Return to Slim’s

Where old tales warm beside the stove

By Tom Bryant

A frosty, late season cold front pushed us out of the rockers and off the side porch of Slim’s old country store and inside to the pot-bellied stove. “Hey, Leroy, put some more coal in this thing,” Bubba said, pointing to the stove. “The folks at the Weather Channel might say that spring is on the way, but they ain’t been sitting out there in the cold.”

A group of us, mostly old-timers, were visiting our ancient rendezvous spot to catch up with one another and remember the good old days. Bubba put the reunion together and was holding forth with stories about those days long gone when we were all a lot younger and a lot more, as Bubba put it, “interesting.” He owned the store named simply Slim’s Place after Slim, the former owner, passed away and the country store sat forlorn and sad on the side of the road. Bubba said he bought the place to give ne’r-do-wells and reprobates a place to go. He hired Leroy, Slim’s cousin, to manage the business, and he showed up whenever he happened to be in the area.

Bubba and I go way back. In our younger years, we had adventures all over the country. From hunting mule deer in the Wasatch Mountains of Utah to goose hunting on the Eastern Shore of Maryland to duck hunting at Lake Mattamuskeet here in North Carolina. Our adventures were only curbed by time and homestead responsibilities. As Bubba likes to say, “Bryant, you ought to write a book.” And I did.

The old stove began to glow red with the addition of more coal, and the group pushed chairs away in unison and got comfortable.

“Coot, do you remember that time on the Falls of the Neuse when we were duck hunting the West Bank of the lake before they filled it?” Bubba had bestowed the nickname Coot on me years before and, like a bad habit, it hung on.

“We hunted that lake a bunch before they closed the dam. Which time are you thinking?”

“The time Paddle was swimming for all she was worth after a wounded duck you shot, and you were running along the bank, trying to get an angle for the coup de grâce and you stepped off in that hidden creek and floated your hat.” The group broke out in laughter.

“Yeah, I do recall that day. And to add insult to injury, the game wardens, who just happened to be hiding behind some brush out in the middle of the lake, motored up laughing, wanting to know if I was all right.”

“Well, you were fine, and you did finally shoot that duck, or Paddle would have chased it to the coast.”

“I had to empty the water out of my gun before I could shoot, and it was a lucky shot. That mallard was almost out of range.” The gang broke out in chuckles again.”

“That was some dog,” H.B. Johnson added. H.B. was a quiet type, not open to much conversation, but he always seemed to be there taking it all in. “Somebody once said, maybe Bubba, there was a time or two when you had a couple of beers after a dove shoot that Paddle would drive you home in that old Bronco of yours.”

“She was smart, H.B.,” I replied above the laughter. “But I wouldn’t let her drive. She didn’t have her license, and I didn’t want to get in trouble with the law.”

The conversation moved on to more famous stories from the past, some true, but most embellished with just a breath of what actually happened.

Shadows were lengthening across the gravel parking lot of the old place, and all too soon, the reunion of the old group broke up as, one by one, folks said their goodbyes and headed home. I was the last to leave, along with Bubba.

“Coot,” he said as we were standing on the porch, “we’ve got to get together more often. Now that you’re famous with that book coming out and all, I hardly get to see you.”

“You know that’s not right,” I replied. “You’re always off in some exotic port fishing, like down in Costa Rica, or hunting sharp tails out in Montana. Bubba, you’re hardly ever home.” He laughed, and we shook hands promising to get together again before long.

On the drive home, I thought about the old guys and their dogs and our many experiences together, good friends all, including the furry ones.

The Paddle stories brought back a memory of the day she came to live with us. Jim and I picked her up at the Raleigh Airport. She had come from a kennel in Pennsylvania and was only 9 weeks old. On the way home, she rode in my lap, yawning and dozing while Jim drove, and as we pulled into the city limits, Jim said, “We need to take her by Coleman’s so Dicky can see her.”

Dick Coleman was a good friend who died too soon. His name and stories of his adventures came up several times during our gatherings at Slim’s. In our early years, he owned a men’s specialty store that was famous across that part of the state.

When we barged in with Paddle, all work stopped. Several customers were in the process of buying, and most of them came over to look at the new puppy with Coleman leading the group. We put her down on the floor and she started darting from customer to customer.

“OK, Bryant,” Dick said. “Let’s see if this little thing knows how to retrieve. He went in the back of the store and came out with a small canvas dummy used to train young retrievers.

“I used this when I was working Honcho. See if she knows what it’s all about.” Dick’s black Lab, Honcho, was famous in our group as a dog just right for Coleman — wild and headstrong, but a great friend and hunter. The dog fit.

Dick handed me the dummy and I knelt down, holding Paddle in my arms. Everyone got behind me to be out of the way.

“Here you go, girl.” I showed her the dummy, and she was instantly alert. When I tossed it 10 or 15 feet down the aisle, she leaped from my arms, tore across the room, and did a flip as she dove on it and grabbed it in her little mouth. She paused, looked back, then regally trotted back to me. The audience, Dick’s customers, laughed and applauded.

Coleman exclaimed, “Tom, this dog was born to do this!”

As usual, when it pertained to working dogs and most anything involving hunting and fishing, he was exactly right.  PS

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

Using It Up

Squeezing the most out of precious time

By Tom Bryant

Here we were rushing, hell bent for leather, into 2018, March already to be exact, and I wasn’t through using up 2017.

Linda, my bride, and I are in Florida escaping a winter that seems to be on a quest to freeze off all my digits. We are rambling in our little Airstream, wandering from one fish camp to another, sort of like modern day gypsies. The year I wasn’t through with yet played havoc with our normal fishing port, Chokoloskee Island, just below Everglades City. During the summer, Hurricane Irma all but washed the little place away, and we decided not to revisit the island on this winter excursion.

Last year would go down in the journal as a very different one from those in the past. It was a time of extremes, good days and bad. We finished off duck season with few good results. Then on our venture to Chokoloskee, the weather was beautiful, fishing unsurpassed, all in all good times. John Jarrett, a good friend from Rotary, gave me a call early one evening while we were relaxing under the awning of the Airstream. “Tom, this is John Jarrett, how about we get together for lunch tomorrow?”

“John, we’re in Florida.”

“We are, too. We’re visiting friends in Naples, and I remembered you’re usually at Chokoloskee about now and thought I’d give you a call.”

Naples is only about a 30-minute drive from Everglades City, and the following day found us enjoying a wonderful seafood lunch with John, his wife, Linda, and their friends at the venerable old Rod and Gun Club. It was a wonderful visit and a welcome break in our daily routine. John, who put up a gallant battle with cancer, succumbed to the disease later in the year. I’m glad he gave us a call for lunch. John lived his life to the fullest and will be missed. Like a lot of us surviving the golden years, he made the best of his days; and following his example, I’m determined to do the same.

Another good friend, Rich Waters, often says that a lot of people catch the rocking chair disease. As soon as they reach a certain year, they sit down and rock themselves into old age and perhaps an early grave. I feel a lot like Rich, a moving target is harder for the grim reaper to catch.

