Airstream Heritage

Chasing fish — and a bit of warmth

By Tom Bryant

Snowbird (person) — Wikipedia

A snowbird is a person who moves from the higher latitudes and colder climates of the northern United States and Canada and migrates southward to warmer locales such as Florida, California, Arizona, Texas, or elsewhere along the Sun Belt of the southern United States.

I guess you could say my grandfather fit the Wikipedia definition long before Wikipedia existed or the term “snowbird” was coined anywhere in the vernacular. He really didn’t qualify for the definition in its truest sense though, in as much as he already lived in the Sun Belt, in sunny South Carolina.

But Granddad was always cold-natured. When I was just a youngster, I can remember deer hunting with him and listening as he complained about the frosty weather. Many times he said, “Son, just as soon as the Christmas holidays are over, your grandma and I are heading south, down to Florida, where I plan to bask in the sun and catch as many fish as your grandma and I can eat, and you know she loves fresh fish.”

Granddad wasn’t a true snowbird because he bought a place, 100 acres exactly, right on the St. Johns River at a little crossroads of a town by the name of Astor Park. After that he was no longer a transient. Later when I visited them at their Florida property, I asked him why he needed so much land. His answer was simple: “Son, I might need to expand.”

He started with a little Airstream trailer, which he would tow from the homestead in South Carolina to the river property in Florida. Every winter when the wind would begin whistling out of the north and a heavy coat of frost would whiten the fields, my granddad would hitch up the little Airstream and head to the St. Johns.

Now both Granddad and Gangama, as we grandchildren called her, were pretty big people, and it didn’t take them long to decide that the trailer was OK but they needed more room. So they built a place with all the conveniences of home and parked the little trailer behind the new storage building. It didn’t stay there for long, though.

In the early ’50s, winters seemed to be colder and summers hotter. This was way before the catchphrases “global warming” and “climate change” rolled around. Granddad always said that weather was cyclical; we could have several years of colder winters than usual, and then several years of warmer than usual weather. Everything seemed to even out in the course of things. 

But, when the cold migrated farther south and my granddad couldn’t fish in his shirtsleeves, he hooked up the little Airstream and headed to the warmer climes at Everglades City and Chokoloskee Bay.  He bought a little place on Half-Way Creek just big enough for his boats and the trailer. Here he would retreat when old man winter got nasty up around Astor.

It turns out that the acorn really doesn’t fall far from the tree. My dad built a river house on the St. Johns; and after he passed away, my mom started wintering in Florida. So what do I do in retirement? I buy a little Airstream trailer and my bride, Linda, and I make our own winter sojourn south.

This will be the fifth year we’ve hooked up and hit the southern roads, and what an experience it has been. I was fortunate as a youngster to spend a lot of time with my granddad fishing in Florida, and I’ve lived long enough to see the major changes that have taken place in that state. It has been nothing short of amazing. The 100 acres that my granddad bought in the ’50s was nothing but scrub palmetto bushes, pine trees and sand. Today, his land is home to upscale restaurants, horse farms, and parts of cattle ranches.

The little piece of property in Everglades City on Half-Way Creek is now part of a huge marina where fishermen from all over the country come to try their luck in the 10,000 Islands that border Chokoloskee Bay and the Gulf of Mexico.

Our winter spot down there is what Linda calls the fish camp. It’s located on Chokoloskee Island and is usually inhabited this time of year by true snowbirds. These folks come from frosty hinterlands such as Canada, New York, Connecticut, Minnesota and other frigid locales, many arriving in southern Florida around November. They will soak up the sun until the weather up north becomes more habitable, usually in April. Then they will line Interstate 95 almost bumper to bumper as they head home to do it all over again the following winter. It’s something to see, and we have become part of this exodus.

When you read this, we’ll be on the way home after another month or so enjoying the warmth and some good fishing. Southwest Florida is beautiful in late winter. The sky is bluer and the air is moist and easy to breathe. Cumulous clouds hang low like puffs of cotton and look as if they can almost touch the coconut palms.

Our little Airstream has opened the door to an entirely different lifestyle that grows every year, that of traveling Americans. Not the ones who hop on a plane in New York and scurry off to sunny California, but the folks who drive across the country, seeing it from the ground level. These are the ones closer to our forefathers who backed their horses into the traces, hooked up the Conestoga wagons and headed to parts unknown. I know that sounds a little dramatic. Where they had four horses, our FJ Cruiser has almost 300; and whereas their maps were hand-drawn and sometimes not accurate, our GPS keeps us on the right path wherever we go. But like those folks from long ago, we’re looking at the same country, however changed it might be.

In the 10 years we’ve had the Airstream, we’ve traveled through almost every state, and I’ve confirmed an observation made many years ago by my granddad. Early one morning as we were fishing for sheepshead near Fiddler Key in the 10,000  Islands, I said, “There are a lot more folks down here this winter, Granddad. Seems as if most of them are Yankees who talk funny.”

He laughed, “There is a bunch more this year.” He paused and added, “I bet we sound funny to them, too. But you know, son, one thing I’ve discovered in my many years and travels, people are mostly the same wherever you go. I bet you’ll find that to be true when you get a little older and see more of the country.”

He was right. Just about everybody we’ve met from Alaska to Florida might speak with a different accent, but their hearts seem to be in the right place.  PS

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

On Point

The beauty of champion bird dogs

By Tom Bryant

My cellphone rang just as I was crossing the bridge over the Pungo River, leaving Hyde County. I had spent the last four days at Lake Mattamuskeet in pursuit of waterfowl, and I could feel every one of my
advanced years. As my good friend and hunting buddy John Vernon says, “Tom, how many more times do you think we’ll be able to do this?”

I saw that the caller was Rich Warters, another friend and outdoor enthusiast.

“Tom, you ready to shoot some birds?” Rich trains bird dogs, and a time or two I’ve shot pen-raised quail over his trainees.

“Rich, old buddy, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last week. I’m on the way home from Mattamuskeet.”

“That’s right, I remember now. How was the hunt?”

