Sporting Life

Truckload of Memories

And there are someadventures left

By Tom Bryant
It was about 8:30 and I planned to call it an early evening since I was to be up and at ’em at sunrise the next morning to do a little pond fishing, my favorite kind. Linda, my bride, was in the den watching Jeopardy!, her favorite game show.
“I’m sacking out, Babe. Up early in the morning. You want me in the guest room, or do you want to watch the sun come up with me?”
“Guest room. You can tell me all about the sunrise. I hear your phone.”
My phone was in the kitchen, ringing its persistent nagging call. I checked the number and saw the caller was our son, Tommy. “Hey, Tom Bryant. Whatcha doing?”
“I’m up on Three Top, just coming down off the ridge. I had to detour from the trail a little. Saw a bear cub about 50 yards away and sure didn’t want to get in between the cub and its ma.”
Tom had just bought several acres on Three Top Mountain close to Jefferson and was planning a little hunt cabin because the property borders the game lands.
“That’s smart thinking, buddy roe. There’s nothing worse than an angry mama bear. It’s pretty late, almost dark here. I hope you’re about off the trail.”
“Plenty of light here, and I’ll be back to the truck in a few minutes. Andy called and wants to talk to you about buying the Bronco.”
Andy is a good friend of Tom’s. They both went to Lees-McCrae College in Banner Elk and stayed in touch after graduation. Andy and his wife live in New Hampshire, but he travels to Pawleys Island in South Carolina often to visit his family.
“He wants to buy the Bronco?”
“Yes, sir. He remembers the truck from the time I had it up here at school. He fell in love with it back then.”
“Tom, the old Bronco has been sitting in the garage for years. You know that. I only crank it up every now and then, back it out and let it run a bit and then put it back in the garage.”
“He says he really wants it. He’s becoming something of a car collector. Or wants to be.”
“I’ll be happy to talk to him,” I replied, “but I don’t think I want to sell it right now. I understand those old Broncos are commanding quite a dollar figure.”
“OK. I’ll tell him. Be looking for his call.”
We talked a little longer about his doings in the mountains, and I said good night and gave the phone to his mom. She loves to talk to Tommy. He’s approaching 50, but like moms everywhere, she figures her kid never gets too old to receive a few instructions.
As I was trying to go to sleep, I thought back to the history I had with the old truck. Some of my friends often said jokingly, “If that Bronco could talk, Bryant would be in all kinds of trouble.”
We traveled to a lot of places, most of the time with a canoe on top. Trips to the Okefenokee, duck hunting at Mattamuskeet, and many, many trips to our own secret duck hole.
In good times and bad, it seems that the Bronco was there. There is a photo somewhere with Tommy and my first Lab puppy, Paddle, sitting on the tailgate. Both the boy and the dog are smiling.
The old vehicle has been kinda put on the back burner, resting in our garage like I told Tommy, only getting fired up every now and then.
I bought the truck when it was brand new, smelling like all kinds of adventures. A friend and I had just started a weekly newspaper back in the days when newspapers were proudly appreciated. I spent many days and hours in the truck hauling newspapers from the press to the office and to racks around the county. I learned to live out of it, for work as well as play.
One time I did a little inventory of the items I had accumulated in the Bronco over a period of time. It started with my gunning bag, in itself quite a useful tool. It has lugged shotgun shells in a variety of gauges and sizes for hunting ducks, doves and small game, a few rifle cartridges and several rounds of ammo for handguns. It has held cans of sardines, beanie-weenies and candy bars. In it I’ve found long-lost pocketknives, and one time a Leatherman tool that I swore I lost in the marshes of Bodie Island. The gunning bag made by Barbour is very versatile. It has served many times as my carry-on bag aboard flights to New York City, emptied of hunting paraphernalia, everything except a sack of beef jerky. I like to take a little of home with me when I travel.
I also keep training tools for my Lab in the classic truck like retrievable training dummies, an extra dog collar and a few dog biscuits in a sack. I got tired of her eating my jerky.
There was a towing strap, three spark plugs, 50 feet of camouflage duck rope. Two rolls of toilet paper, two hats, a pair of gloves and an old, worn down to the good, camouflage duck coat. There also was a pair of ragged L.L. Bean boots that fit me just right, a canteen, which I think was a carryover from Pinebluff Scout Troop 206, and an old Army mess kit with a bent but still serviceable Sterno stove. (I don’t think they make Sterno anymore.) I usually had a spinning outfit with a few lures hidden in a back corner of the truck, and a small hand-painted camouflage cooler with a couple of warm beers rolling around in the bottom.
What happened to all that magnificent stuff, as much a part of the truck as its four-wheel drive? It has gone away, disappeared like some of my youth. But the basics are still here. My gunning bag rests close, ready to go whenever I am. The other stuff is around somewhere just waiting to be found, like my old Leatherman tool.
The morning after I talked to Tommy and before I headed to the pond to do some fishing, I backed the Bronco out of the garage and just sat in it, listening to the soft burble of the engine. All the smells were there, and it wasn’t hard for me to conjure up the days when it was loaded to the gunnels with all kinds of necessary gear, ready to go.
You know, I thought as I drove the Bronco back in the garage, it wouldn’t take much to get her ready for the woods again. But I remembered my mama and one of her favorite sayings, especially as she neared what she called her golden years. “There’s a season for all things, son. You’ll realize it as you age a little.”
Mom was right. A lot of things I used to do and take for granted come a little harder today, but I think the vintage Bronco and I just might have a couple of seasons left. PS
Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

Turkey Trail

In pursuit of the wily gobbler

By Tom Bryant

I’m gonna be right up front with you folks who read these little missives of mine from time to time . . . I’m not a turkey hunter.

Maybe I should rephrase that statement because it’s kinda inclusive and covers a lot of territory.

I’m not a very successful turkey hunter. It doesn’t mean I don’t hunt the wily, bearded gobbler. I do.

As a matter of fact, I should say I’m a bird hunter specializing in ducks, doves, geese, quail (when I can find ’em) and even a pheasant every now and then when the coffers are full enough for a trip out west. But turkeys? They are last on the list.

When I was a young fellow, I was lucky to have an extended family of outdoorsmen who took me under their wings and taught me the right way to enjoy, responsibly, nature in all its wonder. At the age of 9, my grandfather gave me a .22 rifle, and more importantly, he instructed me how to use it safely. At the age of 12, my dad gave me a J.C. Higgins, 12-gauge pump shotgun and repeated the instructions from my granddad.

In those days, weapons in the rural South were treated as tools to help furnish game for the table. Those tools went a long way in the effort to become self-sufficient, a valuable lesson learned after the Civil War and later, during the Great Depression. I can remember asking my grandad how the family made it during those lean times.