In 2017, Linda and I were on the move. Checking out the journal, we made several trips to the beach, an impromptu trip to Florida, and a nice visit to Charleston. We spent good times with friends and family. My first book was successfully published with the expertise of the folks at The Country Bookshop, and another is on the way.

Duck season last year may not have been up to earlier successes, but I believe it’s a sign of the times. I’ve had the opportunity to watch several wild areas suffer the wave of progress, too many people after too much of the same. Currituck, for example, was one of the finest duck hunting locations on the East Coast. Today it has become a place to remember as it used to be when canvasback and redhead ducks made it a waterfowl haven.

Just before last Christmas, my good friends John Vernon, Jack Spencer, Art Rogers and I enjoyed a few days at Lake Mattamuskeet duck hunting. It was a classic hunt, shooting over an impoundment loaded with corn. In earlier years, we would have had ducks by the hundreds paying us a call. On this adventure, though, the weather refused to cooperate and ducks stayed out on the lake and on the sound basking in 60-degree temperatures. There was sufficient moaning and groaning at the warm weather and lack of ducks, but the four of us have long ago given up equating the success of a hunt by game in the bag. It was enough for us to enjoy the camaraderie of good friends, good food and incomparable wild scenery. Tundra swans by the hundreds flew over the blind at treetop level, and their primal calling reminded us of days long gone.

For years, tundra swans’ numbers were down, almost on the endangered species list and off limits to hunters. Their recovery has been so good that today a waterfowler, with the correct permit issued by the Wildlife Resources Commission, can shoot one bird. In our hunting group, we have declined; not saying it’s wrong, but watching the birds’ majestic flight, long necks extended, calling their wild call is more than enough to just file away in our memory banks.

On the same trip we observed several eagles soar over the lake in numbers I haven’t seen before. They, along with their cousins, the ospreys, have made a remarkable recovery from near extinction.

So why do I have the concern that there is something I missed in the last year, something that I should have done to close out the time with a more satisfied feeling? I think that if the truth were known, I’m a lot like Calvin in the classic comic strip Calvin and Hobbs, by Bill Watterson. Calvin admonishes his imaginary friend Hobbs to “Hurry. Hurry. We’re having fun but not enough fun!”

While 2017 is a not too distant memory, the new year is up and running. There are fish to be caught, dove and duck hunts to plan, gear to repair, and some of the latest stuff to buy. Right now, I’m sitting on the gulf, just off Cedar Key, ready later this afternoon to launch my little canoe for some laid-back fishing. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch enough trout for supper, and if not, I’ll boil up shrimp that we just picked up from the local fish market. When I asked the crusty old owner if the shrimp was fresh, he replied, “Man, those shrimp were swimming yesterday.”

In my own mind, I might not have used up all of 2017 to the extent I wanted, but I plan on wearing 2018 down to a nub.

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

Old Friends

And a shared passion for the outdoors

By Tom Bryant

Jim Dean passed away peacefully in his sleep right before last Thanksgiving. I wrote this column a couple of years after he retired from his job as editor of Wildlife in North Carolina. The piece was to appear in an outdoor-related supplement to Business North Carolina. The supplement never ran, and I’ve held the story until now. Jim was my good friend and fellow sportsman.

“Let’s see, Tom, favorite trip. Man, that’s going to be hard. There’ve been hundreds of ‘em.” Jim was standing in front of his antique oak filing cabinet when I asked him to tell me about what he thought was his favorite adventure.

“But there was one.”

He hesitated and his eyes glowed as he began talking in a low voice. You could hear the longing for those old friends and the excitement of the trip.

“It was 1970 and my first time fishing out west. We did it right, Henry’s Fork on the Snake River. A. J. Johnson, his son, Alvin, and Reid Bahnson were with me. I remember it like yesterday. I prayed for days before the trip that if the plane had to crash, it would crash on the way home, not on the way out there. You know, I still remember the price of that plane ticket; and ironically, it cost more then than it does now, $742 round trip. The last time I flew out to Yellowstone, the fare was around $500 or so.

“What a time we had. We’d fish till 10:00 in the evening and be back at ‘em by 5:30 the next morning. We were indeed fortunate because during the 10 days that we were there, the Feds opened Lewis River in Yellowstone Park for fishing. We motored in on the Madison River and then rowed for miles up the shallow Lewis to catch fish like never before.”

Jim was indeed in the heart of trout territory. The Madison provides some of the finest fishing for wild rainbow and large brown trout in the country. And the Lewis River that flows south out of Lewis Lake into the Snake also has trout in abundance. I can only imagine the fish that were caught on a fly-fishing adventure of a lifetime.

Jim Dean and I go way back. We both broke into the newspaper business at the same property, The Times-News in Burlington. Jim later moved to Raleigh, and after a time, took over the helm of Wildlife in North Carolina. During his tenure with the magazine, he also became famous for his articles in such magazines as Field & Stream, Sports Afield, and Gray’s Sporting Journal. 

We were in Jim’s den, which any outdoorsman would give his last bamboo rod to own, reminiscing. “I was real lucky when I started at the Times-News,” Jim said. “Bill Hunter hired me and I couldn’t even type.”

In those days, the newspaper industry was famous for its writers. Most were individuals who had their own little idiosyncrasies, to say the least, and Bill Hunter fit the mold.

“My first assignment was to cover, I think for a Sunday paper, a girls’ softball team. It took me all morning to write a 6-inch story. In the meantime, Bill had put together a feature, two pages of sports, wrote the heads and sent them up to composing without proofing. He was the consummate professional, and I was indeed lucky to work for him. But you know, Tom, that whole paper was full of pros. Howard White, the editor, what a prince. You see that old filing cabinet over there? That piece came out of the Times-News. There was a bank of them against a wall, and in a modernization effort, the paper bought all new metal cabinets. Howard asked the staff if anyone wanted to buy one. I think I made 80 dollars a week when I signed on, and it took about every cent from week to week. Although back then, you could buy a week’s groceries for $20.00; but man, I wanted that cabinet. I asked Howard if I could pay for it in a week or so, and he said take it on home.

“That was a different era. Howard; Jim Lasley; Conner Jones; Bill Hunter; Essie Norwood, the society editor; the composing room, remember that crowd? Reading lead type produced on linotype machines upside down and backwards. You know, Tom, I can remember those days easier than I can remember last week.”

I watched as Jim got up to make another cup of coffee.

“I’ve had a great life,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.”

Jim Dean had a varied and exciting life. He was born at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia in 1940. His father, William Dean was from Roanoke Rapids; and his mother, Margaret Geneva Brown Dean, was from Woodland, North Carolina. Jim lived at West Point as a youngster while his father, a West Point graduate, taught math there until he went overseas in 1943.

Jim graduated from Roanoke Rapids High School and received a B.A. in English from the Virginia Military Institute. He then attended the University of North Carolina as a special student in journalism.

“You know, while I was at Carolina, I gained what was the equivalent of a journalism degree in a couple of semesters. I don’t believe they have that program any longer.”

Early on, Jim joined the army and was stationed at the Pentagon in Washington and later at Ft. Holabird in Baltimore. It was while he was stationed in Baltimore that the fly-fishing bug bit and he began writing about his experiences.

