Locke's Leap of Faith

November arrived with its entourage of cold nights, windy days, falling leaves, and predictive early snow flurries. The firearms deer season would open in mid November and the members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen (CHAOS) made last minute plans for their hunts. Flint Locke, the Sheriff of Chukar County, had stumbled upon a sizable herd of deer in the marshy islands of the Mashkigwan River earlier in the year. He went back in late October to mark some trails and now he was trying to persuade C.F. Icair to accompany him on a hunt of the islands.

"The reason that herd is so large is that the islands are in the middle of the river, Sheriff Locke said. " No predators and plenty of food".

"Yeah, but any hunting would require a boat, not to mention that those islands are crisscrossed with swampy streams and marshlands." Icair reminded him. A boat wasn't the problem. They both owned boats adequate to the task of carrying two men with gear, a deer. Icair’s concern was tracking a deer through the area if they didn’t make a clean kill. The deep, cold rivulets and the black, silty marshes could make a blood trail disappear and travel risky.

Nonetheless, in keeping with the ‘nothing comes easy’ spirit of CHAOS, the two companions found themselves at the river’s edge on opening day. Sheriff Locke launched his 14-foot flat-bottom boat and the two hunters headed for a mid-size piece of high ground on one of the forested islands. It was 2:00 P.M. by the time they had arrived at Old Gooseberry Isle and were settled into their blinds.

About an hour before sunset, around 4:00 P.M., C.F. Icair heard Sheriff Locke fire his rifle. One shot. Clean kill. Good. Since they needed to be in the boat on their way back to the boat launch by sunset, Icair gathered his gear and started walking the 150 yards or so to Sheriff Locke’s blind. About 25 yards out from Locke’s blind, Icair ran into the Sheriff who was searching the ground.

"Problem?" Icair queried.

"Nice 6-point". Sheriff Locke said. "He ran this way. Looks like he entered the brush here." Knowing the light would be failing soon, the two hunters followed the blood trail to the edge of one of the black water streams that crisscrossed the island. It was about 10 feet wide; too wide for men to leap across.

However, a dying buck can leap it. Sheriff Locke’s 6-pointer was lying on the other side, in full view, about 30 feet from the stream. The stream appeared to be one of those deep, slow moving tributaries with water as black as coal from centuries of silt from the Mashkigwan River.

"What now?" Icair asked. The light was already dimming and they were in the 50 yards deep into the swamp. Before long, they would have to load the deer into the boat and return to the launch area. It would definitely be dark by the time they reached the launch area.

"See that tree over there?" Flint pointed to a freshly fallen cedar stretched across the stream about 30 feet away. Tuck the deer harness under your coat. I’ll take the rope. We’ll use that tree to cross the stream." They unloaded their weapons and leaned them against a tree.

The two men soon found themselves winding their way across the stream on the cedar blow-down. Suspended over the menacing water, Locke and Icair soon discovered that the traits they possessed as young men, agility and bravado, had deserted them. The upright branches of the cedar were still limber and several times had them leaning over the water until they could regain their balance with the other’s help. One step at a time, they weaved precariously through the tangled branches until they both managed to cross the stream.

They slowly lowered themselves through the branches and extricated themselves from the tangled wood, bruised and scratched, but generally in good shape. It only took a few minutes to harness the deer and drag it to the edge of the stream.

"Now what?" Icair mumbled. There was no way out of the predicament. One of them was going to get wet. That was assuming the other would try to return via the cedar tree. Icair was thinking that getting wet was preferable to challenging the cedar tree alone.

"We’re pretty close to the boat." The Sheriff said. "I’ll swim across with a rope tied to the harness. You can come over on the cedar."

"I’m not sure I could climb up through those branches, even if I wanted to, Flint." Icair said. "We should cross one at a time in case one needs to pull the other out." Sheriff Locke agreed. The light was dimming now. The sun had dropped behind the horizon. Sheriff Locke tied the rope around his waist and wondered if he was about to jump into muck or quicksand. He removed his waders and as much clothing as he could.

"Well, here goes." Locke said.

Locke backed up a few steps and ran forward as he took a deep breath. He planted his right foot at the edge of the stream and leaped almost half way across the cold, black water. The Sheriff brought his feet together in the air to protect himself against any submerged objects. His boots hit the black water and he was instantly submerged in about four inches of water.

The hard, sandy bottom was a shock to the Sheriff. Since he had planned for a much greater depth, his feet tended to stay in place while his torso, prepared to swim, continued forward. He fell forward, trying to get his feet to take another running step, his arms flailing helplessly to stop his fall, but it was too late. He fell face down into four inches of cold, silty water only a foot or two away from the other bank.

C.F. Icair picked up the Sheriff’s parka and waders. He crossed the stream in four or five easy strides, passing Sheriff Locke as he got to his feet and untied the rope from his waist.