“We had a grand time. The ducks were kind of sporadic, but we did get enough for a meal or two. I’ll get you and Penny over for a duck dinner after a while.”

“Great,” Rich said. “But right now, I need you to shoot some birds for me. Robert Ecker is here training dogs before a trial coming up in February and we need a shooter.” Ecker is a professional bird dog trainer and is well-known in the sport as one of the best. He has two of Rich’s pointers in his training regimen, and he and Rich work closely honing the dogs’ natural ability. Rich had asked me a few weeks before if I could help out, and I enthusiastically agreed. Hunting pen-raised quail is not like hunting wild birds; but with the serious shortage of the wild variety, bird hunters shoot on preserves where quail are raised for this purpose. It’s not the same, but it’s the next best thing.

“Rich, I’d love to help you, but I injured a back muscle hunting this week, and I’m probably going to have to see the doc when I get home. This thing’s giving me a fit. I have to stop the vehicle every hour or so to stretch.” Many years ago, I had torn a muscle in my back while white-water canoeing. Every now and then, the injury will reappear just to let me know who’s boss.

“OK, Tom. Drive safely and call me after you see the doctor. If nothing else, we want you out here just to see the dogs. Bo and Bud are here, and I want you to watch ’em work.” Bo and Bud are Rich’s pointer bird dogs. I’d heard a lot about them but had not watched them in action. We rang off and I continued driving west toward Southern Pines.

A few days after I got home from the Mattamuskeet hunt, my back was making a slow recovery. Rich called again. “Bryant, how’s the back?”

“A little better, but I’m not going to be able to shoot for you. I don’t believe I’d be able to swing a shotgun.”

“That’s all right. We’re just going to make some photos, and I’ll bring a 20- gauge Remington for you to just shoot one bird. That way we’ll be able to get some pictures. How about Friday around one o’clock out at the kennel?” The kennel is located in west central Moore County on about 800 acres. Mills Hodge, another bird dog aficionado, actually owns the kennel, and he and Rich work closely training the dogs. The big difference in the two is that Rich owns and works English pointers, and his good friend Mills owns and works English setters. There is a lot of friendly competition going on all the time.

When I arrived that Friday, Rich and Robert were already there getting things ready for the afternoon training session. I hadn’t seen Robert since Rich and I ventured up to Michigan to hunt grouse. At that time, we again used Robert’s expertise and his dogs to locate wild birds.

Robert hadn’t changed a bit. A young ball of fire, he still has the enthusiasm and skill required to turn young dogs into champions. There are 42 dogs in his training camp; but on this outing, he would only take four: Rich’s two pointers, an Irish setter, and an English setter. Robert is from Quakake, a small town in Pennsylvania where he has his kennel. He has been a professional bird dog trainer since 1994; and in that time, he has won about 80 field trials. When I expressed my amazement, he modestly replied, “Tom, those are in the past; it’s the trials and the dogs in the future that count.”

When I drove up, Rich walked over to the car. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but Rich never changes. An amazing individual at 82, he seems half his age and can outdo many people much younger. Rich and his lovely bride, Penny, retired to Pinehurst in 1995 after he served as assistant school superintendent in Horseheads, New York. An avid golfer, Rich plays three or four times a week and is a member of the renowned Tin Whistles, founded in1904 and the oldest golfing fraternity in the country. He has won several tournaments with that esteemed organization. When he’s not playing golf, he’s out working his dogs. I met Rich shortly after he retired, and I consider myself a better man for it.

“Bryant, limp on over here. In a minute we’re gonna put you in this four-wheeler and show you some pretty dog work.” Robert loaded the dogs in their crates in the back of the vehicle and left to put out birds for the dogs to find during the work session.

“Here’s the shotgun.” Rich handed me a 20-gauge Remington 1100 and a handful of shells. “Now don’t get upset,” he said as I started to protest. “You only have to shoot one time. We just want to take some pictures. You don’t even have to hit the bird.”

It didn’t take Robert long to finish his chores, and we crammed into the vehicle and headed out through the pines. A little way into the longleaf pine forest, Robert pulled over and got Bud, Rich’s champion pointer, out of the carrier. Bud was runner-up national champion last year, and this year has a real opportunity to take first place. We drove a bit farther down the sand path with Bud hunting in front. All of a sudden, he locked up on point like a statue. If there is anything prettier than a bird dog on point, I don’t know what it is. We piled out of the vehicle and Rich said, “Tom, here’s your chance. Don’t miss.” Chuckling all the time.

Robert eased up to me and quietly said, “I’ll jump the bird. Be ready.”

I loaded the 20-gauge and watched as Robert slowly edged into the undergrowth. Then it happened; a bird the size of a chicken burst from the cover, cackling like a demented pterodactyl. It was a great big cock pheasant. I almost dropped the gun. I was expecting a little quail, and this monster flew out of the brush right over my head. I did have the wherewithal to swing the shotgun and get the bird as he was going away.

Rich and Robert almost doubled over, they were laughing so hard. I was set up. Rich said, “Tom, I remembered that you had never shot a pheasant, and I had the good luck to acquire this one for you. He’s going to be great on the dinner table with your ducks.”

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, and I got to watch some superior dogs at work. On the drive home, I thought back to John’s question of how much longer we’d be able to do this. If Rich Warters is an example, it’s gonna be a long time.  PS

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

Whistling Wings

Return of the Hyde County duck hunt

By Tom Bryant

I was up in the roost, a little apartment above our garage where I go to write and hang out when I need to get out of the way of the vacuum cleaner and my bride, Linda. I was sorting through duck hunting gear from my last trip to Lake Mattamuskeet. Shotguns, waders, heavy waterproof hunting coats, shotgun shells, duck calls, hunting trousers — you name it and if it pertains to duck hunting, it was in a pile in the roost. 

Duck season ushered in a new kind of hunting for me in 2016 and January of the new year. In the past, I was used to running my own show so to speak. A group of us, six to be exact, leased impoundments right on the Pamlico Sound. Also included in the lease was a small house that served as our lodge. For a few years, the arrangement worked OK; but then a series of bad weather events flooded the impoundments with salt water, making them useless for growing corn, and the ducks went elsewhere. At the same time, our little lodge was invaded with a legion of mice, making the place uninhabitable, so we gave up our efforts, and I didn’t duck hunt in that area for a while.