“My hero was Joe Brooks, the fishing editor of Outdoor Life,” Jim said as he sat back down with a full cup of coffee. “I’ve probably read everything that gentleman has written.”

“When I was 20 years old, I called Joe and told him that I was interested in outdoor writing and wondered if he could give me some advice on how to get started. He invited me to his house!

“I spent the day with that gentleman, and he opened a lot of doors for me. He taught me a ton, and I kept up with him for years.”

All this experience worked for Jim. When he was named editor of Wildlife in North Carolina in 1978, he wrote regularly for the publication, collaborating with associate editor Larry Earley to produce a book titled Wildlife in North Carolina, which featured articles, photographs and artwork published during the magazine’s 50-year history. In 1995, UNC Press also published a collection of his “Our Natural Heritage” columns titled Dogs that Point, Fish That Bite. In 2000, Jim also published The Secret Lives of Fishermen, a second collection of columns.

Jim has been a regular contributor to various outdoor magazines. In 2001 he was named contributing editor to Field & Stream where he wrote a regular bimonthly column entitled “Out There.”

“Tom, I’ve learned a lot about writing for these magazines. When I got started, not many people were doing what I aspired to do and that was to be a regular writer for a national publication. With the help of my old buddy Joe from Outdoor Life, I soon figured out that most magazine editors live on the edge of desperation. They are looking for a story to fill space. It doesn’t have to be artsy, just good. And if the editor asks for 2500 words, give him 2500 words, not 2600. And better yet, give him art! I became an accomplished photographer pretty early in my career. If you send an editor a complete package, edit plus photos and it’s halfway good, he’ll use it. Come on back here and check out my office.”

Jim’s office was outfitted just like you would expect. Old girly calendars from the ‘60s hung on the walls.

“I got these calendars out of A.J. Johnson’s country store up in the mountains.” Jim said. “They were hanging in my cabin up on Wilson’s creek, but I moved them down here when I gave up that place.”

Fly-fishing reels were all over the table, and Jim told me that they were for his trip coming up in a week or so. “Some of my old buddies from out west are going to meet me in Belize and we’re going to do a little bone fishing.”

Jim also has a cabin on the family farm close to Oxford. I read about it in several of his columns in Wildlife in North Carolina.

“Real primitive,” Jim said. “No running water or electricity, for that matter; but there is an old cast-iron wood cook stove that will put these modern inventions to shame. The farm is about 400 acres with a couple of good bass ponds. I used to bird hunt regularly; but like everywhere else, the quail have disappeared.”

Along with his skills as a writer, Jim also is an accomplished painter, using watercolors as his medium. He also carves duck decoys that would rival the early masters.

We walked back into the kitchen and I asked Jim about a photograph that was on the counter. It was of a pretty girl smiling into the camera as if she knew a secret about the photographer.

“That’s my daughter, Susan. Believe it or not, she has two children. She looks like a child herself. Susan lives up in Evington, Virginia. I also have a son, Scott, who lives in Dayton, Ohio. He graduated from North Carolina State and is a meteorologist.” The pride that every father has for his children was evident as Jim talked.

“These kids have meant everything to me. We’re great friends.”

“Tommy, I’ve been real lucky and have had a super life. Good friends, a great family, and the time to do what I love, and that’s to enjoy the great outdoors.”

I packed up my stuff, and we headed out on the back deck overlooking a carport that housed an old Bronco from the ‘70s, a four-wheel drive SUV, and a wrapped-up Harley Davidson motorcycle.

“I love my Harley,” Jim laughed. “I think I surprised everybody when I bought that thing. Call it my late life crisis. I think I’ll take it out for a spin this afternoon.”

As we were saying our good-byes, I asked Jim about his upcoming trip to Belize.

“I’ve never been down there, and I can’t wait to try out the bone fishing. We’re also going after permit. It’s gonna be a great time.”

And in perfect form, he ended our visit in true Jim Dean style.

“I also plan on hanging around in a hammock under those palm trees and drinking something cool and tall with one of those little umbrellas sticking out the top.”  PS

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

The Old Home Place

Visiting memories of days gone by

By Tom Bryant

It was one of those rare, late fall days with the wind quartering out of the southeast. Too late to be called Indian summer, and yet the soft warm breeze had a semblance of days past when summer was holding on with a real purpose, not wanting to let fall have the upper hand. We Southerners take days like this as a blessing, knowing that right around the next bend a frosty wind will drop all the remaining tree leaves, with the exception of the live oaks, and winter will arrive in earnest.

I was sitting in the swing on the long rain porch of the old home place, and Mom was in her favorite rocker, wrapped in an afghan. We were talking about nothing much, just rambling about days gone by and plans for Christmas that was a short time away. Thanksgiving had recently been celebrated by our immediate family: my sister who lives with Mother; my other sister who had come up from Florida; my brother, who had built a small cottage right behind the big house; along with Linda, my bride; our son, Tommy; and me. It was a grand occasion, and Mom was recalling days past when everyone would descend on the farm to celebrate.

Mother’s 98th birthday was last April. She is the last surviving child of Austin and Hensalie Fore. There were eight children, and when the family got together with aunts, uncles, great aunts and great uncles, and numerous first cousins and twice-removed cousins, we had a passel of people.

Every now and then, Mother’s memory slips, but she can still recall holidays and long-gone relatives as if they were sitting on the porch with us.

“Tommy, you remember your daddy used to drive you down here a few days before Thanksgiving to hunt with your granddad. Your granddaddy loved that.”

“Those were great times, Mom. It seems as if it was just yesterday, but you know that was a long time ago.”

“It’s my old age, and my mind plays tricks, but I can still see you with that great big shotgun your dad gave you. The gun was bigger than you were. I used to worry, but he assured me that you could hold your own in the woods. And your uncle Tommy, I was just talking to him the other day, and he was asking if you were going to deer hunt with the club this year.”

“Mom, Uncle Tommy has been gone a long time now. You were just remembering funny.”

My uncle Tommy had passed away 10 years ago.

“See what I mean about my mind playing tricks?” She looked out across the fields in front of the old house. The crops had recently been harvested by the farming conglomerate that leased most of the farms in the area, and there was a tractor plowing under cornstalks. “Is that your granddad coming across the field?”

“No, Mom. He’s been gone a long time, too.”

She looked at me and smiled. “I think I’ll go in and lie down a bit. I’m feeling right tired.”

“OK, Mom. Let me help with your walker.” I pulled it out for her and helped her down the hall to her bedroom.

“Enjoy that weather on the porch, son. It’ll probably be frosty in the morning.” She sat on the side of her bed, and I pulled a blanket closer. “I love you, son. You be careful in those woods tomorrow.”

I went back out to the swing. The rest of the family was enjoying the side porch off the kitchen. I could hear them laughing. The tractor was still working, getting closer to the road in front of the house. Dogs barked somewhere across the back pasture. I sat in the old swing and remembered the special days Mother’s mind had been tricking her about.