"Need any help?" Icair asked. He couldn’t quite hear Locke’s reply, but was pretty sure it included some expletives.

Royal Dun

Chasing Snow Trout

During the mid-winter ice and snow, N. Vince Sybil and I were smitten by the urge to do some winter trout fishing. While most people turn to outdoor activities like snowmobiling, skiing, snowshoeing, or ice fishing, winter fly-fishing is a sport enjoyed by tens of hardy, if not peculiar, outdoorsmen.

The forecast called for a cold but sunny day so we assumed we would have a heavily overcast sky and mild temperatures. That would be perfect for fly-fishing. It turned out that the weather forecasters chose that particular day to give their one accurate forecast for the year. The day was the first clear day all winter. With no clouds overnight all heat had escaped the planet and the temperature was about -12 degrees. We prepared for the cold by dressing in layers, including fleece pants, stocking caps, parkas, and a flask of single malt scotch.

Sybil and I reached the Wabimakadi River after negotiating some snow-laden roads. We got out of the car and slipped our parkas on. I tucked a pair of fingerless wool gloves into the left pocket of my parka along with a chemical hand warmer. We slipped on our waders and vests, grabbed our rods and cautiously worked our way down the first few feet of the sloping path that led to the river.

Sybil figured out how to make a wide, easily negotiated path in the virgin snow by placing his butt quickly and firmly against the ground, leaning back, and screaming his way to the bottom of the path with his neoprene-covered legs in the air. I, on the other hand, recovered Sybil’s rod and took the more traditional approach, stepping down the slope using the path so adequately cleared by my partner.

Shelf ice had formed along the edge of the river wherever a back eddy had slowed the current enough for the water to freeze. The entire forest was iced and quite winsome as Sybil broke some of the shelf ice to enter the water. He said he could have sworn that hole was three feet to the left. Although he was standing in four feet of water, surrounded by ice, he was able to extricate himself in spite of my feeble assistance and raucous laughter.

Trout, being cold-blooded animals, are less active in cold water and are best fished along the bottom with egg patterns and sculpins. We rigged up with weighted slip droppers and egg patterns, similar to a spinning rig used for steelhead fishing in the Midwest. I cast the rig to the head of a run on the outside of a bend and almost immediately felt the slight hesitation of a pickup. I raised my rod tip and felt the surge of a heavy trout on the other end.

"This is a nice fish!" I called out to Sybil who was gingerly probing the river’s edge to enter the water downstream. I felt the combined surge of the current and a heavy fish. But as I gently worked the fish toward me, I saw an eight-inch Brown Trout using a discarded foam cup with a hole in the bottom to protect itself from the cold. That so young a fish understood the insulating qualities of plastic foam impressed me as to their intelligence.

After a few more casts and the associated tip-ice removal, I noticed a sizeable dark area in the stream that seemed to undulate around a light patch in its center. Being of greater curiosity than sense, I quietly approached the scene, as the cold water swept against my waders.

The dark area turned out to be about a hundred fish in various sizes and tightly concentrated near the head of the school, body against body. This crowding created a huge air bubble behind them and, in the center of the air bubble, a small fire burned. The school slowly rotated clockwise around the fire until they reached its downstream side. After a few minutes of being warmed by the fire, these fish became more active and began migrating clockwise, toward the head of the school. As one fish joined the tightly packed group, another would drop backward taking its turn to warm itself by the fire.

I called Sybil over to witness this activity. Earlier, on our way to the river, we wondered if the stocked strains of the Wabimakadi were as hardy as wild fish, but we never considered they might be so resourceful. Instinctively, we realized these fish might perish if we attempted to break up the school, or cast to them, so we carefully moved around them and continued upstream keeping our eyes peeled for foam cups lurking behind the rocks.

In all my years of fishing, I have never observed such behavior. I considered returning to the car to get my camera so I could fully document this phenomenon but Vince’s cooler mind prevailed.

"Don’t bother," He said. "Scientists already know that heat flows downstream."

Royal Dun

Training Buddy

Pete Moss was looking forward to the fall conclave of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen (CHAOS) because he had acquired an 8-week old English Setter that he named Buddy and Buddy would be finished with his training just in time to join the other dogs and CHAOS members for his first grouse hunt. Buddy turned out to be a natural for hunting. He was curious about everything, smart, full of energy, and had the stamina to play for hours, before collapsing on Pete’s lap in the evening.

After learning that relieving himself indoors seemed to upset Pete, life got better for Buddy. Pete was the alpha male and Buddy delighted in being around Pete whenever he could. Whatever Pete wanted to do, sounded like a great adventure to Buddy and Pete did lots of dog stuff like exploring the woods, playing in cool creeks, and chasing squirrels.

