Life and death... A day afield

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rjohns94
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Life and death... A day afield

Post by rjohns94 »

On the game lands I frequent, there is a creek that meanders and crosses through the rolling, and some time steep hill sides. It has many side streams that feed it but mostly it runs thick with the brown stain of tannic acid, assaulting the sense of smell, which flows from the waste water of the pulp paper plant 14 miles upstream. Despite that, I found myself walking the dirt and stone fire trail that leads back to an intersection of dirt and creek where once a single lane bridge spanned the turbid waters.

I have walked this trail many times over the last 20 years. More times than I can recount. Near its end, is the stables that I kept my mule Samule. We often traveled this path together as we worked to heal each other’s brokenness. He is buried less than a hundred yards from this path and the memories of our years together are palpable with each step that brings me along this path. I feel a bit of moisture roll down my cheek, a tear of happiness out of gratitude of so many years I had with him, and deep sadness of his passing nearly a year ago.

I’m carrying an old Ithaca side by side in 10 bore and a hand full of shells in my pocket. The old work horse has a story to tell that I can only hope to know. Along the way, someone had professionally cut the barrels to 25 inches, leaving the bores choked cyl and cyl. I imagine it was done by someone upstate in New York, (where it shipped to me from) who had the barrels cut to jump shoot ducks along streams and creeks. The short barrels and 2 7/8 inch chambers were what attracted me to the shotgun as that is my favorite method of duck hunting. On this day, I have chosen this shotgun to accompany me, resurrected from the obscure closet and dusty used gun shelf of a small town gun shop, to once again be put to use afield for the purpose it was lovingly made early in the last century, to take game. Our target would be to take the speedy and elusive dove in the fields of PA.

The trail is closed to vehicle traffic except the game wardens and farm equipment. The property is a working farm for corn and soybean, which is in cohort with the Game commission, allowing hunters to share the vast acres of the farm land with the combined acres of the WMA, owned by the local water company. I noted that the farm land and buildings is now up for sale. I wonder how this will affect the future of this WMA and the agreement that has existed for so very long. I ponder the changes that could bring and the future of hunting on this land. A cool breeze greets me and for tells the coming of fall. My eyes gaze upward through the canopy of leaves to glimpse at the dark blue skies, another hint of change confirms the endless passage of days. The thought crosses my mind that calendar pages seem to flip faster with each passing year. I wonder how many more falls I will experience before I once again walk with Samule, or have Ruger and Cali, the labs, or Sabastian and Baxter the Great Danes, to run at my side. Not many now I’m guessing. Change …

My footsteps crunch with the gravel below them, sometime muffled by the dirt or grass. I walk a few steps and stop and listen for a bit. This pattern is repeated for the ¾ of a mile walk back to the banks of the creek, past the shooting range and parking lot that time has reclaimed with vegetation of various grasses, weeds and bushes. The dirt bank back stop of the range is now a covering to the root systems of many sapling trees. At the parking lot the trail seems to end to the eye of those who may not notice the hint of a trail below the low handing limbs of a locust tree. There the path continues past the parking lot, through chest high growth, down to the bank of the creek. Along this last section one must weave their way around and over fallen trees and past the deep ruts left by construction trucks, now filled with water and thousands of tadpoles. I could stop here for a can full of the tadpoles for bait if the creek held fish but with the exception of carp, it is void of fish in its dark shallow meanderings.

That is not meant to suggest it is lifeless, just basically fishless. Along its banks, life thrives. The deer bed in the coolness of the tree lined banks. The squirrels nest and gather the winter’s supply of nuts amidst the oak, hickory and walnut trees. The vixen raises her kits along the hillside while the great horned owls, perched high in the canopy of largest oaks, watches over the sometime flood plain for mice and other delectable meals. The ducks float and bob and feed on the grasses that flourish here. Along the banks, a nesting refuge is established in a flooded field. Coyotes run these woods and fields, the occasional rabbit is seen as well as turkey, geese, multiple species of ducks, along with raccoons, and possums. The fields are feeding grounds for the Atlantic flyway. Some along their migration path like it so much, they become residents. About 250,000 geese make PA home year round. That number is on decline as there is a resident hunting season to help get those numbers lower. But for now, it seems the geese are winning.

Countless song birds, from robins, cardinals, finches to the jays and crows, wood peckers of 4 different species that I have seen, nut hatches, chickadees and starlings, all call this creek mother. The bounty of life is overwhelming when you consider the insect life from ants to butterflies. Then there is reptiles, turtles, snakes, salamanders and such. All this bounty nourished along the banks of this creek. Today, I too come for nourishment, fed by the wonder of it all and the hope that the shotgun cradled in my arm, can also be nourished, even brought back to “life” in being attached to the endless cycle of life … and death.

Across the banks of the creek, the brush along the bank gives way to a steep hill which braces the footings of huge power line towers. The power lines are a predominant feature on the western edge of the WMA. Today, I am alone at this spot, and as I glass along the power lines, they too are alone. Had they been filled with dove as they are so often are, I would have moved into the field adjacent and set up in the corner. Seeing they were not there, I didn’t make that effort. Instead I lingered a bit, taking in the sounds of the creek, the birds, the squirrels, and the bees. The longer I lingered, the more sounds I could hear. A nuthatch pecking away, a wood pecker doing the same. The chirp of a cardinal. The mutterings of ducks around the bend of the creek.