I missed the wilds of Hyde County, though, so last summer, when my good friend Art called me after a visit to Engelhard, scouting for a new duck hunting venue, I was excited. “Hey, Tom, this is Art.  How you doing, sport?”

“Great, Art! Good to hear from you, old friend. What are you up to?”

“Jack, John and I have been scouting around Hyde County, looking for a spot for us to hang our duck-hunting hats, and we think we’ve found it. You interested?”

Needless to say I was, and they added me to the group. The hunt would be handled sort of the way I was introduced to the area. We would use a guide and his impoundments located right on the northern end of the lake. The guide would take care of all the details, which I wasn’t used to; but hey, I thought, I’m not getting any younger, and maybe an easy hunt like this would be nice.

The weeks rolled by and all of a sudden, it was time to round up all my duck-hunting stuff, load up the Cruiser and head east. The ride to Hyde County from Southern Pines was a trip of extremes, up through Raleigh and all the breakneck traffic trying to get nowhere fast, and then with a sigh of relief, I eased across the Pungo River onto the “Road Less Traveled,” which is the motto of Hyde County.

When I crossed the river, I pulled into a little gravel parking area right on the other side of the bridge and walked back to see if anything had changed since my last visit. An osprey was fishing, diving into the water with a splash, and with a fish in his claws, headed back across the tree line bordering the river to eat lunch. Then I heard them before I could see them. So high above were hundreds of snow geese, only little spots against the washed-out blue of the winter sky, their soft plaintive calls an indication of the altitude at which they were flying.

Excited, I fired up the Cruiser and motored toward Engelhard and the pair of cabins that would serve as our headquarters for the next four days. Art, John, Jack and Art’s son, Michael, were an hour or more behind me, so I got to the cabins first, unloaded some gear and waited for their arrival and the beginning of good times.

I had just sat down in a swing on the porch overlooking the Pamlico Sound when the troops pulled in the drive. In no time, all their gear was unloaded and John, the gourmet chef of the group, had staked out which cabin and kitchen he would use for his culinary efforts. I have been hunting with John for years and have been fortunate to experience many meals prepared by this excellent cook. We all looked forward to his expertise in the kitchen, always a high point of the hunt.

After completing the details of unloading and who was to use which cabin, Art called the guide to get our marching orders for the next day and also see if we could check out the evening flight into the impoundments. The guide said he would meet us at his barn and take us to the dike to watch, so we took care of some last minute details and everyone loaded into Michael’s big Suburban for the 15-minute ride to our morning rendezvous, hopefully, with ducks. The gray evening was heavily overcast with low clouds spitting rain, and although we couldn’t see the ducks, we sure could hear them. Our guide said, “If the weather holds, we should wear ’em out at sunrise.” We drove back to the cabins full of anticipation.

Five a.m. came early after an evening of good fellowship and John’s great cooking, but it didn’t take long to trudge to the Suburban, heavily loaded with guns and gear. On the way to the impoundments, Michael was commiserating about his lack of experience duck hunting. This was his first time in a blind. Michael has a very responsible position with Wells Fargo Bank and spends a lot of time on the job. The rest of the guys told him that duck hunting was a snap and he should be really good at it. Jokingly they said, “Just watch Bryant and try to do the opposite.”

We met the guide and trooped to the blind in good order. The weather was still blowing out of the northeast with a heavy mist. We hunkered down under cover and waited for legal shooting time. Whistling wings could be heard overhead as ducks started coming off the roost heading to the lake. You could almost taste the excitement. The guide whispered, “OK, it’s time, get ready.”

A pair of widgeons swung by out front, and one fell to our guns. Another pair, wood ducks this time, came from the right and flew straight out. Michael’s gun roared and both ducks fell. Two ducks, one shot. Even the guide celebrated and gave Michael a high-five. “See,” I said and laughed. “This duck hunting isn’t that hard.”

The morning went by in a blur as ducks came to the blind; but to me, the most incredible sight were the tundra swans coming off the lake, literally by the thousands. They were flying treetop high over the blind, and the sounds they made calling in those impossible numbers I’ll probably never hear again in my lifetime. It was one of nature’s most incredible sights, and I surely won’t forget it.

I looked out the window of the roost and watched as a pair of cardinals flew to the bird feeder. Well, I thought, here it is February, and there’s duck hunting stuff everywhere. Time to put it all away until next season and see if I can put together some fishing gear. We’re leaving for Florida and Chokoloskee Island soon, and the folks down there say the fishing is great.  PS

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

Rocking Porch Resolutions

Even the Romans knew not all change is good

By Tom Bryant

“January,” Bubba said, “was named after the god Janus by the Romans for their ancient calendar. He was supposedly the god of beginnings or transitions. I’m probably telling you something you already know, though. Right, Coot?”

It was early January of a brand new year, and we were kicked back in a pair of rocking chairs in a sunny spot on the wraparound porch of Slim’s country store enjoying the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. Bubba had his legs stretched out and a steaming, freshly poured mug of hot coffee resting on the arm of his rocker. We had been in the woods early that morning squirrel hunting, a sport Bubba swears was regulated to the back corner by a bunch of yuppies who only enjoy the great outdoors so they can buy more spiffy clothes.

I was halfway dozing and really didn’t pay a lot of attention to what Bubba was saying. He was often coming up with some kind of off-the-wall information. He had bestowed the nickname Cooter on me years ago and it stuck. “Seems like I remember some of that stuff, Bubba. Maybe that’s why a lot of folks make New Year’s resolutions. That’s one type of new beginning, don’t you think?”

“You’re right,” he replied. “But I think you and I fall into the category of transitions. We’re too old for beginnings.”

“Nope, speak for yourself. I don’t consider myself old, maybe slowing down a little, but I can still do about as much as I could a few years back.”

“You don’t get it, Coot. I don’t mean that we can’t start a new beginning; but hey, I’m still working on some I started years ago. I just try to transition them every now and then. That way they feel like a new beginning.”