However, Pete’s vocal noises were confusing so Buddy decided Pete needed to learn how to speak better dog. It only took Buddy a short time to train Pete to use the word "come" with the proper tone and inflection when he wanted Buddy to return. Teaching Pete to say "sit" whenever Buddy wanted to sit came more easily for Pete. Buddy thought Pete was smart and had some potential.

During their weeks in the woods together, Pete learned to follow more effectively while Buddy would quarter at a moderate pace. Buddy had the speed and agility to cover a lot of ground, but Pete seemed slow and more methodical. Buddy had the skin and coat to resist punctures and tears in thick cover, but Pete preferred the more open stands of Aspens and Birch. Despite these differences, Buddy thought they made a great team.

Within only a few weeks, Pete learned to say "steady" whenever Buddy would find and point to a bird and to say "drop" when Buddy would return with a decoy. For a long time, Buddy had to wrestle Pete for the bird until Pete learned to say the word properly. Once Pete discovered the proper tone and inflection of the word "drop", Buddy would place the decoy at Pete’s feet and sit patiently until Pete learned to fuss over him and offer a treat.

The day finally came when Pete took Buddy to the CHAOS conclave. Buddy spent the first few hours running around camp getting to know the other two dogs in camp. In the afternoon, Pete opened the door of his car and Buddy climbed onto the seat next to him. When Pete stopped the car, they were in new woods unfamiliar to Buddy, but the other dogs seemed excited. Buddy jumped out and ran over to the other dogs. They explained to Buddy that this was the opening day of grouse season and they were all going hunting together. There was Pete of course along with Ivan O. Dodge, Abel Andretti, and Titus Over.

Pete spent 6 months training buddy to search, point, and retrieve but this was the first opportunity to take Buddy out with other, more experienced dogs. At first, Buddy was too excited. When he ran up on the other dogs and flushed a couple birds, the tone and inflection of Pete’s voice told Buddy that Pete was not happy.

After losing his concentration a couple of times, moving in too closely on a bird, and going on point for a box turtle, Buddy, was sick and tired of hearing Pete complain. Buddy decided to stay back and watch the other dogs work, sensing disgust and disappointment in Pete’s demeanor and voice. Buddy wondered what happened to the alpha male who liked to run in the woods and play in the creeks. Buddy chased a rabbit just to burn off some energy, and then began following what the other dogs were doing.

Near the end of the day, Pete saw Buddy go on point. Buddy’s form was perfect. The only motion was in Buddy’s eyes as he glanced to see if Pete was coming. Buddy held perfectly motionless with an intensity that Pete had never seen before.

"Steady." Pete commanded in the proper tone and inflection. "Steady, Buddy." As Pete approached from Buddy’s left, he saw the tall grass move about six feet in front of the dog. Pete tripped off his safety as he stepped forward slowly and deliberately. Pete expected the bird to flush at any instant. He raised his shotgun to his shoulder and glanced toward Buddy for only a split second when he heard the grass rustle.

The next second or so occurred in slow motion, and are indelibly imprinted into Pete’s memory. At the same moment the grass rustled, Pete saw Buddy break point. Expecting the exhilaration of a flushing bird, Pete turned his eyes back to the grass just in time to see the stream of fluid shooting upwards. The skunk had decided to take out the bigger enemy first and in the fraction of a second that it took the skunk to shift its stance, Buddy’s youthful agility enabled his escape and he bolted. Pete was the alpha male so he could deal with the situation.

Buddy picked up the scent from thirty feet away and heard Pete using several new words in a very loud and unfriendly tone. Buddy spent months training Pete but now Pete’s tone of voice and inflection were not even close to getting Buddy to "come". On the other hand, Ivan, Titus, and Abel seemed elated at the turn of events and were rolling around on the ground in obvious delight. Buddy decided it might be wiser to stay close to them.

Buddy kept his distance from Pete (well, everyone kept their distance from Pete) as the hunting party returned to the parking area. Buddy thought the other men exhibited odd behavior by laughing every time Buddy ignored Pete's new commands still using that loud, unfriendly tone.

Back at the parking area, Buddy sensed that he was still better off with the others than with Pete, so he sat with the other dogs. The other dogs greeted Buddy with their noses to his ear whispering that they could not believe he pointed on a skunk. Buddy didn’t know some breeds of dogs could snicker.

The three dogs sat watching Pete remove his clothes and tie them to the car’s roof rack while the other men packed their guns and gear. Then the other two dogs hopped into the rear of Ivan’s SUV. Pete was calling for Buddy to come, but Buddy was not about to get into a car with a raging, naked man that stunk that badly, and would not use the proper tone and inflection. Instead, Buddy turned around and hopped into the back of Ivan’s SUV to the guffaws and ribbing of the other three men. Pete had had enough. He slammed the car door, opened all the windows, and sped out of the parking area in a cloud of dust.