“Son, in the South we’ve been in some kind of depression or recession since the late 1800s,” he said. “The bad spell that came along in the 1930s was hardly even noticed. No, I take that back. It was hardly noticed by those who were raised and still lived on farms and had access to the fields and streams where the good Lord placed his game for us to harvest and we had room to farm and garden. I’m afraid those days are going away, but I don’t want you to forget them.”

I haven’t. Even today when I’m hunting or fishing, I’m thinking about what’s good to eat. So, that’s how I got started. When I was afield with a shotgun, I wasn’t hunting any particular species, I was hunting any game that was in season, from squirrel and rabbits to doves and quail. If it was legal, it could end up in my hunting coat.

Everything, that is, except turkeys.

I remember the first time I thought I saw a turkey track. I was walking the railroad tracks from Aberdeen to Pinebluff, hunting along the way. I had developed a routine with my dad. He would carry my shotgun along with my dog Smut, a curly coated retriever, to the ice plant in Aberdeen where he was the superintendent. I would walk from school to the plant, a little over a mile, do my homework in his office, then round up Smut, grab my shotgun and walk the tracks home to Pinebluff, hunting along the way.

I remember the day I thought I saw the turkey track because it was toward the end of duck season, and there was a little creek that ran from Aberdeen almost parallel to the railroad. It was a good place for ducks — wood ducks, that is.

Smut and I eased in through the heavy growth as quietly as we could, hoping to jump an unwary duck, but to no avail. I was getting ready to go back to the tracks and hunt the other side when I saw bird prints in a small sandbar that traversed the water. They were as clear as if they were etched in concrete. Now, at the time, I was working on my Boy Scout merit badge for wildlife track identification, and I was constantly trying to identify every sign I could. I had identified most of the ones I found in the woods but had never seen anything like the big footprints almost in the creek. I made a quick sketch in my mind and went on with the hunt.

When I got home, just at sundown, I cleaned the game I’d gotten, gave it to Mom to put in the freezer, and went upstairs to check the book I had on the spoor of wild game.

I was wrong. The track I had thought was from a turkey turned out to be made by a great blue heron. Well, I said to myself, I should have known. Finding a turkey in Moore County is as rare as catching an 8-pound bass in Pinebluff Lake.

I put turkeys on the back burner and didn’t move them to the front until way later in my hunting career. In the past few years, what appealed to me about the sport of pursuing the crafty gobbler was that now they are plentiful and the season is early spring when all other game seasons are closed. It also gave me an excuse to venture forth at a beautiful time of year.

Early on, was I successful? I would have had better luck catching that 8-pound bass in Pinebluff Lake. But I did learn. I had good teachers, and I read a lot about how turkeys were successfully reintroduced to all areas of the state, a phenomenal triumph for the Wildlife Resources Commission.

So I kept trying. It was a lot like duck hunting: be in the woods before day — no reason not to stop on the way, pick up a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit and a good cup of hot coffee. Then get to the spot that had been scouted the day before, put out all the gear, including a couple of decoys, hunker down in a makeshift blind, and watch a beautiful sunrise.

That’s what I would do off and on during the April and May 36-day season. I heard turkeys — I even saw turkeys — but without any luck getting one to come close enough for a shot. I was determined, though, and not about ready to hang up the old turkey call.

Then came that special day.

The guest room alarm clock went off just as programmed, 4:30 a.m. The night before, I had moved across the hall in deference to my bride, Linda, so I wouldn’t disturb her. I rolled over on the side of the bed, looked bleary-eyed at the clock and was just about ready to crawl back under the covers when I recalled an old saying Mom had given me years before, “Those who hoot with the owls at night have a hard time soaring with the eagles at dawn.” She had even given me a small statue of an owl to go with the quote.

The night before, we had a few guests over for dinner and, during the revelry, I had one glass of wine too many and was paying the piper for my indulgence. So I bit the proverbial bullet, pulled on the camouflage clothes I had laid out the night before, and silently made my departure for the fields. I had made a large cup of coffee, and the caffeine revived me as I slowly drove south.

I had decided the week before to hunt a small field, about 10 or 15 acres, planted in rye that was now about 2-feet tall. I placed my dove stool in between two pines that bordered the field, pulled the camouflage head net over my face, sat down, loaded my gun with #5s, and grabbed the box turkey call from my gunning bag. As I was pulling the turkey call out of the bag, the striker accidentally scraped out a hen turkey sound. I said, “Shhh,” to myself, set the call on the ground and immediately heard a big gobbler holler back. I was so shocked, I almost fell off my stool.

From then on, it was exactly like you might picture a turkey hunting scene on television. The great bearded gobbler strutted and gobbled his way across the rye field heading straight to the decoys and right into the sight of my shotgun.

It was a great day for me, but honestly, I can’t take all the credit. I had help calling the big gobbler to his demise. My gunning bag did it.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

Lure of the Wilderness

Return to the Okefenokee

By Tom Bryant

I’ve been fortunate in my canoeing life on the water to travel to some fascinating places. At the top of the list is the Okefenokee Swamp, which borders the state lines of Georgia and Florida.

For the last several years, since retiring from my day job, Linda, my bride, and I have camped in Florida during the worst of the winter months. We like the western part of the state, mainly because it’s not quite as busy with tourists. But nothing stays the same. It seems the snowbirds from up north, escaping frosty winter weather, have found our last fishing location; and on this trip we decided to try another spot, Cedar Key, just a little north of Tampa. Folks I have talked with, and fellow campers, told me that that area has remained mostly unchanged in the past several years.

Also on this trip I determined to reacquaint myself with the wilderness stretch along the border of Georgia known as the Okefenokee. In the early ’80s, I made several excursions to the swamp, the longest being a seven-day circuitous paddle from the north landing down to the south and back again to where we started.

There are three put-in locations in the Okefenokee with the eastern entrance at Folkston being the most popular. I’ve put in at all three and like the southern entrance best, although it makes little difference. Once you’re in the swamp, everything begins to look the same.

Linda and I don’t plan to paddle the swamp on this trip. I just want to get the lay of the land for a winter adventure next year. Okefenokee, named by the Seminoles, means in their native language, “Land of Trembling Earth.” The swamp covers approximately 700 square miles. So, if you should decide to explore the area in a canoe or kayak, be prepared to live in the boat. There are 120 miles of canoe trails and very little dry land, so you’re confined to the canoe all day.

Overnight stops are placed at intervals to accommodate an easy day’s paddle — that is, if you don’t get lost. And that’s one thing you don’t want to do. The trails are marked and easy to follow as long as you stay on them. Venture off the trails and there could be trouble. The swamp looks mostly the same in every direction.

Officials at the put-ins require a party to sign in at every overnight stop; and with a controlled number of overnight wilderness permits issued, they can keep up with paddlers as they travel the trails.

The area has been protected since 1937 by the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, and in 1974, a portion was designated a National Wilderness Area.