I was 12 or maybe 13 and loved the time spent on the farm, squirrel hunting in the little swamp way back behind the west pasture.  It was my time. I had the best of both worlds. Pinebluff, where I lived, was an ideal place for a youngster who enjoyed the outdoors. I had a relatively new bicycle, a Christmas gift from the year before, a loyal companion in a black curly-coated retriever named Smut, and many friends of the same bent as I. On Granddad’s farm, I had him and uncles who let me roam in the woods with them, and they treated me with good humor, not like the kid I really was. Those were wonderful times.

An old ramshackle pickup truck rolled into the side yard amongst a blue cloud of burning oil. Ed Junior eased out of the driver’s side and looked up at me on the porch. “Hey, Tommy, I thought you’d be out there squirrel hunting.”

“I’m too full, Ed. Too much of Bonnie’s cooking.” My sister had cooked a ham and fixins for dinner and we had eaten our fill.

Ed Junior’s family has lived on the farm as long as I can remember. He and his folks were mostly tenant farmers, in other words they helped provide the labor for a crop; and my grandfather provided the seed, fertilizer, and land. Both parties shared equally in any profits that came along. They also suffered almost equally any crop disaster. My uncle Tommy bequeathed Ed and his family lifetime rights to 10 acres on his farm. Ed and I were the same age, almost to the day, and we grew up on the farm together. I ate many meals at Aunt Mary Greene’s table. She was Ed’s grandmother and ruled her house with an iron hand.

“I brought Miss Evelyn a mess o’ collards. Where you want me to put ‘em?”

“She’s resting right now, Ed. We’ll put them on the back porch.” I walked out to the pickup and helped Ed with two bushel baskets of greens. We toted them to the back porch steps and left them there.

“They gonna need washing,” Ed said. “I just picked them from the back garden.”

We walked back to the truck and sat on the tailgate.

“How’s the family?” I asked.

“They’s doing OK. The daughters are helping me at the store, and the boys are in the army.” Ed had started a little truck garden store on a side street in town where he sold the many vegetables he harvested from his extensive garden. My granddad always said that Ed could grow anything. All he had to do was stick it in the ground.

”How you been doing? Miss Evelyn talks about you a lot.”

“I’m just like you, Ed. A lot older and a little fatter.” I patted him on his rotund belly and we both laughed. We sat and talked and reminisced a little about coon and squirrel hunts we went on as youngsters.

“Yassa, a whole lot o’ water has flowed down Black Creek since them days, Tom. I best be going. It’s getting on up in the day and I got to close the store.” He shook my hand and then impulsively we hugged.

“You look after Mama,” I said as he hoisted himself in the truck. “And you and your family have a Merry Christmas.”

“You, too, Tom. I check in on Miss Evelyn about every week. She has good days and some not so good.” He fired up his old pickup and rattled off in a cloud of blue smoke.

I went back to the swing. The sun was heading to the tree line and there was a noticeable chill in the air. The tractor was nearing the last row in the field, getting ready to quit for the day.  PS

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

Early to the Woods

First light in a Southern swamp

By Tom Bryant

I was just getting ready for, hopefully, a good night’s sleep. Granted, the evening was still young, but I was planning an early rendezvous with a brace of wood ducks right before sunrise. “I’m going to bed,” I said to Linda.

“It’s just 9 o’clock. What time are you getting up?”

“Four-thirty should give me enough time to get to the swamp right before shooting time. The truck’s loaded with all the gear, coffee pot’s ready to fire up first thing, sausage biscuits are wrapped and in the fridge. Not much else I can think of except creeping out of here without waking my cute little bride.”

Linda looked up from her latest issue of Southern Living. “You know I can’t sleep with you rattling around in the kitchen. I’ll get up and help you pack your lunch and send you on your way. And you be real careful in that swamp tomorrow. I hate for you to go off hunting before daylight all by yourself. What if you broke a leg or something? You aren’t a youngster anymore.”

“Babe, just how many years have I been doing this without breaking anything? I might not be as young as I was, but I’m a lot wiser. Remember what Gus McCray said in Lonesome Dove: ‘The older the violin, the sweeter the music.’”

“That quote has nothing at all to do with you wandering around a snake-infested swamp before sunrise. You know that,” she admonished. I headed down to the guest bedroom so I wouldn’t wake her during the night. In my excitement before a morning duck hunt, I usually toss and turn a lot.

With my hunting clothes laid out, I climbed in bed and read a little of Havilah Babcock’s classic book, My Health Is Better In November. I thought about the similarities of our lives, hunting and fishing in the South. He grew up in Virginia but lived and had most of his outdoor experiences in the low country of South Carolina. He was head of the English department at the University of South Carolina and was so popular that students had to sign up for his class a year ahead of time. There was one great difference in our experiences in the woods, though. He bird-hunted when quail, or partridges as the true old-time Southern hunter called them, were extremely plentiful. It was nothing in his day to jump 10 or 15 coveys. I, on the other hand, might raise one covey, or as of late, no birds at all.

I put Havilah’s book on the nightstand and clicked off the light, making a mental list about the gear needed for the next day’s hunt. Canoe loaded on top of the truck, paddles in the back, wood duck decoys in the decoy bag ready to go, shotgun and gunning bag beside the back door, hunting coat and waders ready to put in the back seat. I would put them on before I pushed off in the canoe.

The next day’s weather was going to be a bluebird day, a little crisp, but not too cold. I’ve found that wood ducks really aren’t that influenced by the weather, though. Usually, with them, it’s a morning event, over right after sunrise. A big yawn and stretch placed me in Lady Morpheus’ arms, and the next thing I knew, the little alarm clock beside the bed was ringing me awake.As promised, Linda met me in the kitchen and had already fired up the coffee maker. In short order, the thermos was loaded with fresh hot coffee, my travel mug was ready to ride, the biscuits were in my gunning bag, and I was eager to head to the swamp.

“You be careful,” Linda admonished again, and I quietly eased out the back door, cranked the old Bronco and was on my way. I’ve noticed lately that 5 o’clock in the morning is not as deserted as it used to be in Southern Pines. These days, there are a lot more troops on their way to work at Fort Bragg. As I got farther out in the county, though, traffic became sparser, and I soon rolled up to the locked gate at the entrance of the farm I lease for hunting. There was still plenty of time before daybreak to drive to the tree line where I could drag the canoe to the beaver pond nestled in a low cut in the swamp.

My canoe is a camouflaged Old Town boat perfect for hunting and fishing out-of-the-way locations. And best of all, it’s lightweight enough to let me hoist her on top of the Bronco without pulling a muscle or tearing a rotator cuff. A nearly full moon reflected enough light to help me navigate through thick alders and briars as I dragged the boat to my launching point. In almost no time, I had the canoe loaded, and I cast off into the darkness.

A swamp at night can be a forbidding place; but fortunately, I had spent enough time walking the perimeter of the banks of the beaver pond to get the lay of the land, and moonlight helped me paddle to the spot where I wanted to hunt and hunker down to wait for sunrise.