CHAOS member and Chukar County Sheriff, Flint Locke, had forgotten to shut his radar off when he backed off the road onto a faint two-track lane to finish his morning report. The radar signal startled Flint and as he looked up, a car suddenly shot past him traveling at a reckless speed so Sheriff Locke accelerated onto the road turning his siren and lights on in pursuit through the cloud of dust from the gravel road.

Once the car stopped, and the dust settled, Flint recognized Pete’s car and saw the hunting clothes tied to the luggage rack. When he stepped out of the patrol car, Flint’s nose told him why the clothes were tied to the rack. Flint approached the open driver’s window by walking around and upwind of the odorous apparel.

As he peered into the car, Flint saw his naked friend in the driver’s seat. Pete turned his head and glowered silently at his uniformed friend now staggering backward. At a sufficient distance from the car, Flint was able to take a deep breath and began howling in laughter. Pete didn’t wait around to be further humiliated. A silent, colorless cloud of acrid aroma was beginning to enter the car. Pete put the car into gear and sped away toward camp in a cloud of dust.

It took about a month for Bastard to learn his new name.
　

Royal Dun

The Value of an Oral History

It was mid winter and several members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen were gathered around the old wood stove in the rear of the Chukar Harbor Hardware Store. They do so on most windblown winter Saturdays and those gatherings are the closest that CHAOS ever comes to holding a regular meeting. They were mostly there to be sure the owner, Abel Andretti, didn’t succumb to an overdose of Bold Old Mold single-malt scotch. Their method for helping Abel was to hand the bottle around. This reduced the amount of the old-world scotch available for Abel’s consumption. About half a dozen members were all helping Abel resist temptation as Rusty Steele regaled the group with one of his stories.

"When my granddaughter was 5 years old ... oh, let’s see … that would be back in ’74 or ‘75, I would bring her over to Osborne’s when we cleaned the trout pens." Rusty started. Osborne B. Foreyew had some trout rearing ponds on this property that CHAOS used to raise Brown Trout and Brook Trout to plant in the local streams.

Osborne and I were cleaning the pens when my granddaughter asked for some worms to feed the fish. I tried to explain that these fish were fed pellets of fish food, but she raised such a fuss, I dug up a couple leaf worms for her. Instead of throwing the worms in the rearing pens, she ran downstream to the short bridge over the stream and lay on her stomach.

Then she held one of those worms in her fingers just under the surface of the water. I watched a ten-inch brookie rise slowly from the bottom of that hole above the bridge and gently took the worm from her fingers. She would came over every week during the winter and fed that trout right up to eatin’ size.

We had to stretch a net below the rearing pond outlets when we opened the flow pipes to clean the pens. Well, we would occasionally lose a trout or two to the stream and that one took to living in the small pool just above the bridge."

Then one day, no trout came up to her. I explained that trout sometimes needed deeper water when they grow up and how her trout probably went downstream to meet up with other trout and start a family of its own. I assured her that her trout appreciated her friendship and was probably telling other trout about her right now.

She didn’t ask any more questions, so I didn’t offer anything more.

Rusty said. Then he added, "Tasted good for a worm-fed trout, though".

 

Rusty was in his 90’s, being the oldest member of CHAOS, and had an extensive accumulation of tales and it was Pete Moss, who first expressed concerns. As Rusty paused to help Abel avoid some Bold Old Mold, Pete leaned over and whispered into Abel’s ear.

"You know, when the older members pass on, we’re liable to lose a lot of our history." Pete said. Abel nodded his agreement and took a swallow of Bold Old Mold silently noting how its volume had diminished. He knew some those stories would be lost forever and gave this some thought before speaking.

"You’re right, but there are a number of nuances to this matter that deserve some discussion." Abel said. "Let’s get some younger guys together tomorrow evening to weigh this out." They returned their attention to Rusty as he continued.

"Well, while we were having lunch on the picnic table that day, my granddaughter took a bite of her sandwich and looked over at the bridge. With her mouth full of baloney sandwich, she said ‘I miss my trout. I was gonna catch him and eat him when he got a little bigger.’

Yes sir, that little girl grew up to become a top-notch angler."

Rusty grinned with pride.

The following evening, Zane S. Yewar, and Jason Matail joined Abel and Pete at the mayoral office of Gerry Mander. Odds were there would be no Bold Old Mold in the mayor’s office in order for clear minds to prevail for this most important matter. Pete began the non-meeting.

"Gentlemen, I believe its time to address a serious threat to the esteemed history of CHAOS." Pete said. "The problem facing us is that as our older members pass on we are in serious danger of losing their stories and those stories are an oral history of CHAOS."

"Some of those old stories should expire along with the aforementioned members", said Gerry. "If a lot of those stories didn’t include our Sheriff and fellow member, Flint Locke, the authorities might consider them evidence."

"Nevertheless, we don’t want to risk losing the rich heritage of our group", Pete replied.

