish?” and it was then that he laid that jacket down on the coffee table and opened it up for her to see. The bass weighed between 10 and 11 pounds. His aunts had that fish mounted for him and it has hung in our home since 1972. That experience nearly ruined the boy because he had hit the top rung of the ladder and he expected to catch a big one every time he went fishing. He quit fishing for several years but in recent time he has become addicted to this hobby once again. But now he releases his catch regardless of the size.
He has a kayak now and goes fishing all over the state of North Carolina where he lives. He is always sending pictures home so all of us can see that he still is a professional in the art of catching fish. (Say, did I ever tell you about the two Eskimos who were fishing in their kayak when the winter storm turned horribly cold and the water froze causing them to be stranded a long way from land. One of them lit a match and set the kayak a fire in order to keep from freezing. However things got worse than ever because the wooden kayak burnt up. The moral of this story is, ‘You can’t heat your kayak and have it too.’)

WHO DID YOU SAY KILLED THE DEER?
During the deer hunting season of 2006-07 I harvested four bucks and one doe. That was not a bad season for an old preacher. I hunted mainly on land belonging to my good friend Bubba Taylor down in the Sardis Community just south of Highland Home in Crenshaw County , Alabama . This here is a tale I like to share with everyone who knows that I am rather addicted to this sport of looking for the elusive Whitetail deer. Well, it goes like this. Me and Bubba were walking across an open field when a buck jumped up from where he was bedded down about 50 yards from us. Since we both had our rifles in our hands we both aimed at the creature and fired about the same time. I want you to know that buck fell dead in its tracks. We walked up to where the deer was laying and we saw that it was a ten point buck and it looked like it would easily weigh at least 180 to 200 pounds. I just knew that I had hit the deer and I really wanted this trophy but I couldn’t say much because I was hunting on Bubba’s property. Well about that time a game warden came walking up and wanted to check our licenses. I informed him quickly that I did not have a license but he could tell by my appearance that I was so old that I didn’t need one and since I was hunting with the land owner I did not even have to have a written permission. (You see, there are some advantages about being ancient.) He said he also heard us shooting and wondered if we had killed anything. It was then that we told him our situation about our shooting at the buck at the same time and that we did not know who killed the deer since we both claimed to have hit the buck. Well he walked over to that poor dead deer and stared at it for a long time, even examining it. He then walked over to us and said “one of you is a preacher.” I asked, “How did you know?” He said, “The bullet from a preacher’s rifle killed the deer.” Now that startled me and I inquired, “Sir, how in the world do you know that?” To my surprise he answered, “Because the bullet from a preacher’s rifle that killed that buck WENT IN ONE EAR AND OUT THE OTHER!!”
VENISON VEAL
My good friend RD from Carbon Hill and I went down to hunt deer on some property owned by a nice gentleman who had land just east of the small community of Grady, Alabama. The man informed us in no uncertain terms that he wanted us to kill only does unless it was a large antlered buck. I had sat in this nice shooting house previously and I had harvested a very nice doe so I thought I would permit my friend to have this location from whence he would see some deer eating over the green field. I went in the opposite direction and sat in a tree stand in a wooded area where most likely I would not see any wildlife except for squirrels ~ but eating a bushy tail rodent is not my idea of a delicious meal. Well, anyway it was getting late and the sun was beginning to sink low in the western skies when all of a sudden I heard the blast from my friend’s 270 caliber rifle and I knew old RD had bagged him a nice doe or a record sized buck. I got down from my tree stand and began walking toward the farm house and the green field where my friend was undoubtedly rejoicing with his marksmanship and kill. It was then that I heard a tractor heading my way. Our generous farmer friend thought that I had shot a deer and he was coming to drag my kill with his tractor. I got to thinking about that and I suppose he thought I had killed a buck that perhaps weighed around 200 to 300 pounds. I informed him quickly that it was not I who shot but my friend in the shooting house.

About that time we heard him shoot a second time. I suggested that we wait at the gate instead of going toward the green field. It was then that we heard a third shot. I thought to myself that old RD had wounded a deer and had to track him down to finish the trophy size deer down and finish him off. My, I thought it must be a humongous size buck to take three rounds from his 270 caliber to finish the monster off. It was then that I saw my friend come over the rise of a small hill dragging the deer behind him so the farmer and I started toward him to assist him because we did not want my friend to suffer a strained back or a pulled muscle. I got to him first and I saw what he had killed. It was a very small doe. RD looked at me and with a sad countenance on his face he told me that the deer looked larger at 100 yards and that he shot it and then had to find it and shoot at it again and finally finished the job with another round from his rifle. When the owner saw how small the deer was he said with a loud voice, “Why you have killed Bambi.” Well at least it was a doe. Now do you suppose that I have let my good friend RD forget those words spoken by the owner of the property. No way! Oh, we didn’t have to use the tractor to drag the poor thing out of the green field. It would have almost fit into a game bag.