“So you’re saying some of the New Year’s resolutions you made long ago have just transitioned into things you are doing today? I’m gonna think about that for a minute while I freshen up my coffee. You want some?”

“No thanks, but you can bring me one of those ham biscuits that Leroy made this morning.” Leroy is Slim’s cousin and worked for him part time. He now manages the ancient store after Bubba bought the place when Slim died. The old store didn’t make too much money, but Bubba said it was a deal at any price. He needed a place to get away from too much civilization. It worked out well for both of them. Bubba had his place to go, and Leroy had a job he was familiar with.

I went into the store and said hey to a couple of the regulars who had just arrived. H.B. Johnson was dragging a slat-back chair from the corner to a spot in front of the woodstove. “You and Bubba outside? I saw him when I drove up. He looked like a sleepy old hound dog resting in the sun.”

“You’re not far wrong, H.B. He sort of favors a few hound dogs that I’m familiar with.” The guys laughed, and I poured more coffee before going back outside.

“Take Falls Lake,” Bubba said as I closed the side door and moved to my rocker. We hunted there last week and it’s nothing like what it was on our first visit, remember?” Bubba was on a roll. When he gets on a topic, he chews it front ways, sideways, upside down and backward, like a bulldog with a new ham bone.

“What’s that got to do with resolutions?” I responded.

“Well, the first time we hunted there they had just finished the dam, and we were some of the first to try the spot for ducking. It turned out to be one of the best in the area, and then here came the troops, more duck hunters than you could shake a stick at. Then the dam was closed and the lake filled and pleasure boaters came out all over the place, and duck hunting went south. Now that there aren’t so many hunters, ducks have rediscovered the lake and hunting is getting better. You might say the place has transitioned and we have along with it, thus proving that old Janus wasn’t far wrong.”

“As old as we are, we could probably use that analogy in many of our hunting spots,” I replied. “Take the Sartin farm, for example. Four hundred acres of some of the finest wild habitat in the whole county. Everything from ducks to turkeys and doves, deer and otter and beaver, even good fishing on the creek. All that is gone now, transitioned to 10-acre mini-farms owned by city folk who like to pretend they’re farmers. No new beginnings there. In that case, our good place to hunt and enjoy nature was transitioned slam out o’ business.” I could see Bubba literally chewing that over as he took a bite of his ham biscuit.

“You’ve got a point there, Coot. I guess that situation goes with the territory of living a long time and watching the dubious benefits of progress. Sometimes I think maybe we were born a little too late. Another good example of how progress has done us in would be duck hunting at Currituck. Remember when we would go every winter to hunt with the Whitsons? I think that old crowd there has died off, and the hunting is now so bad that hardly anyone hunts there anymore. Another sign of growth and the ‘benefits’ of development.”

Our conversation continued for a while until we decided to head home in time for our naps. I had a way to drive, so I bade the boys inside goodbye and told Bubba that I’d give him a call later in the week so we could plan our hunt to Mattamuskeet.

On the way home, I mused over our talks about resolutions and New Year’s in general. Bubba and I have seen a bunch of Januarys roll around, and for better or worse, we’ve made the best of whatever came. We’ve still got our health, and in the woods, we’re able to do about anything we want. As Bubba says, we’ve learned to walk around it rather than climb over. A certain amount of wisdom does come with age. I often wonder, though, what will the next generation experience? Will they be able to see tundra swans rafted up by the thousands on Lake Mattamuskeet, or even a wild squirrel scurrying around a giant oak as Bubba and I did that morning?

Time changes a bunch of stuff; and as the ancient Roman god Janus probably knew, not every new beginning is a good thing.  PS

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

Black Duck Paradise

And three mallards for Christmas Dinner

By Tom Bryant

A brisk wind was blowing out of the northeast. It had a little bite to it and felt good after the unseasonably warm weather we had been experiencing. Paddle, my yellow Lab, and I were in the backyard loading up the boat. As a matter of fact, Paddle was already in the boat, ready to go. She looked at me whimpering with excitement, wanting to do what she was bred for, go duck hunting.

For me it was the best of all worlds. Tomorrow, duck season would come back in after the early teasers in October and November. Those few short days were just enough to get hunters wired with anticipation for the real season in December. And if that excitement wasn’t enough, it was only six days until Christmas. It’s a wonder I wasn’t in the boat whining with Paddle.

We had a good plan. Early in the morning around 4 o’clock, I was to ride up to Hyco Lake, boat in tow, launch at the landing on the north end, duck hunt at our special spot until noon, then motor down to Bubba’s cabin and wait for him to show up toward evening. Bubba’s cabin is located on a creek tributary and sits high on a ridge overlooking the lake. The view in winter with all the leaves off the trees is spectacular. Beginning at the cabin and meandering down the ridge are steps leading to a boathouse and dock where I would moor my little duck boat for the duration of the hunt. Bubba has a big johnboat that we planned to use for the rest of the weekend.

It was rare that Bubba missed an opening day, but his textile mill needed him; and try as he might, he couldn’t get away from an important conference call. I would miss his company, but sometimes I enjoy the wild all by myself, and as long as Paddle is along, I rarely get lonesome.

My boat is a little Armstrong Wigeon model. She’s only 12 feet long with a 4-foot beam, almost like a layout rig and extremely stable, impossible to turn over. She’s rated for a 10-horse kicker, which will get her up on plane quickly and zip across the water like a little speedboat. With decoys, hunting gear and dog, the little boat is comfortable, and I’ve spent a lot of time in her, pursuing the noble waterfowl. I had already hooked her to the Bronco and was making sure that the fuel tank was full when Linda, my bride, came to the back door with the message that Bubba wanted me to call him back as soon as I could. Wonder what’s going on with that boy, I thought.

The decoy spread I planned called for six mallards — hens and drakes, three black ducks, and a couple of Canada geese thrown in just for good measure. I was using my L.L. Bean cork decoys, although they weigh a lot more than the molded plastic models I use when I’m shooting impoundments. On the water, the Bean decoys look more like real ducks. I picked out the ones that I had just had repainted by the Decoy Factory in Maryland. They looked great, and if any ducks were flying in the morning, I was sure they would pay us a visit.

