The Incident

 

First light deep within the woods or on the miry edges of any type of water is nothing short of spiritual. There are few places I’d rather be when the very edge of the distant horizon begins to softly luminesce with pale yellows, reds, and blues. In that instant, a cacophony of house wrens and chipping sparrows all seem to know, it’s time to flit about and wish the world “good morning”. To watch the outdoors come alive is a spectacle that all good people should witness, whether you hunt or not, it should be on your bucket list, repeatedly.

On the particular morning of “the incident” I was perched higher than usual over-looking the Alcovy River on the family land of an old high-school friend in Walton County, Georgia. The temps were hovering in the high twenties and it was mid-December. Everything had a crispness to it. The air, the sky, the leaves, even my breath, all seemed to be laden with ice. The meadow grass I trudged through in starlit, inky blackness to get to my stand, was covered in heavy frost, leaving the bottom of my pants and boots opalescent in the dim light of dawn. I had chosen this location for my climbing stand a few days before. Under cover of darkness, ushered in by the new moon, I slipped as quietly as possible through dry, frozen leaves to the base of the tree. It was a tall White Oak growing precariously on the edge of a cliff-like hill that dropped an easy fifteen feet to the relatively flat bottom of the river basin. I climbed my normal fifteen feet or so into the tree, twisting my way up and around, so that my stand was overhanging the low side. This gave me an incredible, nearly thirty feet high, view of the river basin. The tree was approximately 24 inches in diameter and healthy, full of acorns and strong. I had a good feeling about this spot and despite the cold, was truly looking forward to deer hunting at this location.

The Alcovy River cuts its way from north to south through Walton County, running parallel with Big Flat Creek before the two converge just south of the county line. The two basins are veritable wildlife refuges because of the land surrounding them. Over the eons of time, the soil on both sides of these waterways has become soft and marshy and virtually impossible to build on; therefore, they remain wild and thickly grown. The wildlife is bountiful, and hunting rights are guarded with more tenacity than Aunt Myrtle’s secret Apple Pie recipe! Beaver swamps, both tiny and great, litter these bottomlands until they come together in one of the largest bogs this side of the Okefenokee. There have been reports of black bears, mountain lions, black panthers, huge wild hogs and Lord knows what else from the basin of the Alcovy. I, myself, have spent a very long day canoeing down to the convergence of the two and out the other end of that massive swamp to the Alcovy train trestle just northeast of Covington Ga. A trip that was supposed to take only about 3 hours took us nearly 9. At one location, deep in the woods, we pulled to the bank, yet again, to lift the canoe over a log jam. The bare mud bank to my right displayed a small, barefoot human (I guess) track, as clear as day. The track was about 5 inches long and looked like a child had climbed out of the water and walked off into the woods, leaving an indelible mark in that muddy bank and my memory. “Creepy” does not begin to explain how I felt. Yet, I digress.

There I sat that frosty morning, close to thirty feet above the low side of that tree, bundled warmly, waiting for dawn to bring to life all that was around me. The birds chirp, chirp, chirped away and I heard an owl off in the distance saying his last “goodnights” to the forest. “Whoo, Whoo. Whoo, is crazy enough to be out and about on this cold morning?” I think he was asking. The river slowly churned along about 90 yards away. The movement of the water kept it from freezing. All the other puddles were frozen and began to illuminate reflecting the glow from the horizon.

 It was cold, as I stated before. I was geared up for it well because, while I love to hunt, and I love the cold weather, I do not like being cold. The older I get I seem to be a bit thin-skinned when it is cold. So, I tend to overdress. That morning I was overdressed. I wasn’t pulling a “Ralphie” mind you, I could still put my arms down, but I was feeling a little bit like I had a few too many helpings of Aunt Myrtle’s apple pie. All that to say, I was warm while waiting for the sun to rise. I sat semi-comfortably nestled into my climbing stand, my rifle lying across my lap held by my gloved hands. My arms and rifle formed a circle in my lap, all resting on my backpack that lay upon my thighs. Everything I might need, is within easy reach, allowing for the smallest of movements. It made things a bit cramped, but that system has served me well for a long time.