Stalking a Tom Turkey Indian Style

I was making music on the ole Lynch Box that should have brought every gobbler within a few yards from where I was sitting early that Monday morning many years ago. I was on Roscoe Massey’s place near the Mount Ida Methodist Church in Crenshaw County, where I had seen several turkeys and had harvested a few of them. But this old bird that kept on answering my yelps and purrs was as stubborn as the day is long. He wouldn’t come cross a fence and he stayed hidden from me because of the underbrush. So I let him be and finally got up and left for home having to eat crow rather than killing a Tom turkey.

A week later an IRS agent would have found me in the same location using every call I knew on the ole box. In the distance I could hear that old bird coming off the roost along with some hens. I just knew it would be the morning when the Tom would come looking for one of his girl friends but no, he just kept gobbling and not taking one step toward me. I started to say that I was mad as a wet hen but you don’t want to be one when it is spring turkey season when the gobblers are on the prowl.

“Well”, I said to myself, “If you don’t want to come to me I will go to you.” I was determined to get this fellow before I left for home. So I crossed the fence and began to slowly take one step at a time. That dab of Cherokee blood was only a drip but I was sneaking so quietly that would have made an Indian Chief proud of me. I even considered becoming an Army Ranger. I was so close that I could hear that gobbler a-drumming and a- gobbling.

Slowly, I got closer and closer to that Tom and all of a sudden I saw a couple of hens nearby and I knew then why he had not paid any attention to my amateurish yelping. At a distance, yet within gunshot range I could see the old boy and he was really putting on a show. The problem was he was only going from point A to point B and then back to point A. I knew also if one of those hens saw my movement that would be it. I thought I was only going to enjoy the floor show amongst the beautiful hardwood trees and nothing more. But having an eagle eye I saw an opening through which that bird was strutting over and over and I thought to myself that is the only chance I have to shoot at him. I kept one eye on the turkey hens and the other one on the movement of Mr. Tom and I raised my shotgun ever so slowly and pointed it toward that opening in the underbrush. It seemed to me that it took me 30 minutes to shoulder that gun and point toward that opening but eventually I did and when that old Tom turkey came strutting by I let him have with a load of number magnum 4s from my Remington 12 gauge.

While the gobbler was not the largest one that I have killed it was a nice size one. It weighed 18 pounds and had a 10 inch beard. I thought it was time that I had a gobbler mounted so I could look at it every day and remind me how those yesteryears were, a wonderful time for a preacher that had one major addiction and that was hunting for wild turkeys. Say, would you like to look at the bird? He is still trying to fly and get away from me but without success.

PATTY CAKE, PATTY CAKE – DEER STYLE
While hunting on the tobacco plantation near Quincy , Florida back in the 1970s, I was privileged to see a variety of animal and fowl life and observe some interesting sights. It was also the first time I had ever heard the sound of a 22-250 caliber rifle being fired. I knew there were other hunters in the area around the 80 acres of rye but I did not know exactly how close they were to me. I was sitting up a Black Gum tree about 15 feet off the ground in the afternoon when all of a sudden I heard the strangest sound for a rifle I had ever heard. Later in the evening I met the young man who had shot an eight point minus four points buck. Do you wonder how that could be? Well he saw only one side of the deer’s head and had failed to notice that only half of the antlers were on the deer. I asked him what in the world was the caliber of rifle he was shooting and he told me. Now the reason why this here 22-250 caliber sounded like it did was because the bullet left the barrel over 3000 feet per second. Boy, that is what you call traveling!

While I was up a tree around this rye field I had a drove of turkeys come under me and I watched them for the longest. I also saw twin fawns take milk from their mother. One of the strangest sights I saw was a couple of mature does eating that green stuff for a long time and then they began to ‘horse around’. When they got their stomach full they both stood up on their hind legs and began hitting their front hoofs against the other deer’s front hoofs. That was a sight to behold. I almost started to sing “Patty Cake, Patty Cake, baker’s man…but I thought better of it if I wanted to harvest a deer. But I was tempted.

JACK IN THE BOX
It was back in the 1970s when I began to hunt wild turkeys. I did not have any place to hunt except public land so I found myself going from Opp over to the Blue Springs Management Area several miles south of Andalusia . I had done some scouting and I had found me a secluded area where there were plenty of turkey signs. I felt real good thinking that I had an ideal place all by myself. Wrong! When daylight came shotguns went off in every direction around me. The one habit I developed while hunting on the management areas was ducking my head. A habit I kept for many years after leaving the public areas and hunting on private property. I hung around for the longest hoping that maybe one crazed gobbler might come my way after being targeted by a dozen other hunters but none showed up.