It didn’t take long to finish loading the rest of the hunting paraphernalia, then I went inside to give Bubba a call. Paddle refused to leave the boat and would probably stay there until we left in the early morning if I let her. That little dog was excited.

“Hey, Bubba, what’s up? I’ve got the boat all loaded and I’ll be trucking out ‘o here at 4 a.m. You sure you can’t go?”

“Man, I wish. But duty calls. It also looks as if I can’t get there until late. You know where the cabin key is. Let yourself in and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Steaks and all the fixings are in the fridge. Why don’t you go ahead and grill ’em and I hope to be there in time to help eat ’em. Remember, I like mine rare,” he said, laughing.

“I think this is nothing but a ploy to get me to do all the work,” I replied. “If I’m real hungry, I might eat your steak as well as mine.”  After a little more conversation about supplies and timing, we rang off and I resumed my efforts getting ready.

I slept in the guest room that night, so as not to wake Linda when the alarm clock woke me. By 4:30, Paddle was in her favorite spot, sitting in the passenger’s seat, and we were on our way to the lake and another great adventure.

A half moon was breaking through a low overcast, providing enough light to help in launching the boat; and in record time, I had the little Wigeon tied to the landing dock. I parked the Bronco and trailer next to a fence bordering the gravel lot and was surprised to see that mine was the only vehicle there. I thought for sure there would be more hunters, especially since it was opening day of the late season.

The motor fired on the first pull, and I eased away from the landing area, made the turn south and poured on the juice. Running at night in a little boat has a thrill all its own, but it also has dangers that accompany the experience. Constant vigilance to avoid floating debris and other boats had me on the lookout for anything unusual on the horizon.

Hyco Lake is a deep-water lake and was built in the early ’60s by Carolina Power and Light Company (now Duke Energy Progress) as a cooling reservoir for their generating plant. Migrating waterfowl use the lake to rest on their way south and are quite prevalent during cold snaps up north. I was hoping the recent snowfall around Maryland would hurry a few my way. Last duck season, Bubba and I discovered a 30-foot-wide water ditch that runs about a mile to the power plant. The canal is used to get cooling water to their generators. It was cabled across to keep out big boats, but our little crafts had no problem getting under. On the east side of the ditch is an opening that leads to a sheltered area of water, almost like a small lake. This is our honey hole, the spot we would later name Black Duck Paradise.

The run to the ditch took about 40 minutes, and a grey tint was in the eastern sky as I hurriedly put out the decoys: mallards in a bunch and geese and black ducks off to the side. I pulled the boat into a small slough, and Paddle and I hunkered down under alders that grew on the bank right to the water. We made it just in time to legally shoot and had just got settled with shotgun loaded when whistling wings could be heard right over us. I didn’t dare look up but watched Paddle as her head moved with the flight of the ducks. I could tell that they were circling, so I blew a soft chuckling welcome on my duck call. That did it.

They came in low, right in front, wings locked, big yellow legs down like landing gear. It was a classic. Three shots and three big mallards for Christmas dinner. I sent Paddle to retrieve, and she was in the water like an otter. I stood up grinning. It was going to be a great season.  PS

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

A Better Idea

Coffee on the porch turns into long gowns and tuxedos

By Tom Bryant

“Bryant?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a great idea.”

“Coleman, every time you get a great idea, I either get in a lot o’ trouble or it costs me a lot o’ money.”

We were kicked back on the porch at the Wildlife Club after a great morning jump-shooting ducks on the Haw River. It was a classic kind of hunt. Everything came together at just the right time. The water on the river was at a good level, with the current flowing fast enough to keep us on our toes but still a leisurely speed enabling us to enjoy our surroundings. And what surroundings they were. Hickory trees were decked out in all their yellow glory backed up by golden-leafed oaks.  Bright green-colored cedars added a perfect backdrop, providing a classic early morning fall picture, something that you only see if you’re lucky, or sometimes in sporting magazines.

It’s a classic way to duck hunt, jump-shooting from a canoe. We put the boat in at the mill dam in Saxapahaw, and using an electric kicker, motored upstream to the confluence of the river and a little creek at Swepsonville. We then floated slowly downstream, hunting as we drifted along.

Wood ducks like to swim close to the shore dabbling for fallen acorns or berries that grow near the bank. They silently float under overhanging alders and when disturbed will burst from their feeding space like a covey of quail. The sport, in hunting out of a tipsy canoe, is not to flip over when the duck zips out from under the alders. It’s almost like shooting from a skateboard. One wrong turn and a hunter can hit the drink. Poor form, especially when the temperature is hovering around 40 degrees and the truck is a couple of miles away.

Usually when I’m jump-shooting, I’m all by my lonesome. I’ll only get in a canoe with another hunter if his experience in paddling a boat and his competence with a shotgun is as good or better than mine. You don’t get second chances with a shotgun or a fast flowing river. With Dick Coleman, I had the best of both worlds, a superb canoer and a magnificent gun handler. I’ve marveled more than once at some impossible shots he made in the field. I definitely wouldn’t tell him that, though. We’ve been friendly competitors since our early days, when we became close friends.

With two hunters jump-shooting from a canoe, there are a couple of very important rules — number one, and the most critical, only one shooter at a time. Number two, silence is more than golden, it can be the difference in a successful duck hunt or just a float down the river.

On this trip, Coleman was to be the first shooter. We cut a few branches from a cedar tree and rigged them to overhang the bow of the boat. My canoe was camouflaged anyway, but the cedar would provide a little more cover. We wanted to look like a tree floating downstream.

On the first flush, Dick got his limit of two wood ducks, a hen and a drake. He made a great double, getting both ducks as they were crossing left to right. They actually jumped from the left bank and crossed right in front of the canoe. That’s the fun in jump-shooting; a gunner never knows where they’ll come from.  We rapidly picked up the floating ducks and made it to the bank to change over, Dick now in the stern and me in the bow.

I got my limit with a couple of singles, two wood duck drakes, the last one right at the take-out where we had left the Bronco.