The light had begun to erase the shadows that loomed through the hardwoods and a crow announced the day from a few hundred yards away. The first gray squirrel pounced into the crisp leaves below me, followed by a friend. The sound penetrated the almost-silent woods like the crack of a well-hit baseball. It startled me. The two of them scurried around for a couple of minutes and then one ran up the trunk of the red oak beside me. I was amused by them as they circled the trunk and chased one another at a blinding speed around and up and back down the side of the tree.  Off into the leaves again, scampering ten feet or so onto another tree, the two little guys were having a ball. Around and around at a dizzying pace, the sound of their little claws scratching the hard bark of the tree was amazingly loud. Back into the leaves, they went blazing a trail to the tree beside me again. I began to wonder if this was going to be the plight of my morning. “Surely,” I thought, “this kind of noise would scare off Bigfoot, let alone a helpless little deer!” They were relentless though, and continued their antics up and down the red oak and into the leaves and back on the tree. Every so often one of them would be vocal, giving off a short series of grunts and squeaks. I assume this was all part of the game. They seemed to be truly enjoying themselves albeit they were beginning to annoy me greatly. Usually, I enjoy this part of the morning peacefully; watching the sun peek over the horizon and all of nature sleepily begin the day with soft chirps and peeps as they calmly move about.  But not these two psychos. They had clearly been up for hours and had about three cups of that fancy French named super-coffee.

I’d have to admit though, it was a little cute, and every once in a while, a tad bit humorous, the way they were going on. And on. And on. They made their way up that red oak and scurried and scampered their way through the upper limbs until I heard, and felt them jump over into my tree. I had quit watching by that time for several reasons, but, for one, I grew tired of looking straight up. The feeling of the two little buggers jumping into the tree I had chosen for my stand, was surprising. That tree was quite large. They moved it rather easily. It seemed apparent they were cutting acorns as they began to fall around me. I tried to ignore them as they seemed to settle into their task at hand. I watched the woods for a movement hoping to see a deer soon, as the cold had already begun to sneak its way into my thick clothing. The two of them were dropping acorns from above and then one would perch directly above me and munch one. I began to wonder if it was actually doing that on purpose!  After the scraps, which seemed to be quite a lot of the acorn, fell all over me the third time I started thinking I had become the butt of a squirrel joke. They would run around and chase each other, then cut a few acorns that dropped to the forest floor, then one of them would destroy one, and somehow all the junk he wasn’t eating was raining down on top of me! I was convinced they were toying with me but likely, I was just coincidentally perched underneath his favorite acorn-eating limb. Either way, I dared not look up at them any longer for fear of getting acorn scraps in my eyes! Then, everything changed.

          They call the alarm sound of a squirrel, a bark. The guy who named it had never been around dogs, apparently. It’s more of a grunt/squeal accompanied by a squeaky cabinet door. I know the sound well because I hear it whenever I am in stealth mode sneaking through the woods to prey upon some hapless creature. The problem is, my daddy ain’t no injun. Nor was my mama. So, I ain’t got enough injun in me to be very stealthy when I engage “stealth mode”.