The headwaters of two rivers, the Suwannee and the St. Mary’s, flow out of the swamp. The Suwannee slowly drifts south through Florida, and the St. Mary’s flows east, delineating the border of Georgia and Florida. I’ve always wanted to paddle the crystal clear waters of the Suwannee, as it is supposedly the natural habitat of manatees. I’ll put it on the list, and maybe next year we can give it a go.

Fall and early spring are the busiest times to visit the swamp, with winter and summer being the slowest. To me, winter is the best time to take the trip. Migratory birds have arrived, and all species of waterfowl can be observed.

Remember, even though Okefenokee is considered semi-tropical, it does get cold in winter. On one trip I made in February, the low temperature set records, getting down to 18 degrees one night.

Any adventure to the swamp might put you in harm’s way as far as bugs, flying and biting, are concerned, so be prepared. Deer flies down there have been known to bite through clothing. Also, it helps to be in shape to live in the boat.

Water depth in the swamp is usually shallow, running from 2 feet to perhaps 9 feet in the canals. Once you’re deep into the watery prairies and away from the put-in areas, you seem to be transported to the days when the Seminoles were the only visitors.

The camping sites are raised platforms built about 2 feet off the water. They’re a welcome sight after a day’s paddle. The platforms have a roof over about three-fourths of the area that helps during the occasional rain shower but doesn’t alleviate the problem of flying, biting insects. I always carry a self-supporting tent with mosquito netting. This not only deters the bugs but keeps the ever present, night prowling raccoons at bay. Another point: Store all food in a cache; hungry animals are about. Oh, and most important, a porta-john is located on a corner of the platform. All the conveniences of home, just about.

Stay on the platforms after dark. Nighttime is not the time to be on the water. That’s when alligators look for food. And there are some big alligators in the swamp. Ten to 12 feet. You can understand the request from the rangers: When the sun goes down, stay in town.

I haven’t been back to the swamp in years, but on this trip south, Linda and I are gonna check out the happenings in that area and put it high on our agenda for next year; that is, if it’s still as I remember it.

If you’re gonna go, I would advise making reservations early. Call the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge at Folkston, Ga. Good luck, and I hope to see you in the swamp.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

An Authentic Master

Born to be in the outdoors

“Tom, I know there are people who have more money and more stuff than I do, but I don’t know anyone who’s had more fun.” — Edwin Clapp, dove hunting season, 2021

By Tom Bryant

Over my years as an outdoorsman, I’ve had the opportunity to meet many folks who claim they were born for the outdoors. Very few fit the high goal they supposedly set for themselves. They are either overly enthused and too vocal about their expertise, or in the case of one dude we took on a duck hunt, had to be watched like a hawk to keep from shooting himself, or worse, us. That fellow should never have left the pavement.

Edwin Clapp is definitely not one of those.

I first met Edwin in the early ’80s. We both were having fun training yellow Labs as gun dogs and retrievers. It’s often said in the vernacular of dog owners, especially hunting dog owners, “If you’re lucky in your lifetime and you’re persistent, you will have one good dog. And if the stars align just right, you might have a great dog.”

The stars lined up just right for Edwin and me. His dog was a big, long-legged yellow Lab named Dick, and mine was a medium-sized yellow named Paddle. Edwin and I spent many happy hours afield training those wonderful animals.

Edwin grew up on a farm relatively close to Siler City. He has two brothers: Al, who owns and manages Clapp Brothers Tractor; and Tim, who’s a retired N.C. State University professor. They are both equally proficient in the woods; but in my opinion, Edwin tops the bill.

He went to Jordan-Matthews High School, where he starred in baseball, basketball and track. He received a full baseball scholarship to Louisburg College, where he was instrumental in helping his team go to the Junior College World Series, a first for the school. He was voted captain and the most valuable player.

Edwin is a self-effacing kind of fellow, and it took me several years to land an interview with him. On this particular day, we were on his farm at his lake house, “Fair Weather,” where we had hunted doves several weeks earlier. It was raining, and we were kicked back under the tin-roofed porch of his barn near the cabin. It was the perfect setting for reminiscing about old times. As we looked toward the tree line on the far side of the dove field, three wild turkeys crossed the expanse in front of us.

“Tom, I was kinda tired of school after that first year, so a buddy and I decided we would go to Florida. We got jobs at Disney World, and I worked in the candy factory making lollipops.”

It was incredible to me that a star baseball player would toss all that fame and fortune away, just like that. Edwin’s adventure leaving school hit close to home. I remembered that as a young guy looking for adventure, I joined the Marines after my first year of college.

“So, what was next?” I asked.

“I got tired of making candy and came back home, called my coach at Louisburg and he told me to come on back, the scholarship was still available.”

Edwin returned to school and that year was offered a full baseball scholarship to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and also a full scholarship to East Carolina University. He chose ECU and was a star pitcher, their number one righthander.

Again, fate stepped in and for whatever reason, Edwin left college and became a jack of all trades. There are people like that. I’ve met a few. Folks who can do anything, fix anything, and build anything. In Edwin’s case, he ended up starting his own company, C&B Small Engines, and later, after selling his business, he became the service manager at MacDonald’s Building Supply.

Rain was rattling the tin roof of the old barn in a restful way, and we watched as the turkeys continued to feed across the field.

“You know, Tom, there was a time during my journeys that I took a six-month sabbatical, lived here at the cabin and hunted and fished every day. It was wonderful.”

The land that Edwin hunts has been in his family for generations. It’s where he grew up, and he knows every nook and cranny like the back of his hand.

Our conversation drifted here and yonder about all the places he had hunted and fished, which brought me to my next question. “Which do you like to do best, hunt or fish?”

“I believe I like to fish the best. One season I had the opportunity to be the mate on a 38-foot Bertram sport fisher boat for a gentleman who was fishing in a king mackerel tournament. It was loads of fun and I learned a lot about fishing tournaments. But don’t forget, hunting runs a close second. I love dove hunting.”

I have hunted with Edwin many times, and I’ve never seen anyone better with a shotgun. Every dove season, he has an opening day hunt on his farm. It’s by invitation only. He barbecues chicken and Boston butts with all the fixin’s. Yet another talent. He’s a superb cook. The event is a day-long affair and is much looked forward to by everybody.

The rain was slacking a little and Edwin stood and said, “Come on, I want to show you a part of the farm you’ve never seen.”

We climbed in his truck, and he put it in 4-wheel drive. We drove down a narrow track, almost a path, with overhanging branches damp with rain. The path opened to a small field, maybe 5 or 6 acres, and just as we eased out of the tree line, a pair of whitetail deer bounded tight around the planted cornfield. We exclaimed and laughed about jumping the deer. Then, as we turned the corner, we saw a group of young turkeys, maybe this year’s crop, and they flew across the front of the truck into the trees.

Edwin is the ultimate conservationist. He has a wildlife habitat on his farm that’s rarely seen anymore.