With the decoys set out, I draped an old brown tarp over the bow of the canoe and sat on the floor of the boat to present a smaller profile. I was right next to a giant cypress and used one of the paddles to wedge the boat in as close as I could. All in all, it was a pretty good set. Watching the world come alive on a late fall morning is one of the things that keeps me coming early to the woods as many times as I have. It’s a wondrous thing. All the cares of the day before are a thing of the past as the grayness of dawn begins to cast shadows and the sun begins to rise over the pines. I’ve seen hundreds of sunrises and you would think that they would all be alike, but it’s not that way. I believe that each one is like the day itself, always the same but forever different. It heralds a new opportunity, a new beginning. I checked my watch; another 10 minutes and it would be legal shooting time, and in the distance, down toward the creek, I could hear the hawk-like screech of a wood duck on the move. The sun was just peeking through the underbrush. It was going to be a great new day. PS

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

Sporting Life

A Parade of Summer Memories

Recognizing a near-perfect dove hunt and a trip down memory lane

By Tom Bryant

The storehouse of our memories is like an unused room in which we lay aside the odds and ends of many treasured things.  — Roland Clark, Gunner’s Dawn

Opening day of dove season was a week away and I was up in the “Roost,” our little garage apartment where I do my writing and keep out of the way of Linda, my bride. I was sorting through gear in preparation of the coming season and putting up a plethora of fishing paraphernalia from our last adventure. In late August it’s usually too hot to fish — witness a trip to Huntington Beach from which we’d just returned. It had been a smoker, in the high 90s most days with a heat index, as the Weather Channel people like to say, in the triple digits. Anyhow, it had been too hot to do much of anything except hang out in the air-conditioned little Airstream, read, and nap. We would venture out in the evening for a walk on the beach, and we did make a couple of trips down to Georgetown for lunch to eat grouper sandwiches at The Big Tuna, one of our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants.  I had made a start on cleaning up the “Stream” but still had a way to go. The air conditioner had given us a small problem on this last day of this trip. It refused to cycle from cold to fan, but I had hopes that it was caused from constant use and was nothing too troubling or expensive to fix. I was thinking about all of this as I wiped down my favorite dove gun, a sweet little 28-gauge Remington 870. I love her in the field because she’s light and easy to handle. Oh well, I thought, I’ll finish my cleaning chore tomorrow. Right now, it’s all about dove hunting.

I’ve been in the woods every opening day for as far back as I can remember and have memories of hunts, good and bad, from those many years. In the far corner of the roost was another of my bird guns and the one with which I’ve had the most success. It’s a Browning 16-gauge over and under, a Christmas present from Linda. I put the 870 aside and broke the Browning down for cleaning. “Hey there, babe, you remember that first hunt when you showed me what you could do?” I’ve started talking to inanimate objects and myself as I’ve grown older. Linda often admonishes me about it and says she hopes I don’t do it in public. “Only when standing in line at Walmart,” I reply. I’ll not forget the first time I hunted with the 16-gauge. Edwin Clapp, the squire of Siler City (the moniker several of his friends and fellow hunters gave him), called me late one evening after Christmas. The conversation went something like this: “Hey Bryant, get your stuff ready and be at my house in the morning at 10 o’clock. I’ve got a dove field that’s eat up with winter birds. The regular crowd will be here. Oh, bring plenty o’ shells. I remember the last shoot you had up here.” As you can tell, I get little respect from my good hunting buddies.

The next afternoon found me, along with my little yellow Lab, Paddle, stationed beside a giant dead oak tree bordering a blown-down cornfield, the victim of a late storm that blew in off the Atlantic and laid waste to the farmer’s fall harvest effort. The corn was flattened on the ground so badly there was no way it could be gathered. Bad luck for the farmer but great luck for us as we locked and loaded and waited on the dove flocks that Edwin promised were sure to come. And come they did. I made a double with my first shots from the Browning. I looked down at the brand new gun and said to her, “Looks like we’re really going to get along.” Paddle came back with the first bird, and I sent her after the second that had fallen behind the dead oak. She loped back with it, and I could see her almost smiling as if to say, “Hey boss, this is gonna be a good day.”

And a good day it was. In short order, I had a limit of doves with only one miss. In all my recollections, it was the best day of dove shooting I’ve had. On the way out of the field, even Edwin said, “Good shooting, Bryant. Let me see that gun.” Good memories. I put the Browning aside and sorted random shells that I keep in an old military ammo box. I bought the box at an army surplus store on one of our many forays to the beach. The store was at an out of the way little town somewhere Down East, I honestly can’t remember where, but it reminded me of our last return trip from Huntington.

In the first place, I try to avoid traveling to or from the beach on a Saturday. This is the day the coastal resorts turn over; everybody who is at the beach vacationing for a week returns home, and those going to the beach for a week make the trip. Our air conditioning problem forced us to leave a day early, so we were caught in the Saturday transition. We resigned ourselves to grin and bear the traffic, and as my mom always says, take the bad with the good, which is what we did until we reached the picturesque little town of Fair Bluff.  Fair Bluff rests on the banks of the Lumber River, and the farming community is known in that part of North Carolina for its giant watermelons in the summer and sweet potatoes in the fall. As we approached the turn that would take us down Main Street and then our route home, a deputy sheriff had the main road blocked and directed us to a small, one-lane street that was parallel to, but not near, our regular route. In the process of following the officer’s direction, we met oncoming traffic that forced us to turn right. This turn put us at the end of the area’s Watermelon Festival parade which we joined much to Linda’s consternation. “We’re in the parade,” she said, slumping down in her seat. “Look, people are waving.”  There was a firetruck in front of us with red lights blazing and siren blaring. Towing the little Airstream, we fit right in with the festivities.

“There’s only one thing to do,” I replied. “Wave back,” which I did, not so much Linda. For some reason, she couldn’t get in the mood. I laughed all the way along the parade route until we soon reached the turn to the road we needed, and we bailed out of the parade and headed home. 

Finishing up with the shotguns, I put them in their cases, buttoned up the ammo box and temporarily stored everything in a corner.

I thought back to our recent beach trip, and the quote from Roland Clark. This summer I was successful in making a couple more memories for the storehouse.  “A nice way to end our last beach trip,” I said, talking to myself again. “They threw us a parade.”

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

Golftown Journal

Random Walks

The pleasures of carrying the load

By Lee Pace

Perhaps it was prophetic that the very month I signed a deal with UNC Press to write a book about the joy of playing golf by foot and foot alone I was presented by the golf gods, neatly wrapped with a ribbon and bow and sweat band, a case study illustrating my renegade approach to the game.

We teed off at 8 a.m. on July 22 at Finley Golf Course in Chapel Hill, me walking with my bag slung over my shoulder along with three riders. Did I feel antisocial by leaving a single in a cart? Certainly not, as why should I accede to his preference of riding in lieu of my own desire to walk? I did tell him, incidentally, I’d help with the cart if he got stuck in a jam.

My two primary goals every time I peg it up are to get some exercise and break 80. Studying the golf course and reveling in nature come next. Enjoying the companionship of my playing partners is important as well — all the better if that’s split three ways while walking along rather than spending four hours-plus with one guy in a cart. Betting? Lame jokes? Pounding beverages? Way down or even off the scales.