 That reminds me of something I have been meaning to complain publicly about for quite some time. I was sitting in the front of a canoe with a friend named D.D. (Short for Daniel David which is what his mama called him when he was in trouble I’m told)  Now, D.D. is a Boy Scout in the truest sense of all name-calling. He does stuff like makes his own bows and arrows and actually kills big game with them! I don’t care what your definition of primitive hunting is, that should qualify as over-achieving! If you just read about D. D. and his woodsman’s skills, an image of Daniel Boone would come to mind. This guy fell from his deer stand and crawled on his hands and elbows for 7 hours, a mile and a half, back to his truck with a busted pelvis. We are talking about a man’s man here. I am never, ever, short on admiration when it comes to D. D. But let’s face it, his name doesn’t exactly fit his reputation. On top of that, he’s a stinking banker. He wears ties and fancy shoes and stuff every day. And he’s always smiling and is about as genteel a man as I have ever known. He shaves clean and his hair is always kept. And he’s a fourth to boot! As in, Daniel David IV…. Just not the kind of guy you picture hand-carving an Osage Orange bow with deer-gut bow strings and fletching goose feathers onto his handmade arrows! Well, anyway, I was sitting in the front of his canoe one winter as he effortlessly guided us down a river to shoot wood ducks resting on the water downstream. As we drifted slowly around a couple of bends the woodies on the water flushed well out of shotgun range and I commented about how difficult this might prove to be. D. D. flatly said, “Well, you’re gonna have to be more still and quiet.” I looked over my shoulder to quietly address my instructor with a “Why don’t you kiss my butt” gaze. My facial expression gave my thoughts away I guess as I smirked at him. “You’re quite a noisy hunter,” he added without so much as a quiver of hesitation.  “I am, am I?” my voice raised to match my eyebrows. “ Yes, yes you are. Now be quiet and turn around and shoot those ducks on the right.”  he hoarsely whispered. I eased around on my seat and bumped the gunwale with my shotgun barrel. The ducks on the right quickly became the ducks disappearing around the next bend at tree top level. I looked over my shoulder at him and he seemed like he wanted to say something. I think he remembered I was the one holding the shotgun. Just for good measure, I told him he needed to talk less. Can you believe a stuffed-shirt banker would say I was a noisy hunter? Indeed! Yet again, I digress.

I was talking about those squirrels starting to bark. I had no idea what suddenly upset them. Then, I saw it. A third squirrel had made the scene. From whence this extra critter came from I was not exactly sure but he was already up in the red oak beside me. The two nut-cutting, scrap-flingers above me were not what I would call “happy” about it. Number three didn’t seem to care about their opinions or advice as he danced his way through the tiny limbs that afforded him access to my white oak. He made a last death-defying leap and latched onto a scraggly little tip of a limb, but it was enough. He was there and the barking stopped. In what seemed like .00078th of a second, the tree rat that had been raining acorn parts onto me was in number three’s face about his rude interruption of what I can only figure was serious squirrel-courting. They did a little more barking and squealing and then the chase was on.

In a blur of gray and white fur and a fury of tree-rat cussing (it sounded like cussing to me, there was nothing that sounded like warm welcomes and howdy do’s) those two went to running through the limbs like they were racing for the last spot on Noah’s Ark. At that point I figured the squirrel that was still up in the high limbs, cutting acorns, was the gal of this trio (we will from this point refer to her as number one). I believe she had started this fight by being a little too fancy in front of number three, at some point in the last day or two. Or who knows? She may have actually shared some acorns with the boy, either way, the one we will refer to as number two, her steady beaux, didn’t like that she had batted her cute little squirrel eyelashes at that hound dog, number three. But three shows up to see how serious their relationship really was and number two decides he was about to play like the meter reader and shut that boy’s lights off. I know I am way off into a presumptuous conclusion at this point, but I’m about 96.98 percent sure that I am right. They ran from one side of that treetop to the other and I was dumbfounded. The acrobatics that were taking place were better than any Cirque du Soleil I have ever witnessed. I don’t guess that’s a great analogy because I have never been to one of those, but I always heard the acrobatics were something to behold. In any case, those two critters were literally shaking the whole tree. How that was possible, that two furry little acorn-munchers could actually make a two-foot diameter oak tree sway, was beyond me. But, I could feel it. And the noise! All the squawking and screeching and the toenail scraping and scratching had the whole section of woods in an uproar. I had completely forgotten that I was deer hunting I was so intrigued by the WWF of Tree Rats. Upon remembering what I was there for, I glanced down from the limb-race and surveyed the woods for a moment. As if there was going to be an animal anywhere around with all the racket!     I slowly glanced left and then right as far out as I could see across the river bottom. No deer that I could see. That was when “the incident” took place.