We rode slowly back to his house, and as I prepared to load up and head home, he presented me with a big sack of freshly picked tomatoes and peppers from his garden. Did I mention that he’s also a champion gardener?

Edwin and his lovely wife, Danette, live happily on their farm in Chatham County, and I agree with him wholeheartedly when he says that he has had plenty of fun. But without a doubt, his talent and hard work has made all those good times possible.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

A Hunt to Remember

One of life’s seasons

“To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3, King James Version

By Tom Bryant

The first time I ran across this quote from the Bible, I thought some guy had stolen the words from my mother. It was one of her favorites.

A good example: When I was able to squeak by, grade-wise, and graduate from high school and was complaining one night at the supper table about not being able to play baseball or football for good old AHS, Mom said, “Son, there is a season for all things, and that season at Aberdeen High School has ended. But a completely new season is beginning for you at Brevard College. Remember what the dean said? If you make the grades and survive probation, maybe you can play baseball for them.”

The favorite quote from Mom came back to me the other evening as I was up in the Roost, a small apartment over our garage. I usually hang out there when I need to write a column or work on my novel. On this particular evening, I was sorting through some dove hunting equipment. I mean, after all, the season is upon us, and that’s the kind of season I like. Dove hunting season is never over or at least will never be over in my lifetime. What’s beyond that is anyone’s guess.

I ran across a small box in the corner of the closet where I store most of my hunting clothes. It was full of a bunch of Ducks Unlimited paraphernalia. At one time I was into that conservation club in a big way because, in the early days, if you were a duck hunter and worth your salt, you were a member of DU. For years I was a sponsor, not particularly because I was such a conservationist, although in reality I am, but primarily because of all the perks that went with the title.

In the beginning years of DU, the cost to be a sponsor in the Alamance County Chapter was two or three hundred dollars, not a trivial amount in those days. My partner and I had just started a small weekly newspaper and were working hard to make ends meet, but we had enough money to sponsor what we considered a noble cause. Also, we figured we would find some good stories by being part of the local chapter. And we surely did.

There was a huge competition between chapters across the state to raise the most money supporting habitat for waterfowl. Jim, my business partner, and I got caught in the middle. But we weren’t alone. Numerous hunters in our area spent countless hours, and some of the members spent big bucks, to make the Alamance Chapter fly.

They were a varied group. Richard Cockman, a furniture company representative, headed the local chapter DU board, along with Dick Coleman, a haberdasher and specialty clothing store owner. Other board members included Ronald and Jim Copland, owners and executive officers of Copland fabrics; Don and Steve Scott, owners and officers of their long-standing family textile company; and Nat Harris, an insurance executive with clients from all over the country. Nat still serves on the board of the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission. Also on the board was Bennett Sapp, a clothing broker with one of the first outlets in the Burlington area; and last but not least, Ernie Koury, whose family was into a little of everything, from textiles to real estate holdings. The Ducks Unlimited leaders during those early days carried financial weight as well as a ton of business influence.

The banquets put together for the area sponsors were top of the line. Held at the Alamance Country Club, the event would begin with a cocktail hour. Koury, whose family members were big supporters of UNC-Chapel Hill, would recruit cheerleaders from the university to sell raffle tickets during the libation hour. And they sold a bunch. Items raffled during the banquet were acquired throughout the year from local merchants and were first class. Auction items were even better. Prizes included an oceanfront cottage for a week at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina; a goose hunt in Easton, Maryland; the DU gun of the year; and numerous quality art objects from paintings to sculptures to decoys. The top prize, though, was a puppy, either a bird dog or a Labrador retriever with champion lineage. These pups brought a lot of attention and dollars to the event.

Auction items generated “big bucks for the ducks,” but Jim and I usually stood back and watched. We did buy several raffle tickets and won items too numerous for me to remember.

Sponsors looked forward to the Ducks Unlimited banquet every year, but the greatest perk for me was the opening day dove hunt. I went on several DU dove hunts in those early years, but there is one that was an almost perfect weekend of sport shooting and camaraderie. All hunters have a particular hunt or experience that deserves a gold star in the hunting journal, and this weekend was one of those.

This was before the Weather Channel made a living by reporting one disaster after another and blaming it all on global warming. Growing up in the South, we expected hot weather at the beginning of dove season and looked forward to more of the same on this specific hunt. The Friday before opening day dawned with a hint of coolness in the air. I was up early that morning letting my puppy, Paddle, out of her kennel. The air was still and dry, with low humidity and only a smidgen of a breeze from the northwest. Dogwood leaves in the backyard, already turning a burnt orange color, also added to the false image of an early fall.

Paddle romped around the backyard, did her business and came charging back to me as if to say, “Come on, boss. Let’s go do something, like hunt birds.”

She was a small, young, yellow Lab and had added so much to my hunting experiences that every time I looked at her, I couldn’t help but smile. “No, girl,” I said to her, “we’ve got some doings to take care of before we can head to the fields.”

The doings I referred to was a cocktail party and pig picking that evening at the pool area of the country club. The pig picking had become a tradition for the DU folks the evening before the opening day shoot. It was put on by none other than the famous and popular Junior Teague, a farmer and county commissioner from the southern end of the county.

The next morning, though, all that was just a pleasant memory as I loaded up the old Bronco with guns, my 10-year-old son, Tommy, Paddle, and a cooler filled with plenty of water. We were ready to roll.

Our weather luck was still holding, low humidity with the same soft breeze from the northwest. The jumping off point was a local bank at the shopping center. We would meet the group there, then caravan to the cut cornfield where we would spend the afternoon dove hunting.

In those days, we were hunting the fields of then-Gov. Bob Scott, and what a hunt it was. Suffice it to say, the gold star in the hunting journal had another added to it. As I read the entry I made so many years ago, I recalled Mother and her seasons reflection. I added a thought of my own as a postscript to the note in the journal:

“Mom was right when she emphasized the quote from the Bible, ‘There is a season for all things.’ It’s been my fantastic luck during my lifetime that when one season ended for me, another began.” PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

Waiting for a Ride

A close encounter with a hero

Jimmy, some of it’s magic,
  some of it’s tragic

But I had a good life all the way.

— From “He Went to Paris” by Jimmy Buffett

By Tom Bryant

The morning of June 24 was as promised by the folks at the Weather Channel. It was gonna be hot and humid. But after all, it was the first week of summer, and the way they talked, we should get ready for more of the same.

I was leaning against the fender of the old Bronco waiting for Sam to come out of the bank. Not knowing how long Sam’s business would take, I prudently grabbed a shady spot next to an old Ford pickup. He said he wouldn’t be long, but I took no chances.

He had called me the week before.

“Bryant, need a favor. Could you give me a lift to the VA up in Durham? Got to have an operation on my carotid artery. They say it needs to be reamed out.”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “When you gotta go?”

“Next Wednesday. You can drop me off, and the bride will pick me up when it’s time. I sure appreciate it.”