"That’s true," added Jason. "Why, those stories are the fabric of our friendship. Those stories make us who we are and they should be written in a club journal." Gerry Mander turned white at the thought of a journal. Abel quickly put Jason’s comments in context.

"Jason’s obviously not married." Abel stated for the group. "Jason, our wives only vaguely understand what we’re about. I’m not sure we want them to see that ‘rich heritage’ in writing." The married members all nodded in agreement.

"Abel’s got a point." Zane observed. "If my wife ever got wind of the predicaments we’ve managed to survive, it would mean the end of my fishing and hunting. The only outdoor activities I’d be allowed to have is mowing the lawn and shoveling snow and under close supervision to boot!"

"I move that we do nothing." Abel said.

"That figures." Pete Moss remarked. "Why are we here then?"

"Think about it for a moment." Abel said. "I imagine the elder members of our group had this same conversation a number of years ago and came to the same conclusion. I also suspect our sons will have this same conversation some years from now and I hope they too will realize the value of an oral history.

"What do you mean?" Gerry Mander asked.

"Do you recall the story that Rusty tells about his old friend, Imus B. Rong and the trip to Basigani Creek?" Abel asked the group. Everyone recalled Rusty’s story about Imus scaring a skunk out of camp by imitating a bear. It was midnight and Imus was in his briefs stomping around the camp and growling. Everyone remembered and remarked about how Rusty regaled with laughter whenever he told that story.

"Imus was never on that trip." Abel said. The other looked puzzled and Abel continued. "Oh there was probably a skunk, maybe even on a trip with Imus, but Osborne once told me that Imus was on a business trip at the time and couldn’t go at the last minute. You see one of the best things about an oral history is that the stories change ever so slightly each year. Sometime details are added, sometimes they are dropped, or even combined with another story to create a new one. I suspect that’s what happened to Rusty’s rendition of the Basigani trip."

"You ... you mean those old stories are all made up?" Jason said. "But I was on a few of those trips when those things happened!"

"But those trips are recent, Jason." Abel explained. "Those stories may be fairly accurate now, but when your Rusty’s age, you’ll be having Pete, Zane, Gerry, and me responsible for things we never did. Over time, the trails in your stories will get longer, your long distance shots will begin to hit their mark, you will remember the water as colder and faster, and your fish will get bigger.

Don’t you see? A fine oral history like ours isn’t about facts. It’s about how the years have touched our souls. When Rusty tells those stories, I see the sheer joy in his face; and that’s what is contagious and bonds us. Deep down, we all understand that life is how we relive it in our hearts, not how it was lived. Yessir, we have a fine oral history. I call for the vote."

Abel’s motion passed unanimously. Somehow they were all closer now and everyone was looking forward to next Saturday and trading stories around the old wood stove.

Royal Dun

Speeding to Sam's Hill

Four of the younger members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen (CHAOS) left early Saturday morning to go squirrel hunting. For weeks, Aaron D. Lawndrie, Nolan Voyd, Ivan O. Dodge, and Rick Uvwood had been looking forward to hunting the oak and beech forest around Sam’s Hill. The area had always produced plenty of gray and fox squirrels. The September leaves were at peak color and just beginning to fall. The temperature was just right and the ground was still damp from the previous night’s rain. The damp leaves would make walking quieter and easier to approach game. Ivan laid his Ruger 22-LR in the trunk of Aaron’s car along with the other three weapons and climbed into the back seat next to Nolan. Nothing could spoil such a great day except for Badgerton.

The 40-mile trip to Sam’s Hill would take the young men through Badgerton, a tiny village whose business district straddled about two-tenths of a mile along County Road 194 at the intersection of a gravel road. Badgerton’s business district consists of a tavern, a small bank branch office, a combined Post Office/Grocery Store, a single pump gas station, and a volunteer fire station. There is no traffic light in Badgerton, not even a blinking yellow caution light. Badgerton’s traffic control consists of a fading speed limit sign at each end of the business district and Constable Wright M. Allupp.

Constable Allupp took his responsibility very seriously, since he is the largest source of revenue for the community treasury and had been for 8 years in a row. Constable Allupp’s most productive location was the empty lot beside the Badgerton Post Office and Grocery Store, which is where he was stationed when Lawndrie entered Badgerton at 27 miles per hour. Constable Allupp wheeled his cruiser out of the lot and pulled Aaron over at the north end of the business district. Aaron shut off his car and rolled down his window as Constable Allupp approached.

"Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?" Officer Allup asked. Aaron said he didn’t know why. Knowing Badgerton was a speed trap, he had applied the brakes at the edge of town and was traveling at 25 mph when he was pulled over, so he didn’t think he was speeding.

"You entered our town at 27 mph, Sir. The speed limit is 25 mph. May I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?" the officer asked. Aaron complied as he tried to explain that he had slowed to 25 mph when he was pulled over.