It was too early in the season to try again for mallards; and since we had our limit of wood ducks, we picked up and decided to head to the Wildlife Club and a pot of good coffee.

Dick Coleman, gone too soon, was an amazing individual. I met him early in my settled-down life. I was just out of the service, back in college and married to a beautiful, smart young brunette. I had a part-time job at the local newspaper, and Coleman was busy managing one of his family’s men’s specialty stores. We were friends right off the bat, especially when we found out about our service in the Marines. Dick was at Parris Island about three months after I left the basic training camp, and he coincidently was in the First Battalion and had the same drill instructors. We could really commiserate with one another, and we became fast friends.

Dick got up from his chair to get another cup of coffee. “You want to hear my great idea or what?”

“I hope it’s not like the last great idea that almost got us killed on the same river we got those ducks this morning.”

“Nope, this one’s more sedate, and that river trip last spring was as much your doing as mine.” The trip he was talking about was one we made after careful planning: float the Haw to the Cape Fear River, then to Wilmington and the Atlantic Ocean. A great plan, but with one problem: When we put the canoes in at Saxapahaw the Haw River was at flood stage, and quickly chewed us up and spit us out. On that adventure we learned a valuable lesson about white-water paddling and surviving an angry river.

“Christmas is just a few weeks away. What if we get Vernon and Lasly and the girls, and have a fantastic Christmas game dinner. We’ve got plenty of game. I know you’ve got lots of doves and ducks in your freezer; so have I. Vernon’s got a few pheasants. I think Lasly has some venison somebody gave him, and we could get together the fixin’s with no problem. It would be simple.”

“And where do you plan on having this little cookout? That close to Christmas, I know the ladies would pitch a fit if we suggested having it at one of our houses.”

“No, man. Right here. We’ll have the feast right here at the Wildlife Club.”

“Dick, this place is just a little better than a warehouse. I mean, look at it. It’s all right for a bunch of guys, but to bring Lida and Linda and Vicky and Libby? Man, they would have us scrubbing this place before they’d set foot in it.”

“You’re the writer. Where’s your imagination? We’ll make it a black-tie affair. You know, not a whole lot o’ light, we’ll use candles, white tablecloths, a blazing fire in the fireplace. We’ll decorate, we’ll have a Christmas tree, we can cut one of those cedars up by the skeet range, and holly, there’s plenty of that next to the pond, full of berries. We’ll send fancy invitations to the girls and make it a real dress-up shindig.”

Believe it or not, it all came together the Saturday before Christmas. The ladies came dressed to the nines in long gowns that would be more suitable at the country club than out in the woods at a sportsmen’s simple clubhouse, and the guys cleaned up a lot, sporting tuxedos. It was quite an affair, and turned into the first annual game dinner that I would continue for the next 35 years. It was one of Coleman’s better ideas.  PS

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

On Beaver Pond

Joy is the only thing that slows the clock

By Tom Bryant

It was my favorite time of year. I don’t know why I say that. Every season is my favorite, except that maybe fall has more in the plus column because of bird-hunting, surf-fishing, and just the beauty of the great outdoors. In the fall, Mother Nature pulls out her most colorful palette and paints the landscape in brilliant hues of red, yellow, russet and pine green, preparing nature for its long winter sleep and another beauty that’s entirely different.

This past summer, during one of my many forays afield, by chance I discovered a beaver pond way back off the beaten path, down close to a small creek where I hoped to do a little cane pole fishing. I was really far back in swamp country and being extra careful not to disturb “Mr. No-Shoulders” (an old Native American term for a snake). I was treading lightly. It had been fairly dry for a couple of weeks, and farm crops and wildlife needed some rain badly, so the ground that would have been very marshy was passable. I hardly got my feet wet. But after stepping around wet, overgrown areas and toting some unwieldy fishing poles, I decided to head back to the truck, drive over to the farm pond, and fish there.

As I angled back on the return path, I noticed to the west a general sloping where the land and vegetation seemed to be more vibrant. Walking slowly that way and being extra quiet not to alert wildlife, I discovered the beaver pond. It was a picture right out of Sporting Classics magazine. Alders were thick on the banks, and hickory trees and oaks and even some cypress completed the picture of a perfect, undisturbed wild habitat created by some of my favorite animals, the industrious beaver.

It was late in the afternoon, so I gave up the idea of fishing and decided to sit and watch a bit to see what game was using the pond. I had just sat down with my back against a big longleaf pine when two wood ducks, a hen and a drake, darted through the alders and skidded across the water right in front of me. They swam for a couple of minutes and then leaped straight up, kicked in the afterburner, and jetted out the far end of the pond. They must have seen me, I thought, as they climbed out of sight. As soon as the ducks were gone, a pair of deer, a doe and a new fawn, materialized on the far side and nosed down to the water to drink. They stood for a minute or two and disappeared back into the forest as if they had never been there. Three beavers swam close to where the deer had been. They were dragging freshly cut alders through the water, probably to reinforce their dam. My new discovery was so unbelievably pristine, it was hard for me to leave, but sunset was on the way and I needed good light for my trek back to the truck. I made mental notes on the location of the beaver pond, resolving to come back as soon as I could; but as in a lot of my endeavors lately, I was delayed. It was October before I could visit the pond again.

A northwestern front had moved through the area the evening before, leaving behind the first real cool snap of the season. I was on my way to revisit the pond and was really up for a big day in the woods. The deep blue sky was the perfect backdrop for the russet colored dogwoods accented with yellow hickory leaves. I pulled the truck into the woods a little way and grabbed my gunning bag and shotgun from the back. The shotgun was one of my favorites, a 28-gauge Remington 870 that I had rigged with a sling so I could carry it over my shoulder. Linda, my bride, had given me the little gun for my birthday many years ago, and it became the one I used the most when I was going to be in the field for an extended time.

Birthdays. They were rolling around pretty fast, it seemed. I had just celebrated one that really got my attention. It wasn’t one with zeros, although those tend to amplify the speed of time. This one quartered the century and was a special event in my rush through life. It increased awareness of my own mortality.