So, that’s how I ended up waiting outside the bank on the first Wednesday of summer. It would prove to be an interesting day.

Sam came out shading his eyes and ambled toward the truck. “I hope you left some money in there for me,” I said, chuckling.

Sam’s a medium size guy, losing weight to aging, but he always has a gleam in in his eye, ready for what’s next. On this morning, I noticed he walked a little slower than usual. I commented, “Hey boy, you slowing down in your old age?”

“Not on your life, Bryant. I’ve learned to walk around it rather than run over it. I thought I’d learned you that valuable lesson.” We laughed and climbed in the ancient truck and headed to Durham, where the VA hospital is located.

Sam and I go way back to the days before society became so transient. We met probably in the third grade and continued our friendship, always staying in touch over any length of time or distance. Age and circumstances weighed on us both, but more healthwise for Sam than me.

The old truck isn’t conducive to conversation when you’re roaring down the road at a blistering 55 miles an hour, but Sam and I were used to it. We carried on, shouting a bit when the wind noise threatened to shut us down.

“You gonna come outta this?” I asked, using the black humor we sported back and forth to one another all our lives. “If not, I hope you made the proper arrangements with your lawyer. I’m not driving you up here for nothing.”

“Don’t worry, Bryant, I’ll see you get a tank o’ gas out the deal. Find us a quick food joint and let’s get some lunch. I’m not hankering for hospital food for supper.”

I stopped at a Wendy’s right outside of town. There were a couple of picnic tables shaded under an oak tree, and we decided to eat outside away from the lunch crowd.

“What’re y’all doing on the Fourth?” he inquired.

“We always go up to Burlington. A group of friends get together every year to celebrate. It’s a good summer outing with folks we’ve known forever. What are y’all gonna do?”

“Don’t know yet. Depends on how this trip turns out.”

I could tell that Sam was feeling his age and also a little mortal. Who wouldn’t, going to a strange hospital for an operation that is supposedly routine but could always turn out not to be?

“Come on, Sam. This operation will be fine. You’ve got the best doctors in the country. The Duke docs run the show at the VA, I understand.”

“I know, but at my age, anything can happen. I’m not ready to get on that bus, you know, just in case they’re getting up a load,” he said.

The burgers were good, and we stowed our trash in the waste can next to the table and were on our way. In a short drive, I pulled up in front of the massive VA hospital, found a parking place again in the shade, and we got out of the Bronco.

“Thanks for the ride, partner. You don’t have to come in. I can handle all the paperwork.”

“Nah, I want to see the place just in case I have to come up here someday.”

And it was something to see. The building was huge, with large halls stretching from here to yonder. After a bit of searching, as directed by the lady at the front desk, we found where Sam was supposed to bunk. It was a ward, really, with six or eight beds in the room. He was the only one there.

“You don’t reckon they might lose you back here?” I asked, smiling as I was getting ready to leave.

“I hope not. But you better have your compass so you can find your way back to the Bronco.”

“All right, sport. You take it easy. Good luck in the morning. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.”

I stepped out into the hall to find my way back to the entrance. Sam was right, I did need a compass. I immediately got turned around and wandered the halls right and left, totally lost. The amazing thing was there were no people. I walked past empty rooms, vacant corridors, nobody. Finally, I met a lady heading my way. She was looking lost, too.

“Ma’am, I’m trying to find the front door to this place. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“I think it’s down this hall,” she said, pointing to a long passageway to my right. “I’m new here myself, from the Duke hospital across the road, and I’m trying to find the floor nurse.”

“Good luck,” I said, and she walked away in the opposite direction.

Around the corner, down the hall, I saw a door opening outside. There was a parking area all right, but not the one where I had parked. A fellow was sitting on a bench right next to the sidewalk. He looked like he had been there for a while, so I thought I’d get directions from him.

When I walked up, he looked over at me, grinned and said, “You lost?”

“No, sir, but my truck is.”

“You came out the wrong door, Bubba. This is the back entrance. You probably parked around front.”

The man was of an indeterminate age, with iron-gray hair cut in a military brush style. He had on a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a faded Marine Corps insignia on the front. He wore crisp, ironed khakis and sandals. A cane was propped on the bench. His color had a yellow cast to it, and his breathing was short, as if he had to concentrate on it. A small tattoo showing the stripes of a master sergeant was on his right arm.

“Business inside?” he asked.

“My friend. I gave him a lift up here. He has an operation scheduled tomorrow. Marine Corps?”

“Yep, 28 years, retired. You?”

“Same. Short timer. Let me guess. Gunnery sergeant?”

“Good guess. Vietnam?”

“Same era. You?”

“Three tours.”

“Good grief. Couldn’t get enough of the good times, I guess.”

“There in the beginning, helping the ARVN build firebases. Sort of an observer. Second tour, more a participant. The Southern regulars weren’t up to the task. Meant well, but would scatter like a busted covey of quail at the first shots. Third time, realized it was a politicians’ war and a wasted effort.”

He looked out at the traffic slowly driving by, lost in his thoughts.

“You a patient inside?” I asked.

“Yeah, sort of a regular. They tell me I’m about done, though. Waiting on my ride. My niece is picking me up.”

I didn’t ask what he meant by “about done.”

“Here she is now.” He pointed to a pickup that stopped at the curb. “Good talking with you.”

He slowly got up from the bench, and with the help of his cane, shuffled down the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gunny,” I said as he neared the vehicle. “Have a great Fourth. Semper Fi.”

He stuck up his thumb in the universal gesture for “everything is OK” and slowly climbed in the truck. I watched as they drove away, and as I walked around the building to find the Bronco, I couldn’t help but think about the hero I had just met. He deserved better than a bench sitting in back of an almost empty VA hospital.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

A Day to Remember

An ice-cold beer and a bale of hay

By Tom Bryant

Mother took the photo.

Three good old boys. She liked to say we were her good old boys.

We were kicked back on the little screen porch right off the kitchen. In the photo on the left is my brother, Guery. The guy in the middle is my brother-in-law, Mike. Relaxing proudly on the right is yours truly. The foreground of the picture is a classic, probably found only in the South: a ’50s kitchen table with half a watermelon, accompanied very importantly by an Old Milwaukee beer.

This photo was taken during one of our annual vacations at the beach. Ocean Drive Beach, South Carolina, that is. A tradition that started with my grandparents back in the ’20s. Their farm has been part of our family dating back to 1830, when the old plantation house was built. Living in the low country of South Carolina, the only way to beat the summer heat and ravages by mosquitoes and biting flies was to spend as much time as possible at the coast, where the cool ocean breezes helped make the relentless summer heat bearable.

It was a simple plan. Granddad would load the farm truck with enough provisions to last for weeks: canned vegetables, hams, crates of live chickens, and every kind of provender possible. After the truck was loaded with goods, Mother and her seven siblings would climb aboard, and with Grandmother in the front seat, they would head to the beach.