"The speed limit starts at the sign, Sir, not after you pass it." Officer Allup said with no change in his somber expression. He took the papers from Aaron and returned to his patrol car. A few minutes later, he returned and handed Aaron his papers and a ticket for exceeding the speed limit by 2 mph. Then he leaned over and peered at the Nolan and Ivan in the rear seat. "Where are you boys headed this early?" he asked. When Aaron explained that they were headed up to Sam’s Hill to hunt squirrel, Wright stepped back and placed his hand on his revolver.

"Why don’t you boys step out of the car?" Officer Allup asked, but it was really a command. The four hunters got out of the car and nervously stood at the front of the car as the constable looked inside the car and under the seats. He instructed Aaron to open the trunk, checked out the legally stored cache of weapons, then let the four young men back into the car.

"Have a nice day, gentlemen." Constable Allup said, as he tipped his hat. Aaron nodded as he started the car, then sped out of Badgerton at 20 mph.

For Aaron, the mood of the hunt was marred by the Badgerton incident. He knew he was a victim of petty authority … a technical application of the law and it ate at him all day. That is why, on the return trip, Aaron pulled over to the shoulder next to the Badgerton village limit sign.

"Why did you stop?" Ivan asked. Aaron sat quietly with the motor running.

"I want to fight back, somehow." Aaron replied as if focused on something. Rick and Nolan were in the back seat showing their support by rolling their eyes and tilting their heads back, a sure sign of deep thinking like ‘I wonder what they feed you in jail’ or ‘How long would it take me to walk home from here’?

"We could go back a few miles and take the road around Hawk Mountain." Rick said.

"That’s over 50 miles out of our way." Nolan observed. Aaron rejected the idea. That would be avoiding Constable Allup, admitting defeat, and Aaron was not one to avoid a good contest of wits.

"You could pass through doing 90 mph." Ivan laughed. "You’d be out of his jurisdiction before he could get his car in gear."

"Nah. That would just get us in trouble." Aaron said. "That’s too obvious a challenge for the Constable. He’d just call ahead and have us arrested down the road."

"Us? You’re the driver." Nolan commented. "We’re just riding along trying to persuade you to drive cautiousl …"

"Wait! I’ve got it!" Aaron whooped.

As usual, Constable Wright M. Allup was parked in the empty lot beside the Badgerton Post Office and Grocery Store, near the end of his day, when his radar unit sounded the familiar beep as it detected an oncoming vehicle. As he watched the radar’s readout, Allup thought the unit was broken. He tapped the unit several times and turned the unit off and back on before he noticed some movement to his left. He looked up from the radar display to see Aaron’s car approaching at about 3 mph, propelled by three young men pushing it through Badgerton.

As the car passed the patrol car, Aaron glanced over at the constable, then tipped his hat as he navigated the car south toward the village limit sign.

Royal Dun

How to Pull a Pirogue

"I just got my pirogue back from repairs." Kenny B Wright told me as I arrived on a Friday evening in early May. "Want to float the Tuxachanie tomorrow?" Kenny and I were both members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen, and I was visiting him at his Gulf Coast winter home. I had planned to do some saltwater fishing but Kenny said the weather had been unusually warm this year and he wanted to float Tuxachanie Creek. Kenny spent the winters on the Gulf Coast and knew how to fish the area, so this had all the indications of a hallmark day. I really should learn to pay more attention to Kenny’s quiet, impish grin.

We got up early fixed coffee and breakfast. By 7:00 a.m., Kenny was loading jugs of water into the back of his pickup truck to later replenish his leaky radiator. Sticking out the rear of his pickup box was a narrow plank fourteen feet long and sharpened on both ends. Two narrow boards created 8-inch sides that wrapped around the plank. 

Photo by Doug Christian

"So this is a pirogue." I said aloud noticing the four-inch high "seats" that were built into it. Kenny managed a ‘Yep’ through an impish grin as he hoisted two more jugs over the edge of the truck’s box. By 8:00 AM, we had spotted my truck at the take-out site and were pulling the pirogue (pronounced Pee´-Row) down an embankment to a 15-foot wide stream called Tuxachanie Creek. I had my doubts about whether the shallow craft would hold two heavy guys and their gear, but Kenny assured me that it held three guys during duck season last fall.

Before long, Kenny and I were actually floating over a deep downstream hole, with a generous 3 inches of gunwale out of the water. I reckoned the wake of a ½-grown muskrat crossing our drift might put us in jeopardy, but the little craft slid quietly through the water for about 50 feet. Then we had to get out and pull the pirogue over a shallow bar and deadfall. The water was warm as we stepped out of the boat and pulled it over the shallow bar, dragging the pirogue’s bottom on the sand and clay river bottom. At the end of the sand bar, the deadfall had diverted the water to create a waist deep hole immediately downstream from it. Getting the pirogue over the deadfall was easier and drier than getting back into the pirogue from waist-deep water.