I recognized the route to the beaver pond right off the bat and moved off in that direction at a brisk pace. I had plenty of time and had to keep telling myself that there was no train to catch and to slow down and enjoy the day. That was it, enjoy, and I thought of John MacDonald’s quote in his book that I had just read, reread actually. “Joy is the only thing that slows the clock” in our rush to the end, or as a lot of us hope, the beginning.

I caught glimpses of water reflected by the overhead sun and slowed my walk to a crawl, so as not to disturb any animals that were enjoying the pond. I came to the water at the same location I had on my first visit, propped my shotgun against the pine and sat down using the tree for a backrest.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. It was as if the area wildlife planned to put on a show for me and used the little pond as a stage. I saw beavers, deer, ducks, doves, a pair of otters, and even a bobcat made a special appearance. They didn’t notice me, or if they did, they didn’t care. They went about their business as if I was part of the scenery and belonged, just as they did.

It was an exceptional time in the backcountry, and all too soon my special day was gone. I had a real knowledge of the pond now, having walked the northern perimeter from the dam to the creek. It was about five acres and was situated in the swamp bottom. The beavers used the lay of the land to build one of the best nature habitats I’ve ever seen.

I came out of the woods near the truck just as a full moon was coming up over the eastern pines. I got a drink out of the cooler in the back, grabbed a sack of peanuts out of my gunning bag, leaned up against the front fender and watched as a pair of Canada geese, silhouetted against the moon, flew honking toward the pond, probably to roost, I thought

If MacDonald is right, and joy slows down the clock, I dang near stopped the thing that day.  PS

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

Safe at Any Speed

A road trip in an old Bronco travels a well-worn path

By Tom Bryant

Summer had been as promised — hot, hot and hotter. Now, September is here with shorter days and cooler nights, a blessing to those of us who think a half-day bottled up in the house to escape the blistering afternoon heat is some kind of imprisonment.

Linda, my bride, was off to the beach with some of her old college friends and I was hanging around the homestead, trying to put my hunting gear in some semblance of order. Dove season came in on Saturday, and as expected, it was hot and dry with just a few birds flying. Die-hard hunters sat in the middle of the field and sweated, hoping an unsuspecting wayward dove would come within range. A few of us old-timers knew better and found shade in the tree line. No self-respecting dove would be flying in this heat in the middle of the day. Late that afternoon, I was lucky, though, and able to get four big doves.

When the hunt was over I went home, cleaned the birds and grilled them for supper. There was a quarter moon that evening and a fleeting breeze ruffled the dogwood leaves, giving a false sense of coolness. After supper, I kicked back on the porch, enjoyed a nightcap and listened to the evening sounds. Cicadas were calling in earnest, trying to make up for, in a few days, what they had missed by living underground for seven years. A hound dog bayed in the distance, complaining about being cooped up while coons and coyotes roamed about. I was hot and tired and needed a bath but decided to have another little libation before retiring for the evening. Sunday I planned to ride up to Slim’s Country Store, one of my very favorite places, and visit with my longtime friend and hunting buddy Bubba.

For some reason, it was a restless night, so rather than tossing and turning anymore, I got up early, put on a pot of coffee and made a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. I had loaded my ancient Bronco with some provisions the evening before: a cooler, my gunning bag, an old shotgun and a pistol just in case I ran into some hostiles on the way. The old truck is not air-conditioned, so I thought an early start would be advisable before the sun really went to work. There was a gray tint in the dawning sky as I pointed my trusty steed north, and we drove a quiet, lonesome road heading out of town.

The Bronco and I go way back. If I could remember all the adventures I’ve had with her, I could write a book. She’s slow, geared for the backcountry, not the breakneck speed of major highways; consequently, I just drive her on country roads, top speed 55. She’s a meanderer, but off the road she can’t be beat. She has never stranded me in the backwoods.

Very few people were up and about on this lazy Sunday morning, and we had a restful ride. Country farming in early fall is sort of halfway. Harvesting is just getting started, with acres of corn still to be combined, and I noticed that a lot of soybean fields were still green, just beginning to turn brown around the edges.

Moving out of the longleaf pine belt into hardwoods of oak, maple and hickory is like visiting another country. Rolling hills with cut hayfields and pastures with Black Angus cattle resting nose-to-nose next to a shaded creek is something that most folks don’t see that often. My affinity for country air started when I was a youngster, and if I don’t get a whiff of it every now and then, I can become as surly as a saddle bronc that hasn’t been ridden in a while.

I had all the windows down in the Bronco and the back gate fully up, so the ride north to Slim’s was pleasant and a little windy. The sun was steadily climbing and bearing down, promising another stifling day. The country store that was my destination was only about an hour away, and I looked forward to seeing all the good old boys and again listening to some tall tales that the old place seemed to generate. I hadn’t been in this part of the state in a while and was excited about prospects for the day. Bubba was supposed to meet me about 9, and we were going to ride out to check on one of our duck hunting spots from long ago.

Bubba and I are longtime friends. I first met him when he was a fledging executive with his family’s textile manufacturing company. I was just out of the Marine Corps, newly married and just starting my newspaper career after finally finishing college. We were like most young adults that age, ready to make our mark on the world, with a couple of exceptions. I had been given a real dose of reality with the Marines, and Bubba also had to grow up fast. Textiles were just beginning to leave the country. Mexico and China were making inroads into what had once been the South’s major manufacturing asset. Bubba and his other executives had all they could do to keep the plant productive and profitable. The years plowed on, though, and we remained close friends, as they say, through thick and thin.

Slim’s place, an old family country store, is a rarity in this age of big box giant retailing businesses, where big is supposedly automatically better. At Slim’s, a customer gets more than just goods. There is a camaraderie that you will not find at Wally World. Everybody knows everybody and is actually concerned with the well-being of neighbors. I’m afraid that when these old places are finally history, part of the backbone of country living will also be gone.

Bubba was standing on the steps of the store when I pulled into the gravel parking lot. He hasn’t changed much over the years, a rangy white-headed fellow now with a mustache to match. He would have been comfortable riding with Stuart during the Big War, or pushing cattle across the Red River in Texas. He’s the kind of guy everybody wants in their foxhole.