One of golf’s earliest appeals was its health-giving benefits, the player walking some four miles over varied terrain with his strength and endurance key elements of the sport. Too often today that component has been lost, with many golfers playing in a default mode of mandatory riding in motorized carts.

“Such uninterrupted exercise, cooperating with the keen air from the sea, must, without all doubt, keep the appetite on edge, and steel the constitution against all the common attacks of distemper,” Tobias Smollett wrote in a 1771 novel of the golf experience in the Scottish town of Leith.

So I knew on this day with the temperature at 76 degrees when we teed off and forecasts for highs in the upper 90s that breaking 80 would be a challenge indeed. Beating the golf course and beating myself were all that mattered. Yet I’d played two weeks earlier, same morning tee time, nearly but not quite as hot, and shot 80. My game was coming into mid-summer form as it always does and, if I’d just make a full turn in good posture and not get quick at the top, I felt I could shave a couple of shots and land in lucky-70s nirvana. I was heartened that day two weeks earlier by having clipped two shots off my front nine total on the back — indicating fatigue was not an issue.

“All I can say is — stay hydrated,” the starter counseled on the first tee.

I stood 5-over on the 13th tee, having slaked several bottles of water, a Powerade at the turn and seeking shade when convenient. Some of that shade I found to the left of the 17th fairway when we were looking for a wayward tee shot. I enjoy taking photos of my collection of lightweight, simplistic carry bags juxtaposed against interesting architectural features for social media posts, so I took a quick snap of my bag in the cool shadows (out in the sun it was 92 with a heat index reading of 105) and later posted it on Twitter.

“Surely you’re not walking,” responded one follower.

“I am amazed and aghast at the same time,” another wrote.

To me, it was just another day at the golf course. And it was with no small amount of satisfaction that I played the last five holes plus-1, penciled in a 78 and enjoyed my favorite hamburger afterward in recovery mode. (And look, I’m not stupid; I’m not saying I’d have walked and lugged if my tee time had been at 1 p.m. that day.)

To hell with Mark Twain, who supposedly once said, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” Poppycock. To me and a passionate and resolute minority, “Carts are great golf ruined.”

“I’m pretty much a traditionalist. I feel walking is the way the game is meant to be played,” says Spartanburg’s Todd White, a top mid-amateur who played in the U.S. Amateur Four-Ball at Pinehurst in May. “There is so much to enjoy between shots if you’ll just take the time to do it. To me, a golf cart takes away quite a bit from that. In a cart, you rush to your ball to sit there and wait. If you’re walking, you can experience the environment.”

“Walking No. 2 in the evenings is such a peaceful experience,” says Pinehurst member Jason Richeson, a member of the club’s Executive Golf cadre that meets every Tuesday for twilight golf on No. 2. “There’s hardly anyone else out there; you’ve got the sun setting through the pines. It’s amazing. It’s almost a surreal atmosphere.”

Mike Harmon is the director of golf at Secession Golf Club in Beaufort, South Carolina, which opened in 1992 as a walking-only course (they have two golf carts for players with doctor-verified health conditions). The club has an excellent caddie program and will allow members to carry their bags late in the day. Harmon often goes out with a Sunday bag and nine clubs.

“Obviously walking is the healthy way to play,” he says. “I always play better walking, and I nearly always play just nine clubs just putzing around the club. You find out how well you’re swinging when you have nine clubs. You have an 8-iron shot but you’ve got to pick the 7 or 9. You have to figure that one out.”

I never begrudge others their preferred method of playing. As golf architect Tom Fazio notes, the invention and proliferation of the golf cart has been in large measure “very positive” for the game.

“I’m not sure we’d have had the growth in golf and as many people playing if not for the golf cart,” says Fazio, who’s designed and built five Sandhills area courses. “We have built courses in hilly terrain, in mountain areas that wouldn’t be accessible if not for the cart. I’d bet there are a couple thousand courses in America that would not be there if not for carts. On a grand scale, you’d have to put a plus for golf carts.”

Yet in the next breath, Fazio will admit to moving heaven and Earth to hide the visual pimples of paths on his golf courses, and that his No. 1 golf experience is playing Pine Valley Golf Club — where no carts are allowed. In other words, he’ll build what the market dictates.

The market, certainly, will be limited for my forthcoming book. The vision is some 200 pages, coffee-table format, the content built around stories of courses and clubs across the two Carolinas where the course is walkable and a healthy walking culture exists. It’s an acquired taste, as they say, but fortunately the astute numbers-crunchers at the venerable Chapel Hill publishing house are confident the readers and buyers are there.

Case in point is Jay Mickle, a Southern Pines farrier who grew up playing McCall Golf & Country Club in suburban Philadelphia in the 1960s. Carts were not part of the equation.

“Carts were high-society, resort stuff,” he says.

He moved to the Sandhills a decade ago and is a regular hoofing it about Pine Needles and Mid Pines — once walking 18 holes at Mid Pines as a twosome in one hour, 55 minutes — and relishes the late afternoons. One twilight we were walking from the tee on the 15th at Mid Pines, the setting sun at our backs and filtering through the trees to cast a golden patina on the furrows within the ancient fairways.

“It’s the magical time of day,” he says. “This is perfect.”

Mickle notes that many northern courses add an upcharge to ride, while it’s typical in the Carolinas to add it to the greens fee.

“People think, ‘I paid for it, I’m going to take it,’” he says. “Well, they can take it to their grave when their arteries are all clogged up.”

I might not get a better quote than that over the next two years, but I’m sure going to try.

Send Lee Pace an email at leepace7@gmail.com if you share his passion for walking golf and have a story to tell.

A Reunion of Memories

The beach brings them all back

By Tom Bryant

Over the last 10 years I’ve become somewhat of a specialist in setting up our little Airstream in preparation to camp. I don’t care how many times I’ve done it, I still have to refer to my mental checklist or I could leave out something important, and invariably, it will come back to bite me. It’s fun, though, and sometimes I remind myself of the dad in the holiday classic A Christmas Story, when he was timing himself while changing a tire on the old family Dodge. My record, from start to finish, including connecting to electric and water and lowering the stabilization jacks, is 20 minutes. I’ve yet to break that record, but every new campground offers me a new challenge.

On our last early summer trip to Huntington Beach State Park in South Carolina, I thought I’d broken the record, but Linda, my bride, reminded me that the awning wasn’t out, and in the summer, that’s part of the contest. So the 20-minute record still stands. We were camped on a site right across from a huge grassy field surrounded by live oaks. The sites along the edge of the field were filled to the brim with four large tow-behind campers surrounded by a bunch of kids who appeared to be from 6 to 12 years of age, all supervised by young parents. After I put the awning out, I grabbed a couple of folding chairs from the Cruiser and a cold drink from the fridge and kicked back to watch the doings right across the campground road.

They were having fun. The kids were running from here to yonder, riding bikes, pulling wagons and, in general, having a great time. I called to Linda, who was still inside sorting stuff that we had let ride on the bed coming down from Southern Pines. “Hey, Babe, come on out here and watch this. See what it reminds you of.”

Linda made herself some lemonade and joined me under the awning. “Wow, look at all those kids,” she exclaimed.