Now Granddad had a farm to run, so naturally he couldn’t stay. He would unload the truck and the family and head back home to the farm, only returning on weekends or whenever there was a break in the constant chores of growing crops and raising livestock.

When we grandchildren came along, the tradition continued. Summer meant the beach. Mother and Dad would herd us into the family car, and we would make the trek to Ocean Drive, Crescent Beach, Cherry Grove or Windy Hill for a week or two, enjoying the gentle ocean, summer breezes and laid-back atmosphere of coastal living. It’s ironic, but even in the early ’50s, Myrtle Beach was considered to be too big and raucous for our family, and we never ventured farther south than Windy Hill.

After Linda and I were married, our first summer vacation was spent with the family. Mother, recognizing that we probably weren’t flush with cash, invited us to join her and Dad along with my brother and sisters at Ocean Drive. We jumped at the invitation. So the tradition continued. When my brother and sisters got married, it was only natural that their spouses join the crowd, and every summer we enjoyed a mini family seaside reunion.

My grandparents passed away in the ’60s, and Mother inherited their house and its surrounding fields. The old, antiquated house was in serious disrepair, having been abandoned by my grandmother when she moved to smaller quarters. It took several years, but Mother was a patient, determined woman. Her memories of growing up on the farm added to her determination to restore the family homestead.

That was part of the reason the three of us good old boys ended up holding forth on the little breakfast porch that summer. It’s simple really. Mother had reintroduced cows to the farm pastures and needed hay for their winter food. What better free labor than the three of us to haul the hay to the barn?

The adventure was preplanned. Mother called me the week before we were to rendezvous with the other members of the family. She asked my opinion about how the hay task would be received by the rest of the folks, and I heartily approved. She then talked to my sister in Florida, who also thought it would be a great event. The idea was to take a day from the beach, head back to the farm, about an hour away, and go to work. My Uncle Tom had inherited cleared farmland from Granddad’s estate, and he was already a full-time farmer of tobacco, soybeans, cotton and wheat. He had all the equipment necessary to harvest hay. Before we arrived, he baled the hay and waited for our labor to get the hay to the barn. When I pulled in the drive to the old house, we saw him out in the field with the tractor and hay wagon hooked up and ready to go.

It was a chore. It took all day to fill the barn, but fill it we did. I don’t think we could have pushed one more hay bale into the attic of that ancient outbuilding.

Linda and my sisters and the kids stayed at the beach while we loaded, hauled and hoisted all day. Mother was at the house preparing fried chicken and all the trimmings for supper, which naturally included a watermelon and most importantly a cooler full of cold beer. Mike provided the beer, Old Milwaukee. It was excellent and one of the few times I drank that brand. I’m not sure they even have that label anymore.

That week at the beach and the one day on the farm remains one of the family’s fondest memories. Mother was glowing. She was doing what she loved, spending time with her children. After supper when we were getting ready to drive back to the beach, she and I were sitting on the long, front porch. Guery and Mike were inside watching TV. My dad, Monroe, had passed away years before from a job-related illness, lung cancer. This was before all the government oversight monitoring industry for health regulations. Mother never remarried.

“You know what, Tommy?” She was in her favorite rocker. I was in the swing. We were looking out across the fields. A full moon was slowly rising. “Your daddy would have loved to have been part of this day.”

I was kinda choked up and could only mumble an answer.

She slowly stood and stretched and said, “Let’s get those boys moving and go on back to the beach. I bet that moon is beautiful over the ocean.”

The reunions continued for a few more years. But then the children had children, and those children had more children, and the meetings at the coast went away like the outgoing tide.

Mother passed away at the age of 99. During her later years, whenever I was around her for any length of time, she would invariably reminisce about summer and beach vacations. Those were some of her happiest memories.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

Escape to the Woods

Even if it’s all in your mind

“Fishing doesn’t actually happen. It just goes on in your head.”

— Robert Ruark, The Old Man’s Boy Grows Older

By Tom Bryant

Good night, nurse, it was cold! I had been working on the little Airstream in preparation for our annual fishing trip down South and was taking a break in the Roost, the apartment above our garage where I do most of my writing and heavy thinking; that is, if I have any heavy thinking to do. It had been a crazy year, what with the pandemic and other happenings that didn’t sit well with this good old boy.

I was kicked back in my desk chair, thawing out numb fingers, thinking about the last several months of 2020 and how glad most of us were to see that miserable year plowed into the history books. I had spent a lot of time in the woods, supposedly hunting, but in reality, escaping cabin fever. North Carolina had been locked down, hiding from the virus, and the woods were my breakout mechanism. If I had to rely on the game harvested during those ventures afield to feed Linda my bride and me, we would be starved down to the bone by now.

A couple of friends and I closed out duck season with a canvasback hunt up in the northeastern section of the state. It was a dud. No ducks. Pretty scenery, though, and also a welcome break from all the political angst and health concerns generated during the last months of the year.

If nothing else, the past year gave me plenty of time to reflect on bygone successful hunting and fishing trips. Ruark could have added “hunting” to his old man’s quote. It also doesn’t really happen; it goes on in your head, too.

While sitting in the blind on that unsuccessful canvasback chase, the three of us reminisced about wonderful hunts when the ducks were plentiful, we were younger, and life seemed to be so much simpler. If laughter is a cure-all, as many doctors seem to think, the three of us came away from that hunt without a single duck, but a lot healthier.

Our recent fruitless sojourn and the memories of adventures in the field hunting and fishing were a welcome balm for the miseries of the past year. And as I warmed in the roost, I reflected on how fortunate I am to have lived the life I have during a very special time.

Growing up in the little village of Pinebluff where all a youngster needed was a bicycle and a dog was, in a word and in retrospect, wonderful. It was pre-TV and the small borders of our community, which we determined by how far we could ride our bikes in a day, was our world.

World War II was over, the country was settling down for a period of stability and prosperity, and the good times were not lost on my friend Maurice Pickler and me. Maurice and I were in the fourth grade at Aberdeen Elementary, and we spent many hours roaming the woods and wild areas surrounding our small village. We built a camp in the far reaches of his backyard that, in our minds, rivaled that of Jim Bridger, the mountain man we read about in our history books. We constructed tables out of lengths of trimmed pine branches and a fire pit and oven from scrounged bricks we found on many excursions in the neighborhood. We camped almost every weekend while school was in session and during that summer whenever we could. Maurice and I remained close friends until he and his family moved to Wilmington. Sadly, he died from cancer early in his life, but our adventures when we were very young remain some of my fondest memories.

There is an ancient bait-casting rod and reel propped in the corner behind my desk, and it is remarkably like the one my granddad gave me one summer I spent on the farm in South Carolina. He had a rustic cabin right on the banks of the Little Pee Dee River, and whenever farm chores slowed, we would head to the fish camp. Those were idyllic days spent fishing from his river skiff or on the banks of the slow-moving black waterway.