“Hey, Coot,” he exclaimed as I climbed out of the Bronco. “That old truck is still getting you around. Good to see you.” Bubba gave me the nickname Cooter years ago and refuses to let it drop. As far as he’s concerned, I’ll be Cooter as long as we’re on this Earth. Maybe even St. Peter knows me by that name now.

“Yeah, Bubba, she’s like us, old and slow, but the motivation is still there.” I went up the steps and Bubba grabbed me around the shoulders.

“Come on in, Coot. I just made a new pot of coffee and I got some of Ritter’s famous apple brandy sweetener just for you. We need to talk about the coming duck season. I have some good spots lined up.”

We went on in through the double screen doors and I greeted some of the regulars. I got a mug from the coffee bar, poured it about half full and said, “All right, Bubba, where is that famous sweetener?” He grinned, reached in his ever-present gunning bag, and pulled out a flask.

Yes, sir, it’s going to be a good day. PS

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

Straight Off the Shelf

The comfort of a country store

By Tom Bryant

Over the years I believe I’ve accumulated enough knowledge to become something of an expert on country stores. One of my favorites is Slim’s Place, the one I frequent the most and perhaps have something of a bias toward, since my good friend and hunting buddy Bubba owns it.

Discovering country stores became a hobby for me on our many road trips across the country. When I venture north and west of the Mason-Dixon line, I have a tendency to equate my experiences to those in the sunny South, thinking they would automatically be different. However, I’ve discovered that often that premise is not true. For example, on a recent trip to the state of Washington, I checked out numerous backcountry small stores and, to my delight, found that most of them seemed to be familiar the minute I walked in. The reason for this, I believe, is the people who frequent these establishments. I noticed they aren’t different from their counterparts across the nation. They might talk a little differently, but hey, folks have said that I sound a little funny myself.

What makes a country store a country store? To me it’s the merchandise stacked on shelves, sometimes haphazardly. Things you will not find in other mercantile locations. For example, pickled eggs and pickled sausage links, cast iron frying pans and Dutch ovens and galvanized buckets of all sizes. In some places, I’ve found coveralls big enough to fit three regular people, denim shirts that will wear forever and straw hats, the kind that have a plastic shaded green part in the front brim.

Most of the establishments have a central gathering area for the good old boys to kick back and wrangle the day’s news, for better or worse. In these places, one thing that you will not find is the lack of an opinion.

At Slim’s country store, the focus of the patrons is the huge pot-bellied stove that’s centrally located. A mismatched collection of chairs, some slat-backed and some rockers, surround the old cast iron contraption. It’s a great place to hold forth. When the weather is warm, the boys will move to the wrap-around porch with its rockers, gliders and swings. Sometimes it seems as if being outdoors even improves the conversation, or makes it lighter anyway.

You will notice that I keep referring to the patrons of these establishments as boys. Now ladies are allowed, of course, and sure enough they come to buy things, but they let their husbands, grandfathers and sons do most of the loitering. My grandfather had a country store on a busy corner of the farm in South Carolina. Many times, my grandmother would send me to the establishment to fetch him. She would direct me with, “Tell your granddaddy that supper’s ready and he needs to get home before it gets cold.”

Granddad’s store was built for convenience more than profit. It was a place to pick up a loaf of bread or quart of milk. Grandmother even sold eggs from her free-range chickens. But folks really enjoyed the gathering and camaraderie of the neighborhood. It was a place to disseminate information, good and bad. With my grandfather, it was also a place where he could help neighbors down on their luck. Years after the old store closed and he had passed away, my uncle showed me a store ledger listing items charged and canceled because people couldn’t afford to pay. The business was literally a life-saver during the Depression.

Country stores come in all sizes and locations. There’s one in a small town I visited not long ago that’s a hardware store. It was Friday, close to lunchtime, and I stopped to get directions to a restaurant. When I walked in, I noticed five or six gentlemen in a corner sitting around in a semicircle. Their conversation stopped when I entered the store and everyone checked out the newcomer. The place was huge with high ceilings and many intriguing goods that lined the numerous shelves. I made a mental note to come back when I had more time. To me, it was the best of all worlds, a country hardware store.

The success of the small enterprises out in the country has spilled over to the big boys. Ace Hardware has just opened a new mega-store in Pinehurst. It resembles country hardware stores about as much as Wal-Mart does the A&P where I worked when I was in high school.

Burney Hardware has evolved over the years to the amalgamated personality it is today. It was initially located in downtown Aberdeen in a big two-story building, and it had just about everything a small town would need in the way of hardware. The folks there even sold me shotgun shells for a nickel apiece. On weekends, after I finished my job washing cars at O’Neal’s Esso service station and I was fairly affluent with the day’s salary of $4, they would cut me a deal: five #8s, 12-gauge for twenty cents. Needless to say, my ratio of ammunition spent to game in the bag was a lot better in those days. Even in these so-called lucrative times, I still have a problem keeping myself from running through a whole box of shells at the skeet range. You can’t eat just one of those clay targets.

Burney moved from its original location and is now situated on a busy highway right at the edge of town. It still has the ambience of the past, just much bigger, and you can find galvanized buckets in several sizes.

The big boys in the hardware business are doing well. I love to browse through their acres of merchandise. I even bought my latest surf-fishing cart at the Ace Hardware when we were at Pawleys Island, South Carolina. I use it all the time at the beach. It’s great, of course, for fishing, but also for hauling chairs, coolers and beach umbrellas to the strand.

There is a need for both the small traditional country stores — in many cases a living history of the neighborhoods they serve — and the new businesses that have expanded in size and merchandise. I will continue to enjoy both. But there is something about a cold winter afternoon at Slim’s Place after a morning in a duck blind, kicked back in front of the old pot-bellied stove that’s glowing red with a fresh load of coal, savoring a hot mug of coffee sweetened with a little of Ritter’s apple brandy. The big stores are gonna have to go a ways to compete with that.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman, PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist and a pot-bellied stove authority.