The sound of two freaked-out out tree-rats, running about 87.33 miles per hour, down the trunk of the very tree I was sitting in, returned me quickly to my present reality. I looked up fearing the worst, leaning my head back against the tree, as it sounded like they were right above me. In a sliver of a split second, I came to the realization that my now upturned face was in the direct path of a crazed and hell-bent fur-ball with claws, that was running for his life from a jealous boyfriend, also crazed and hell-bent on ridding the forest of any other potential suitors of his gal. When my head touched the tree behind me I was peering into the eyes of an animal fully invested in the flight aspect of “fight or flight.” There was no pride left. No inquisitive idea remained. He appeared to me as if he were narrowly escaping the clutches of hell’s wrath and he wasn’t convinced he would be successful in his attempts. That squirrel’s face was the face of horror and his pursuer was about a foot behind him with death in his eyes. My problem became immediately evident as they were only about 4 feet above my head bearing down on my position without any clue of my existence.

I told you, at the beginning of this drivel, how my hands and arms and weapon lay across my lap forming a circle. I also mentioned that it was very cold and I was bundled up almost like Ralphie from The Christmas Story. Well, my fight or flight kicked in too, but there was no time for either of those, so the third option took precedence, take cover! I ducked my head into the circle created by my arms and rifle and quickly raised my rifle and arms to conceal my head from the incoming squirrel traffic. It all happened so fast. As my arms came up and my head went down the bolt of my bolt-action rifle snagged on my heavy clothing. That tiny detail caused my rifle to twist in my hands as my head attempted to dip into the space. That twisting of the rifle, however, created a space issue for my rapidly descending noggin. The scope and my head had a quick argument about who was going to fill that space. The scope won said argument without much challenge as it simply got there first, and try as it might, my forehead could not knock it out of the way! Specifically, my eyebrow and the scope mount got to know each other very well in a violent interaction. Much like a VW bug turning in front of a diesel 2500 pickup, my eyebrow lost. Ohh, the burning sensation! And stars. I actually saw stars. I do not believe that any portion of my head or face has ever been hit quite that hard. It was slightly disorienting, to say the least. A very loud, uncontrolled, expletive escaped my lips. It came from years of construction and untamed conversation. But, from what I can tell, it magically vaporized all three of those stinking tree rats. I never saw them again.

The warm trickle made its way down past my right eye and over my cheek. Instinctively, I raised my gloved hand to cover the wound. Searing pain caused me to wince as my life's blood flowed freely. “Wow, that’s a lot of blood,” I thought. I pressed hard against it and between the cold and constant pressure, it stopped pouring blood in about ten minutes. I tried to use my flip phone camera to see how bad it was. It didn’t help much. So, I decided to stay. The cold helped with the pain and from what I could tell it had stopped bleeding. I wanted to finish my hunt. Especially since the little monsters had gone off somewhere.

45 minutes went by and I heard a commotion down by the river.  Deer were running full speed on the bank. I usually shoot southpaw but that would not work at this angle. I pulled up to shoot and the first deer vanished into a thick patch. By the time I got on the second deer the same thing happened. I got on the third and followed it to the edge of the thicket but it never felt right. The fourth time was a charm and I tripped off a round right before the deer vanished. I looked up and listened and heard the crash a few seconds later. I knew the hard work came next.

95 yards from the tree I found a large doe crumpled against a dead-fall. It was by far the best shot I had ever taken considering she was full throttle and a tight window. I drug her all the way out to the edge of the meadow. After retrieving my truck and pulling across the field, I began to load the deer onto the back. To my relief, my friend’s brother appeared on the other side of the field with a buddy of his and a rabbit dog in tow. They made their way up to me. I guess they wanted to see the deer or he may have just been being nice to come help an old man load a deer. I waited. By the time they were 15 yards or way away, I turned around and both of them recoiled in horror! “What the sam-hell happened to you?” He gasped. I had all but forgotten that my face might have blood on it. According to them, I looked like a murder scene had taken place on my face.  His buddy chimed in, “You got your eye too close to your scope didn’t you!” I almost just let them believe that instead of telling them the whole story about being attacked by two villainous nut crunchers.   But, I thought they may enjoy the story…”Well, it started like this…..”

 

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