One lazy afternoon right after he somewhat formally presented me the gift of the rod and reel, he said, “Son, this little fishing pole is made by South Bend and will serve you for many years if you take care of it. Come on, let’s put ’er to use.” We loaded the river skiff and were off for an afternoon of laid-back fishing.

Our plan was simple. We would motor up the river for several miles, then slowly drift/fish back toward the cabin. Nothing very complicated, but we caught fish. Mostly big fat red breast, but every now and then a catfish, and on rare occasions when we ventured off the fast-moving river to a shallow tributary lake, a bass or two. The bass were cause for celebration; and most of the time, we released them because Granddad said they were rare on the river and needed time to reproduce.

Unfortunately, that special South Bend rod and reel was lost as I moved about during the teen years and on to college. My interest was elsewhere: sports, mostly baseball and football, cars, and girls. Needless to say, I was preoccupied, and fishing took a back burner.

Shortly after Linda became my bride, we were browsing in a dilapidated antique store that was way off the beaten path. The old place was located in South Port, close to Long Beach, now known as Oak Island, where we were spending part of our summer vacation. I had been surf fishing without any luck, and we decided to visit the little village that was right on the Cape Fear River and the location where Robert Ruark, one of my most liked outdoor authors, enjoyed time with his grandfather.

As we were leaving the store, I glanced in the corner and saw a rod and reel leaning against an old bureau. The time-worn furniture almost hid the fishing rod, but when I pulled it out of its resting place, I saw it was almost exactly like the one Granddad had given me so many years ago. The ancient fishing pole now resides permanently in the corner behind my desk along with a spinning outfit that belonged to my father.

My desk is located right in front of a window of the Roost, and during the dead of winter when I’m watching frosty Mother Nature in all her glory and hunting season is over and fishing is a while away, all I have to do is glance at those two pieces of antiquated equipment and I’m off on some river or lake or coastal waters, fishing somewhere.

Ruark was right when he heard the Old Man say, “Fishing doesn’t actually happen. It just goes on in your head.”  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

Slim’s Place

Guided by a star

By Tom Bryant

The note arrived on a Tuesday. Mail delivery had been sporadic at best, ostensibly due to the pandemic and delivery of voting ballots during the recent elections. The note was brief and to the point. It was a typical Bubba transcript and read, “We’re having a get-together at Slim’s next Saturday. Why don’t you come to the house on Friday. I have some fresh makings of Ritter’s apple brandy. We’ll test it, and I’ll grill a couple of steaks. Judith’s at the beach with some girlfriends, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. We’ll catch up and talk old times. Hope you can make it, Bubba.”

Bubba and I have spent many days afield, hunting, fishing and camping, and we have become great friends. Our paths went in different directions when Linda, my bride, and I moved to Southern Pines. Plus, Bubba started taking more exotic hunting and fishing trips across the world. To be honest, he has deeper pockets than I do. Our friendship remained, though, and we stayed in touch and met from time to time at cocktail parties, friends’ gatherings and such.

Slim’s Place, referred to in Bubba’s note, is an ancient country store, actually begun and operated by Slim’s grandfather. When the grandfather died, the store fell into disrepair and almost rotted away until Slim, after making a fortune out West in the real estate business, restored it to its former glory. For years, he ran the store more as a hobby than a business, often exclaiming, “The only reason I keep this obsolete old store open is so all you reprobates will have a place to go.”

We did go. It was a place, like the theme song played in the TV show Cheers, “where everyone knows your name.” We did know the names and the families and the dogs and the history, good and bad, of all the good old boys who took advantage of Slim’s hospitality. The patrons of the ancient establishment were a diverse collection, from mill owners to mill workers. Every visitor to Slim’s store was on equal footing, except maybe lawyers. They were jokingly treated differently.

We were in between the holiday seasons, Thanksgiving roaring toward Christmas, and it seemed as if everyone wanted the weird year 2020 to be over. The country was still divided, more so than I’d ever seen due to the acrimonious presidential election and the political differences in how to handle the coronavirus. There didn’t seem to be an end to the rancorous conflict throughout the country, and 2021 would soon be upon us. I hoped that a visit to Bubba’s and Slim’s Country Store and a meeting with a group of good old boys would put everything into perspective.

Bubba built his home back in the mid-’80s, and it’s quite a showcase. Pretty much energy-efficient, the home sits on a little rise overlooking a small lake that is consistently teeming with wildlife. Ducks, geese and even at times a pair of otters use the carefully constructed habitat.

I arrived there in the late afternoon, looking forward to a great visit with an old friend. After an appropriate time of good-natured insults to one another, we went through the house to the deck off his study to watch a beautiful evening sunset.

True to his word, as we settled back in chairs overlooking the pond, he said, “OK there, Cooter, let me pour you a little shot of Ritter’s finest.” (He bestowed on me the nickname Cooter years before and it stuck.) On the table between the two chairs was a decanter full of an amber liquid, and as he poured us a little libation into heavy cut glass tumblers, he added, “Ritter wanted you to have a couple quarts. Don’t let me forget to give ’em to you. He told me to tell you Merry Christmas.”

We both sat in comfortable silence and watched the sun slowly sink behind the tree line on the west end of the pond. Several wood ducks soared close over the water, did a hard turn and skidded to rest near the far bank.

“Watch, Tom, those ducks do the same thing every evening. They’ll swim around for a few minutes then fly up to those oak trees and roost for the night. Pretty to see, almost like they have a watch. They come in every sundown at the same time.”

“I love to watch wood ducks,” I responded. “Speaking of ducks, I thought you’d be down in Louisiana duck hunting about now.”

“Nope, this dadgum virus has everything screwed. I’ve canceled two trips already. One fishing and one hunting. I think I’m gonna just stay home until after the first of the year. Things have got to change. The country can’t continue like this. How about you? Y’all still heading to Florida on your annual winter fishing adventure?”

“The plan is still there. We probably won’t go back to Chokoloskee this time, opting for a closer fishing hole, maybe Cedar Key just above Tampa. Last year we were way down South when this virus thing broke and had to hustle back with the snow bird migration. It wasn’t a pleasant trip. How are things at Slim’s? Things at the store getting by in this crazy year?”

“That’s one reason I wanted this get-together, with you especially, and also some of the old crowd.”

After Slim passed away, Bubba had purchased the old country business from Leroy, Slim’s nephew, who had inherited the place. Bubba bought the store on a whim, and as he often said, so he’d have a place to go. Plus he liked the coffee.

“The venture is getting to be more trouble than it’s worth,” he continued. “We closed the first two months of the pandemic and gave all the perishables to local churches. Now we’re open only three days a week. I would have already closed the place, but I’m keeping it open because Leroy has to have a job, and more than that, in memory of Slim. Like I said, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

The sun had fully set but there was still a soft glow on the western horizon. In contrast, early stars began to twinkle in the eastern night sky.