“I tried to count them, but the way they’re moving, it’s like trying to count new puppies in a box. What does it remind you of?”

“When we were young and used to rendezvous at the beach with your family.”

I agreed, and we watched for a while as the adults restored some order, and they all packed up and headed to the beach. They had a little convoy of youngsters and wagons packed with beach umbrellas, games, snacks and a couple of the youngest children.

“There was a bunch of us, but I don’t believe we ever had as many as those folks across the road.” We talked and reminisced about the vacations when we would meet at the beach with my mother and dad, brother and sisters and all our children. We did that for years until the kids got married and started having their own children. Eventually, the numbers became unmanageable, even with two houses. Nowadays when we get together we do so in a more sedate fashion.

“I miss our family beach trips,” Linda said. “I wish we could do it again, but I know it’s impossible. Everybody’s spread out all over the country.”

“Yeah, I even miss the big family reunions we used to have on the farm. Do you remember the year we had the last one?”

“No, it was so long ago. It’s getting late. I guess I’d better start supper. How about tuna salad?”

“That’s good for me. Can I help?”

Linda replied that she had it under control and went into the little Airstream. I sat and watched as sea gulls soared at treetop level out toward the ocean. I tried to remember the last big family get-together on the old plantation and couldn’t. When my grandparents were alive, we had them every five years.

After our last reunion, I put together a few observations of the extended family gatherings, and Mom used them on the back of a brochure she had printed with the addresses of relatives. Those descriptions from long ago help me remember those wonderful times:

— Cars with license plates from all over the country parked in the front yard.

— Everyone greeting one another and trying to talk at once.

— Older folks trying to figure out whose son or daughter you are.

— Kids running through the big house, slamming the front screen door.

— Brothers, sisters and cousins remembering past reunions when Uncle Jim and Uncle Fred played tricks on each other.

— New babies showing up every year. Older faces missing.

—The old house reverberating with laughter from family members who have been separated too long.

— Kids swinging each other in the long rope swing that’s tied to the ancient pecan tree.

— Different members of the family setting up lawn chairs under the huge oaks trying to catch the noon breeze, while a few diehards suffer the heat on the long rain porch.

— Ladies in the kitchen preparing food for the buffet tables in the dining room, and people everywhere catching up on family news.

— And at last, dinner, after a blessing thanking the Almighty for everything that’s good.

— Relatives trying to eat a little of everything from Uncle Tom’s barbecue to Aunt Sylvia’s pound cake. Covered dishes everywhere with food galore.

— Babies and old folks napping in the shade of the giant oak trees after a memorable old-fashioned dinner and more talking about family and friends and family history.

— And as the day slowly wanes, family members gather children and belongings, and after hugging and kissing everybody, climb into their cars and head back home. 

— Finally, the house grows quiet again, and it seems as if the ghosts of reunions past walk the old halls smiling.

A strong breeze came off the ocean and I could smell rain. Cumulus clouds inland began to grow darker, and faraway grumbles of thunder could be heard. I began to batten down chairs and tables in anticipation of a summer storm. Down the little camp road, I spotted the folks from across the way coming back from the beach. They were laughing and shouting to one another and as happy as only a young energetic bunch can be.

It was catching. I smiled as I watched the adults herd the children to where they needed to go, then take a much needed breather in chairs pulled into a circle around a fire ring. It was a pleasure watching them have fun.

Good folks, I thought. They’ve got a lot of living to do.  I wish them well.  PS

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

Guest Lecturer

Bringing the outdoors in

By Tom Bryant

Traffic was backed up for miles on the inner beltline of Raleigh, so I decided to take country roads home to Southern Pines. Big cities seem to be getting bigger every time I have to visit one, and today was no different. On this trip to the metro, I had met a couple of friends I worked with in the newspaper business. It was a great reunion. We sympathized with each other on our personal aging problems as well as the problems the newspaper industry is experiencing. After a couple of cups of coffee and an hour or two of catching up, we hit the road to get back to our respective home bases.    

I angled my route over the backroads toward Cary and then decided to cut across country to Lake Jordan for a quick look-see. But first, since it had been a long time since my bowl of breakfast cereal, I pulled into a handy McDonald’s right outside the city limits for an early lunch. I was in luck because just as I entered the restaurant, a church bus pulled up and unloaded a bunch of youngsters. They appeared to be in their early teens, so I grabbed a table in the back corner to be out of the way. I had the morning issue of the News & Observer, so
I kicked back with my biscuit to catch up on the Raleigh news.        

As expected, the young folks came in with all the enthusiasm only they can have, especially when they’re hungry. I couldn’t help but overhear that they were on a field trip to the Capitol to see and be seen with the legislators. At a glance, it seemed as if each one had a smartphone and was constantly checking for important information or messages.

The technology that has changed the way newspapers do business was in evidence right there in McDonald’s. There I was, an older guy, not quite a geezer but on the way, reading a hard copy of a newspaper; and there they were, a bunch of young folks engrossed in their smartphones. It was a living testament to how times have changed.

These young folks reminded me of the time I was invited to speak to an eighth-grade class about the beauty of nature. It was a project dreamed up by the school to emphasize the importance of the outdoors. Even back then, school administrators understood that kids were spending too much time inside, watching TV and playing video games. That early encounter with those eighth-graders was the first inkling I had that the new generation was growing up differently from anything I had known.

A few more hungry customers came in the door, and the young folks moved as a group to the center of the restaurant. I was surprised at how subdued they were, and all but two, that I saw, were engrossed in their phones. The two kids who weren’t, a boy and a cute petite girl, carried on a conversation, laughing and smiling all the while. The contrast between the couple and the rest of the group was very evident. There are a few hanging on, I thought. The couple with no phones in sight would have fit right in with the eighth-grade class I visited many years ago.         

There were 30 or more students in that classroom, and it was just before lunch, so my time was limited. The young teacher introduced me and returned to her desk. I looked out at all those youngsters who had so much living yet to do and wondered how many had spent any time at all in the outdoors. So I asked, “Raise your hand if you’re in the Boy Scouts.”

About five boys tentatively put up their hands.

“OK,” I said, “how many of you young ladies are in the Girl Scouts?”

No hands went up.     

I decided to use a different tact. “How many of you have ever been fishing, hunting, camping or hiking, anything at all to do with the outdoors?” I was amazed at how few raised their hands.

“Well, I guess I have my work cut out for me. I’m supposed to get y’all interested enough in the birds and bees for you to spend more time away from the TV.”

The birds and bees comment brought on a little snickering in the back rows.

“Not that kind of birds and bees,” I laughed. I had gotten their attention.  A boy sitting close to the front raised his hand. “Mr. Bryant, one time when I was a lot younger, my granddad took me duck hunting.”

I looked at him with a glimmer of hope, thinking that here was a boy I could relate to.

He continued, “I not only about froze to death, but I was bored stiff. We didn’t see a duck all day.”

The class erupted with laughter. The teacher looked over at me with raised eyebrows.

I’m losing these people. What’s the best way to respond to this little whippersnapper? I thought about bringing the beauty of sunsets and sunrises into the conversation. I had even emphasized that in my notes, but that wouldn’t work; these kids have seen too many nature documentaries on TV.