Finally I went stomping through the forest with a sad countenance on my face. Eventually I came to a chufee (that southern for chufa) patch and there I sat me down on a log and began to use my old Lynch Box to yelp, purr, cluck and even to gobble. In other words I had completely given up on killing a gobbler that spring morning. I continued this music making for several minutes and all of a sudden and much to my surprise, a man popped up out of a hole several yards to my left, and with a shotgun in his hand, he said loudly, “SHHHHHH!” Then just as quickly he disappeared into his hole and I sat there dumbfounded. He had been there all the time awaiting for turkeys to come and feed on them their chufee and I had done messed up everything. I said loud enough for him to hear, ‘Well, you can have it ‘cause I’m leaving’ and I went walking off disgusted because he had interrupted my symphony and serenade to all the turkeys in the Blue Springs Management Area. But that was the first and last time that I ever seen a grown turkey hunter popping up in the likes of a ‘Jack in the Box’.

Question: What’s the difference between a hunter and a fisherman?
Answer: A hunter lies in wait while a fisherman waits and lies.

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, OR, DID IT?
It was a cold wintry day when I decided to go deer hunting northwest of the town of Brantley , Alabama , a trip of only about 25 miles from my home in Opp. I did not leave the house until early afternoon. This was my first time to hunt on this particular plot of land. I parked my car not from the person’s house and began to walk slowly down the hill to a creek that flowed through the property. There were plenty of hardwood trees in the area where I was hunting which made the scenery very beautiful. There is something special about the leaves from the trees being on the floor of the forest during the winter months that causes a melancholy feeling to enter one’s mind but there is a certain beautiful about it also.

I was busy looking for deer tracks (they make wonderful soup in case you don’t kill a deer) when all of a sudden there was a strange sound I was hearing like something falling. All of a sudden I noticed that there was an overcast sky and I was surprised because I had not heard anything about rain being in the forecast. Then there it was – snow falling right in front of my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. But it began to fall hard and fast and I was enjoying every minute of it. I stood very still for a lengthy period of time looking for deer, then remembered a peanut field some distance from where I was and decided to walk in that direction to see if I could locate some deer. Before I got too close to the field, which was surrounded by woods, I got down on all fours and crawled quite a way to the edge of the field. What I saw in the snow was indeed a beautiful sight.

There were maybe a dozen wild turkeys feeding, and seemingly enjoying the white stuff that was falling. The turkeys looked so black in the snow. Several gobblers had beards that looked a foot long. Some of the turkeys were flapping their wings. I looked at them for awhile through my rifle scope and wished I could have taken a picture of something rarely seen in south Alabama ~ that being snow, with turkeys to boot.

I looked to my right and down at the other end of the field stood three or four deer but because of the snow I couldn’t make out whether there were any bucks in the small herd. I tried to slip down their way but they caught my movement and slipped away. I sat beside the field until late in the afternoon. The snow was beginning to accumulate on the fallen leaves and trees and I thought I had better leave and go home before it really made it hazardous to drive on the highway. I got back to my car and had to get the snow off the windshield so I could see to drive. I drove as fast as weather would permit back to Brantley and then headed south on U.S. 331 toward the great city of Opp.

Something strange began to occur. The snow stopped falling and the further I drove the less snow I saw, until I got to the point that there was no evidence whatsoever that snow had fallen anywhere in Crenshaw or Covington Counties . When I arrived home and told my beloved wife and children what I had seen and as to why I had gotten home early from deer hunting, there was look of amazement and unbelief in their eyes. I am still pondering the meaning of such expressions that my own family members were saying, like “He has only one oar in the water”; “He is one brick short of a load”; “His elevator doesn’t reach the top floor”; “His front porch light is out” and other such expressions. They even made an appointment for me with a dermatologist to see if my dandruff had gotten worse.

“NOW YOU BETTER LEAVE”
Epitaph On a Grave Marker: “Beneath this grassy mound now rest one Joseph Randolph Greer – who to another hunter looked exactly like a deer!”

Upon reading the previous epitaph, which I found in the Sunday morning comic strip Gasoline Alley, I thought about a friend of mine who worked as a detective in Covington County and lived in Opp. As I recall, his last name was Smith. This gentleman was not always a gentle giant. I suppose he must have weighed nearly 300 pounds. He related to me an incident that occurred while hunting deer in the Barber County management area. He said that he was standing on the side of a ridge and looking down in the deep hollow when all of a sudden a bullet came crashing into a tree next to him. He looked across the hollow and there stood a man with a rifle in his hands. Now, mind you, as required, my friend was wearing a blaze orange vest and it must have been an extra large size one to have fit over his humongous chest. My friend walked down the side of the hollow and then up the other side and he came face to face with the man holding the rifle. (Why the man did not run like blazes is a mystery to me!) Without a word, this giant took a 30-06 rifle from the shooter and wrapped it around a tree and then gave it back to the man and said, “Now you better leave” and leave he did!

Now my friend did not favor a whitetail deer in the least; maybe a buffalo but not a smaller deer. As to why a hunter (?) would mistake a human as a deer when the man was in clear view I cannot understand. I have often pondered what I would have done if I had seen this burly looking fellow who was perhaps foaming out his mouth coming toward me after I had shot at him. My friend, Superman would have appeared to be flying slowly when I passed him in warp speed.