We sat quietly, sipping Ritter’s brandy.

“I don’t know what to say, Bubba. No one would really blame you if you shut it down. I mean thousands of businesses are closing during this virus mess. Slim would probably have already closed the store. And yet I keep remembering that Christmas season years ago when you and Slim and I were sitting on the porch of the old building, also enjoying some of Ritter’s apple brandy, when that bright star showed up in the eastern sky.”

“Yep,” Bubba paused. “Those were good times, good days, Tom. I recollect that night every Christmas, especially about Slim quoting a verse from the Bible, you know, about the star and the birth of Jesus.”

He stood, stretched, and looked to the eastern sky that was sprinkled with stars. “I think I’ve made up my mind, Cooter, I’m gonna keep the decrepit old place open. I believe we need a bright star now more than ever. This Christmas, why don’t you come up here one evening and we’ll sit on the porch, drink some more brandy and watch for it. Maybe the visit and our search will bring good tidings in 2021. But right now, what say we grill a couple of steaks?”

I did visit Slim’s venerable old country setting one frosty evening a few days before this past Christmas. Bubba and I pulled up a pair of rockers on the wraparound porch with Slim’s favorite rocker on one side. We looked to the east and waited. The bright star was still there.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Sporting Life

A Special Calling

Turning ducks on a dime

“In November,” the old man said, “even the
rattlesnakes don’t like to bite people.”

— Robert Ruark, The Old Man’s Boy Grows Older

By Tom Bryant

I’ve lived a bunch of Novembers, and each of them, although different, has carried a smidgen of sameness that has always made that special time of year one of the best.

If you’re an outdoorsman camping, hunting, fishing or just walking through the woods, November is the time that brings the rest of autumn into sharp focus. The sky is bluer, the air more fresh and crisp. All the animals seem more alive and alert. Ducks are in the middle of their migration south; male deer are in rut with necks swollen and antlers all scrubbed free of velvet. They’re prancing around looking for does. And if there are any quail, they’re alert, on the lookout for birddogs and hunters.

When I was a youngster, September meant going back to school, getting new books, and learning. It also meant the beginning of dove season, which made the month more palatable for me. Of course, I’d rather have been in the woods than in a classroom.

September went by in a flash and brought October, opening more hunting seasons and the first really cool weather that improved lake and river fishing.

October was the month to get ready. The older I get, the more getting ready there seems to be. In the long run, the preparation is better than the event itself. Seeing as how I’m a duck hunter more than anything else, in the weeks of October I’m in a dither rounding up all my equipment: waders, decoys, waterproof hunting coats, cold weather gear like wool shirts, socks and real necessities like long underwear. Duck boats have to be checked, canoes need to be updated with fresh camouflage, and duck calls need to be tried and, if necessary, retuned.

Over the years, I’ve collected a plethora of duck calls and have become somewhat proficient in using them. It really is quite an art. I can call a duck with my favorite call, but my call is nothing like that of a duck hunting guide I had the good luck to meet many years ago.

His name is Bill NightSky and he’s a Chippewa Indian who lives on the reservation close to Lake St. Clair in Canada. Bill is tall, about 6 feet, slender and moves with the natural grace of an athlete. He speaks with a slight accent. I think he enjoyed listening to a Southern accent because he smiled a lot when I answered questions about what duck hunting was like in the South. When we were heading out to his duck blind on Lake St. Clair and talking about calling ducks, he said to me, “You know, Tom, I don’t doubt you can call ducks using that special call hanging around your neck, but there isn’t a white man alive who can turn a duck like a Chippewa Indian. I’ll prove it to you this morning.”

And prove it he did. It was a weeklong trip. We flew to Detroit, spent one uneventful hour there, rented a van and drove across the river to Canada. At the border, we were thoroughly questioned by a guard about our guns. When she asked me if we had handguns, I laughed and replied, “Ma’am, I have a hard enough time hitting a duck with a shotgun, much less a handgun.” She didn’t smile or respond. I did get her to grin a little when I told her we were Southerners, had grown up with guns, and didn’t understand all the red tape in crossing the border. She even let us cross without unloading all our stuff from the car.

We had booked our rooms in a small hotel just a few miles from the Chippewa village and met our guide, Bill, early the next morning at an ice skating rink right outside the reservation. It was a real learning experience for me, my first visit to a tribal homeland. They had their own economy and government including game regulations and game wardens, police and, unfortunately, poverty. The destitution we encountered on the reservation was distressing. It was an eye-opening experience made more so by the goodwill we felt from our host and the natives we met when we hunted with them.

Bill split our party of four so that two of us went with another guide to the marsh bordering the lake, and Tom Bobo and I stayed with Bill to hunt from a small island a mile or so into Lake St. Clair.

The morning was misty and cold with a heavy frost, but in no time, we were hunkered down in the reeds looking out to open water and watching for ducks. Bill had put out just a few decoys, mostly big ducks like mallards, blacks and a couple of pintails. We were ready and waiting.

“I’m anxious to hear you blow your call,” I said to Bill. “What kind are you using?”

“The most natural one you can find,” he replied. “Watch, there are ducks heading our way.”

About eight or 10 ducks circled high above us, looking as if they were going to continue on down the lake. Bill cupped his hand over his mouth and did some chuckling that sounded exactly like a hungry mallard that had just discovered the mother lode of corn. The ducks put on the air brakes, turned on a dime and headed right back to our decoys. Bill did that same remarkable calling all morning using his mouth. No manufactured call. It was amazing.

As astonishing as it was to watch Bill NightSky call ducks with his mouth and hands, I still have to use a handmade wooden call. Not long ago, I had the opportunity to meet a young fellow from the Raleigh area who carves duck calls. They are more than a functional way to attract ducks. The calls he builds are works of art.

For me, a duck hunter who has lived through many seasons, it’s a pleasure to meet another duck-calling enthusiast, especially one as young as Tom Padden. Tom has turned his hobby into a business. If you’re lucky enough to get on the list for one of his handmade calls, I’m sure it will be a prized addition to your collection.

While we were having lunch, Tom showed me several pictures on his smart phone of duck calls he has made. Each one was remarkable. Looks are one thing, but when I asked him how they sound, he replied good naturedly, “Like a duck.”

I was fortunate several years ago to meet my cousin’s husband’s brother, who is an avid duck hunter and builds his own calls. He is also South Carolina’s duck-calling champion, for what year I don’t remember.  I convinced him to make me three calls. I kept one and gave the other two to good hunting buddies. They are strictly utilitarian in looks, but man, they do the job.

I plan on getting young Padden to make me a call this winter and can’t wait to add it to my collection. By the way, if you’re interested, his business is Birddog Outdoor Inc. in Cary, North Carolina. Get in touch. Probably, you’ll have to be added to the list, right under my name.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.