Photo from Panoramio

The upper Tuxachanie is not conducive to fly rodding. It is overgrown, narrow, and mostly fishable by creative spin casting. Fortunately, I threw some ultra-light spinning gear into the pirogue when I saw the stream earlier from the take-out bridge. The banks of the Tuxachanie are 4-12 feet high and overgrown to the point that it often feels like floating through a tunnel of foliage. The surrounding forest is an impassible swamp infested with snakes and alligators.

The fishing technique on the upper Tuxachanie is a prime example of what I call sequential fishing. It goes something like this: float and fish for 50 feet, get out, pull the pirogue over a deadfall, float and fish for 50 feet, get out, pull the pirogue over some shallows, float and fish for 50 feet, get out, pull the Pirogue over a deadfall ... and so on. 

"So where is the fly fishing stretch?" I asked Kenny after about an hour of floating and fishing for 50 feet, getting out, pulling the pirogue over a deadfall, floating and fishing for 50 feet, getting out, pulling the pirogue over some shallows, and floating and fishing for 50 feet.

"I don’t know, I’ve never floated this stretch before" Kenny informed me. I corrected him by reminding him that, after an hour, we still hadn’t floated the Tuxachanie. We did manage to catch a few sunfish, and I even caught my first Spotted Bass; all four inches of him. Kenny taught me how to tell a Spotted Bass from a Largemouth Bass (the jawbone of a Spotted Bass does not extend past it eye).

I learned that fishing from a pirogue is different than fishing from other boats. Most people use boats to stay dry. Pirogue fishing is wet fishing. After a few trips in and out of the pirogue, it was hard to tell the difference between the inside of the boat and the stream. Kenny said the stream has flowing water but once, while standing on a sand bar, I suggested we empty the pirogue before the fish died from lack of water in the stream.

"Are you sure this is the Tuxachanie?" I asked Kenny as I glanced at my watch. It was 1:00 p.m. and I still could hear no signs of traffic. We had been on the stream, no, in the stream for five hours. I told my wife I expected about a four-hour float and that I would probably be home about 1:00 in the afternoon.

"I don’t know, I’ve never floated this stretch before." Kenny said. There was a long silence. We were both considering how long it would take if we were actually on a remote tributary to the Amazon. Realizing that it may be a longer trip than anticipated, we began to forego fishing to float 50 feet, get out, pull the pirogue over a deadfall, float 50 feet, get out, and pull the Pirogue over some shallows. There were better holes, more open to fly rodding on the lower end of the trip, but the afternoon sun was beginning to slide into the swampy forest. A couple vultures sat in the trees above us watching with eager anticipation.

We finally met another fly-fisherman working his way upstream who informed us we were about a quarter mile from the take-out bridge. It was 4:00 p.m. and we were tired, wet, and thirsty (our water ran out two hours earlier) when we beached the pirogue on the sand bar just above the bridge. We carried our gear up to Kenny’s truck, then unceremoniously pulled the pirogue up the bank and loaded it into the truck. Kenny had indeed given me a memorable fishing trip. The only casualty we suffered was a paddle that I broke trying to pole the pirogue over some shallows. Kenny said it had taken him years to develop the worn patina and proper cracking in that paddle.

"Kenny, I’m exhausted but I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed this trip." I said. "I’d like to do it again, but next time let’s not drag that damn pirogue along." Kenny just grinned as he poured some water into his leaky radiator.

Royal Dun

The Chukar Harbor Bicentennial Parade

Four members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen (CHAOS) were gathered at Ma’s Kitchen Kettle for breakfast. Instead of the usual outdoorsmanship, the discussion topic was the upcoming Chukar Harbor bicentennial celebration. Gerry Mander, the Mayor of Chukar Harbor and Barry D. Cash, the town’s Treasurer, met earlier in the week to discover that there was not enough money in the treasury to pay for fireworks and a parade.

Chukar Harbor is not a wealthy community and they were only able to collect enough money from the town’s merchants to purchase the fireworks; and the bicentennial was only four weeks away. Mander and Cash invited Howard A. Doone, the Event Planner for the Chukar Harbor Inn and Town Hall and Wendell D. Buscom, one of the founders of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen and a retired city planner to breakfast to discuss the situation.

"Well, there you have it, gentlemen." Gerry Mander said after explaining the town’s dilemma. "I can’t tell the people we won’t be able to have a parade on our bicentennial! But I think we can do this with a little planning and coordination. Wendell, can we convert your pontoon boat into a float?"