OK, I figured I had one last chance before the teacher took her class back and dismissed me.

I walked around to the front of the lectern. “All right, folks,” I said. “I’ve left my speech back there. Just give me a little attention, and I’ll let you get out of here early for lunch.” That perked them up. I looked at the young fellow who gave me the duck hunting story. “I’m going to tell you about one of my duck hunts.

“It was Thanksgiving weekend, really just a couple of years ago. I was out early Friday morning at my special duck hunting spot not too far from home. It’s a beautiful undisturbed area with all kinds of wildlife and one of my favorite locations. Unfortunately, we’re losing these places all too quickly to development. So-called progress, I reckon. I have a small duck boat I use for hunting, one that will nestle right close to the creek bank; and on this morning, I was hunting alone because my old hunting dog, Paddle, had died the year before. She was a yellow Lab and a great retriever. We hunted together for 14 years and I still miss her.”

The class was paying more attention and I continued. “On this morning I didn’t really expect to have a lot of luck because of the mild weather, but I just wanted to be in the woods. I pulled the boat under alders growing from the bank and watched as the sun came up over the lake. Canada geese had roosted out in the big water the night before and were calling in preparation to head to the fields to feed. Mixed in with their calling, I could hear an unusual whistling noise coming from up the creek. A black bear had recently been sighted in the area, and not knowing what the whistling was, I hunkered down in the boat.”

I had the class now. They were all paying attention, and I finished the impromptu lecture and watched as the students were dismissed and filed out of the room heading to lunch. Several of them thanked me for the story.

The teacher gave me kudos for my talk. I don’t know if they were deserved or not, but I told her I had enjoyed the experience.

As I packed up to leave, the young guy who had duck hunted with his granddad stood by the classroom door, and as I walked out into the hall, he said, “Thanks, Mr. Bryant. I’m going to see if my grandfather will take me duck hunting again.” 

That youngster made my day.  PS

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

Hearing a Faint Voice

Testing a new outfit in an old spot

By Tom Bryant

. . . A Florida conservationist is a fellow who bought his waterfront property last week, and wants to make room for two or three friends and then shut the door forever. And meanwhile the people who knew what it was like twenty years ago are an ever-dwindling minority, a voice too faint to be heard.

— The Empty Copper Sea, by John D. MacDonald

Wind was blowing out of the east at about 20 knots. That, along with a low tide, had all but emptied Chokoloskee Bay of water except in the cuts and passes. Too windy to take out the canoe, and I was determined not to make a mistake like I did the day before, when I got caught on a falling tide with wind in my face. When I made it back to the dock, it felt as if I had paddled 5 miles, towing a barge. I don’t mind a little exercise, but that was too much.

Chokoloskee Park and Marina sits on about 10 or 15 acres, all of it packed elbow-to-elbow with campers like us and mobile homes made permanent in the back. We had the site up the hill from the launching ramp of the marina, and I was sitting outside our little Airstream, keeping out of the wind. Montana Bill, a long-timer, walked by on the way to the dock, looked over at me and said, “Tom, you get to say ‘hey’ to everybody right here.”

I laughed. “You’re right, Bill, if I get tired of folks I just go inside.” The site was narrow but a little bigger than the rest on the front row. This was our annual winter visit to Florida. We had budgeted two weeks for the island and we were just getting into a routine. The weather had been windy but warm, and the snowbirds who had been there a lot longer said we were blessed with the wind because the mosquitoes and no-see-ums had been murder before the breeze cranked up and blew them away.

Not wanting to take the canoe out, I ventured out on the dock with a new spinning outfit I received for Christmas. It was a combo from L.L. Bean, spinning rod and reel and fly rod and reel. I was excited about trying it out. The dock runs beside the launching ramp to a fish-cleaning station, hangs a right and goes in a semicircle back toward the marina, creating a space for boats to come into the slips available and tie up for the evening or for any length of stay. It’s a pretty efficient little harbor just right for small boats.  I, on the other hand, parked my canoe beside the Airstream.

There are a couple of benches placed strategically along the dock walkway where folks could rest and watch wildlife or maybe sunsets, which are magnificent over the Ten Thousand Islands. I noticed an old fellow sitting at the bench closest to the cleaning station, so I moved down toward the north end of the dock so I wouldn’t accidentally hook him if the wind blew the lure his way. He was a weathered old guy, wearing a cut-off sweatshirt, denim shorts, and a canvas hat that looked as if it had done duty in the big war, World War I, I mean. He had a pipe that he would repack with tobacco from time to time. I hadn’t smelled a pipe smoker in many years. The wind blew me a whiff every now and then, and it brought back memories of the days when I used to smoke a pipe before I gave up tobacco entirely. To me, it wasn’t unpleasant the way cigarettes and cigars are.

I tossed the light lure out as far as I could, more just learning the touch of the spinning outfit than hoping to catch something. A stiff breeze at my back helped, but I still couldn’t reach deep water like I wanted. I noticed the old guy had moved to the bench nearer to where I was.

“You’re gonna have to put more weight on that leader if you want to get where the fish are,” he said, chuckling.

“You’re right, but I’m more interested in how this little thing works than actually catching a fish. It’s new to me and I’m impressed with it so far.”

“I bet it would be fun with a 3- or 4-pound trout on it.”

“Mister, I haven’t caught a 3- or 4-pound trout in quite a while. I don’t know if they grow ’em that big anymore.”

“It would break your heart to see the fish pulled out of these waters 20 years ago,” he said. “A 3-pound trout was common, and pompano and snook and red fish and sheepshead. You name it, the fishing was so good you had to hide your bait or they would jump in the boat.”

I laughed and said, “I’ve heard that one before, old-timer. Believe it or not, I used to fish these waters with my granddad over 60 years ago, and I can relate to what you’re saying.”

“Well, I’ve got some years on you, and I can remember that before that causeway and bridge were built, nobody fished off Chokoloskee Island except the locals. Most everybody put in at Everglades City, what few came here to fish. The rich folks fished out of the Rod and Gun Club. Met Hemingway there one time. He gave me a dollar to haul in his suitcase.”

He was looking to the north where the causeway crossed the bay to the island. The folks from the highway department were hard at work replacing the bridge located in the middle, and they had a way to go before they finished. They were working one lane at a time and had an automatic light controlling traffic.

“Yep,” he said, “before they dug the ditch to build that road and bridge, the flow of the bay coming out of the Glades was a lot better. Some folks say the reason the fishing is not as good as it used to be is because of that cotton-picking’ road.”

He knocked tobacco ash out of his pipe, refilled it, and lit it again. He stood, shuffling a bit to get his feet working. “Well, anyhow, ain’t nothing the way it used to be. Good luck, fellow. I hope you catch some fish. My daughter is supposed to pick me up in a few minutes. She brings me over here every now and then so I can check out the fishing. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

We said our goodbyes, and I watched as he slowly made his way around the dock to the parking lot. He’s right, I thought. Times have changed, not always for the better.

In the distance I could hear the pounding as the big diesel pile driver worked on the bridge.  PS

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