I retraced my steps upon leaving hearing at one point, the cluck of a hen turkey down off the trail to my right. Back through the shade of the canopy of the hardwoods, the smell of soft pines wafting along on the tendrils of the breeze. Then out into the sun where the warmth of the day could be felt as if the summer season was saying not yet autumn, not yet.
Not done with the days hunt, having not yet shot the shotgun afield much less reintroduce it to the taking of game, my footsteps carried me to the top of a field overlooking the corn fields. Down the hill and through the corn, this same creek runs through the fields, the power lines in the distance. Along its banks there, rise a tall wind break of trees, marking the boundaries of another farm in the WMA. There, a dozen hunters spread out and, like the Maginot line, stand guard so that no dove should pass the wall of lead pellets their shotguns put up when fired as a unit. Hundreds of yards away, I wait for the magic moments of the fading light and shooting hours. With my back against the hedgerows where the dove seek to spend their night, with the fading time on shooting hours, waves of doves will fill the fields and, God willing, opportunity for a life reborn out of a life taken will occur.

The minutes pass. A glance reveals fifteen minutes left in shooting hours. A few high flying dove pass above, a group of four speed their way above the corn, too far to the right and down the hill. I wait for the opportunity that is already in flight to this destination. They will come. 10 minutes to go. More shooting all around, some flights have passed to the left and the right, and even though they might have been reachable by the potential of the side by side and bore, I chose not to shoot. Six minutes left and more shooting. I picked some birds up too late to shoot, not wanting a hit bird to fall behind me in the soy beans beyond the bushes and out of sight to mark. I wait. Five minutes, four, then three… I see a flight weaving its way through the hunters and across the open field ahead of me. This is the opportunity that minutes ago took flight to wing their way to this very spot.

The compact weight of the barrels swung nicely and barked once, then a second time. Two puffs of feathers, indicating the shots were true, the targets falling to earth premature of their destination just moments before. Death has come yet from it a rebirth of a hunting gun and a rejuvenation of myself in this the promise of my 58th Fall.
Mike Johnson,

"Only those who will risk going too far, can possibly find out how far one can go." T.S. Eliot
hfcable
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by hfcable »

beautiful ! just made my Tuesday morning, thank you
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Blaine
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by Blaine »

Elegant..poignant...Thanks 8)
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Camel73
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by Camel73 »

Yes, thank you sir for sharing your life that day and the lives of others that enjoyed their time with you..

I fell asleep, as you were describing the chirping of the birds - listening to the chirping of the birds around me... and awoke to a very satisfying end.. and new beginning.. very nice.

Again, thank you.
My first child - '94 30-30
Chuck 100 yd
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by Chuck 100 yd »

Great read my friend ! Thanks for taking the time to share your work with us.
Pete44ru
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by Pete44ru »

.


Wonderfully put, Mike - I just hope that the WMA-affiliated farm doesn't suddenly become condo's, or worse, a McDonald's restaurant .................. :(



.
Batman1939
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by Batman1939 »

What a beautiful, and moving, description of a memorable experience. Thanks! Tomorrow I'll be in the field with my dog looking for some sharptails. The other morning Beau did his part, I shot very poorly, we both still had a great time! :D
RustyJr
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by RustyJr »

Wonderful writing sir. I would say that you have a skill, gift I think would probably be a better word, with writing and the telling of stories. I would say that even Jack O'Connor would raise his glass to it. Thank you for the read.

If you have any other walks and/or hunts of the past and future that you would like to share I know that I as well as others on this board would be proud to read them. Please consider sharing those as well if you are so inclined.

Thank you again sir,
RustyJr
Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.
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2ndovc
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by 2ndovc »

Very nice Mike! Very much looking forward to getting to PA in a couple weeks. It's been over a year since I've been up to our cabin. One of the greatest things in the world to me is walking those trails with a dog at my side and a sixgun on my hip.
Just thinking about it makes my day.


jb 8)
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magyars4
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by magyars4 »

Thanks for sharing! I enjoyed your journey.
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gamekeeper
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by gamekeeper »

Your words painted a perfect picture in my minds eye, thank you for sharing.
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M. M. Wright
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by M. M. Wright »

77 summers on me now. I need to do less keeping up this place and more time loafing around on it. Thank you for sharing!
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Rusty
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by Rusty »

Very nice Mike. Nothing is as invigorating as the deep breaths of cool air taken in the hunting fields.
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JohndeFresno
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by JohndeFresno »

A masterful and extremely engrossing work, RJohns! You certainly captured the essence of hunting.

Your story brought back my teen years when I lived and sojourned where folks should live - in the foothills and mountains around Yosemite, where (and when) hunting and fishing were accessible just outside your door. Excellent piece.

Samule - what a great name for a mule! :lol: :lol: :lol:

Thank you. Saved to savor again.
rjohns94
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by rjohns94 »

JohndeFresno wrote:
Samule - what a great name for a mule! :lol: :lol: :lol:

Thank you. Saved to savor again.
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Mike Johnson,

"Only those who will risk going too far, can possibly find out how far one can go." T.S. Eliot
JohndeFresno
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by JohndeFresno »

Mike,
That's a great photo Samuel!

I came home from the conflict in Southeast Asia to find a part of the family property, in the mountain community of Coarsegold, CA, rented out as a pasture for a somebody's fine looking mule.

My father named him "Lyndon" - a dubious compliment to our Commander-in-Chief at the time. There was something about Lyndon's willfulness, apparent intelligence, hilarious sounding bray, long ears and white nose that was endearing; plus we were a Republican family so it was an unstated ongoing joke for us. That was the only mule that I really got to know, but I could relate to the communication and closeness that you had with your dear old friend.
Last edited by JohndeFresno on Fri Sep 09, 2016 10:43 am, edited 1 time in total.
rjohns94
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Re: Life and death... A day afield

Post by rjohns94 »

:)
Mike Johnson,

"Only those who will risk going too far, can possibly find out how far one can go." T.S. Eliot
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