"If I pulled the motor off and we draped something over the rails … maybe." Wendell said. "Howard, if we borrowed a few table covers from the Inn, we could cover sides of the boat. Gerry, if we used a few flags from town that line the streets during the 4^th of July, and add a little crêpe paper, we might have one decent float." Barry and Howard agreed that they could put together a couple of floats that way. Then the ideas began to turn toward a float with some kids and balloons. It would not be difficult to get volunteers to dress in bicentennial costumes; some of the Chukar Harbor residents dressed that way anyway. Old Pete Boone down on 3^rd Street wears that coonskin hat and buckskin coat everywhere … Gerry interrupted the group’s discussion.

"Great!" Gerry said. "You fellows work on those two floats. I’ll handle the rest." Gerry excused himself for an appointment at his office.

A few days later, town workers were posting notices all over town about the location and times of the fireworks and the parade (10:00 AM), along with the other activities like cow-pie bingo, a midway, horseshoe tournaments, and bake sales. Over the next few weeks, Wendell and Howard recruited other members of CHAOS to work on Wendell’s pontoon boat. Titus Over, a farmer and long-time CHAOS member offered a wagon with hay pulled by his big 7R John Deere tractor, always a hit at a parade. By the time the members of CHAOS had stepped up with balloons, banners, flags, vehicles, and labor there were two nicely decorated floats for the parade.

Saturday, the Chukar Harbor Bicentennial Day of Celebration, arrived as planned. By 9:30 AM, people from all over the county had lined the streets eagerly waiting for the bicentennial day parade to begin. Wendell and Howard brought their float to the south end of town as Gerry asked. Titus Over arrived in his John Deere tractor, all washed and polished, pulling a hay-wagon filled with school kids and balloons. Gerry Mander arrived at the vacant lot at about 9:45 AM and was met by a crowd of concerned people dressed in period costumes.

"Gerry, we only have two floats! What happened?" Wendell asked, concerned about the embarrassment he and Titus were about to undergo by participating in a 2-float parade. One for each century. Big deal. Gerry just brushed off their concerns.

"Start up your engines, boys. It’s almost time to start the parade." Gerry said. Wendell and Titus were considering tying Gerry to the hood of Wendell’s truck as the main attraction, when Gerry pointed to the road's curve ¼ mile south of town. "Wendell, when I give you the signal, you pull out and go all the way through town at 5 miles per hour or less. Titus, you pull up the rear." Gerry commanded. Wendell and Titus suddenly caught on. With a big grin, Wendell climbed into his truck and started the engine.

Every year the 1267^th Army National Guard unit makes its 4-hour journey to Sam’s Hill National Guard Training Grounds for their two-week training deployment. The route to Sam’s Hill goes right through Chukar Harbor, a fact that was widely known but, in the excitement of the bicentennial, was forgotten by everyone except Gerry. As mayor, he had called the Guard to confirm the day and time they were going to be reaching Chukar Harbor. At precisely 9:58 AM, the 1267^th Army National Guard convoy rounded the curve leading into Chukar Harbor.

Wendell pulled out just in front of the first truck in the convoy. The old pontoon boat actually looked pretty good, all decorated up. Old Pete Boone was there, the de facto Grand Master of the Chukar Harbor Bicentennial Parade, proudly wearing his coonskin cap and buckskin coat, toothlessly grinning, and waving to the crowds.

There were Humvees, jeeps, armored cars, and trucks of all sizes. Some of the trucks were covered and carried supplies. Others were flatbed trucks and carried tanks and artillery pieces. Still others carried bulldozers, road graders, and backhoes used to make roads. There were 42 vehicles in all. As soon as the soldiers realized they were in a parade, they began waving to the crowds, blaring their air horns, and revving their powerful diesel engines. People clapped, the children cheered, and the old men saluted when the trucks passed with American flags displayed.

As the last army vehicle passed, Titus revved up his tractor and pulled his float full of kids and balloons in behind the convoy. The crowds swarmed around Titus’ float, and followed the convoy through the town and piling their kids on the haywagon. At the north end of town, the entire town had gathered in the street to wave farewell to the 1267^th. As it left town, the convoy picked up speed, but the soldiers continued to blast their horns until they disappeared around the curve north of town.

It was the best parade Chukar Harbor ever had.

Royal Dun

The Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen

During World War II, a few fellows pooled their gas coupons to drive to their favorite forests and streams to hunt and fish. Traveling together Osborne B. Foreyew, Forrest Ranger, Drew A. Blank, Prentice N. Largefonte, Rusty O. Hinges, and Wendell D. Buscom became fast friends and created the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen.  The group now has about three dozen members ranging in age from their 20's to 90's. They meet once a month usually to plan their next adventure. There are no dues and no rules. The only price for belonging to the group is acknowlegement that your blunders, fiascos, and misadventures are subject to group ridicule, embellishment, and archival.

The stories that follow are chronicles of the members' adventures. The stories may not be in chronological order since some of these events only come to light after copious amounts of alcohol are consumed triggering a widespread delight as they remind each other about their most indecorous moments.

Enjoy and let me know how we're doing!

Royal Dun