Spring on the Choptank was a wonderfull season. The brown reeds in the marshes turned green again, and huge flocks of geese migrated back north on thier long journey to arctic tundra for nesting and raising young. It was also the time for young boys to explore the marsh without freezing to death.
On one day when it was still cool, but the sun sparkled off the water like a field of diamonds, my old friend Tyrone, son of grandads hired man Jackson, and I were off in LaCompte marsh in an old wooden punt. It was one of those glorious days when all things seemed possable in our youthfull enthusiasim. We had packed some supplies along for lunch, as well as our .22 rifes, and were making our way out to what we called our island. The marsh was spotted with high dry spots that were hidden from most of the rest of humanity, unless you knew where they were and what turns to take on the narrow winding waterways thru the tall reeds. Or what pathways to take on land to wind your way back to them in ankle deep water, where a mistep plunged you in over your head. Tyrone's family was decended from runaway slaves that had used the marsh to hide in. Some folks say they knew the marsh even better than the Rankin's, who claimed it as thier territory.
We had been poling our way thru a very narrow and shallow part, talking quietly, when we heard the shot. It was not loud, just a quiet crack like a firecracker in the distance, but with the thick vegitation in the marsh deadening sounds, we knew it was closer than we thought. A .22 by the sound of it. Tyrone had mixed feelings about investigating, the possability of surprising one of the Rankin clan while they were poaching was a danger not to be taken lightly. But by way of granddads dealings with Matt Rankin, I felt I would not get shot if it was indeed a Rankin. Being young and dumb, curiosity won over common sense. We poled over to the wooded shore.
Making our way slowly and quietly thru the undergrowth, we soon came to a clearing, and silently we peered out to see who had fired at what. What we saw surprised us to say the least.
Old Bill Harding, AKA Bill the trapper, had a fresh killed doe hung up from a limb, and was in the prosess of dressing her out. His little Case Finn was in hand and he had already gutted her by the time we got there. We stood and watched him for a bit, and it was like watching an artist working with a brush on a painting. Not a single wasted motion, the slim little blade flicked this way, cut that way, and in a little bit he had the hide mostly skinned off. Bill Harding was as much an artist with his knife as Rembrandt was with a brush. To this day I don't know what evil red god of fate prompted me to speak out.
"Hey, what are you do'in on Rankin ground?" I yelled in as deep a voice as my teenaged throat could muster.
Bill must have jumped a foot in the air, turning around and searching the shadows under the pine trees till he saw us.
"Christ almighty, you near scared me to death!" he yelled at us. "What if I keeled over dead, huh? Very funny that would be, huh?"
He put his hand up to his heart and felt to see if it was still beating. Then he pointed a finger at us and told us we were lucky. Then he regained some of his composure.
"So, what are you boys do'in here anyways?" he asked us in a studied casual way.
"Oh we heard the shot and got real curious what was go'in on." Tyrone told him. " I didn't know Mr. Matt gave other folk the right to shoot in his marsh. "
"Uh, now, now boys," Bill slowly stuttered, "I don't see how its important for anyone else to know I was here, I'm sure we can keep this just to ourselves, huh?
Tyrone and me looked at one another, and he turned to Bill.
"Well Mr. Bill, we've worked up a powerfull hunger poling that boat all the way back here. Sure would be nice to have some fresh back strap for lunch." Tyone said as he looked over at me with a wink.
"Now boys, boys, I got a buyer for this venison and cain't go givin away no parts of it. Come on now and be good Christians about this and give me somethin I can do for ya."
"Say," Tyrone remarked to me, "Ain't ya see'in Miss Lizzy tonight? Imagine if it came up in conversation how we ran into Mr. Bill today"
Bill gave us an evil look, then knelt down by the deer and went to work with his Case Finn. The razor sharp blade sliced right through the choice cuts that Tyrone pointed out to him.
Later, much later, after we had taken leave of a gratefull Bill Harding, we had made a nice fire on our island. Selecting only the driest of twiggs, we made a low smokeless fire so's not to attract any attention, and had fresh veison grilled over the coals on green willow skewers. I don't know if anything is as good as meat over a fire. Maybe there is something engraved deep on our genes from the days of the hunter-gatherers that fire+meat=good. I've had many a fine meal in my life, but looking back to the chunks of deer that Tyrone and I cut up with our pocket knives and put on skewers over the fire, I don't think that can easily be topped. Tearing into the smoking hunks of meat with our teeth will be a pleasure I will never forget, especially as it came at such a cheap price. Bill paid for our silence, with a fine lunch out on our island in Lacompte marsh on a sun washed spring day. I recall sitting there with fresh meat on the fire, our .22 rifles close by, our knives sharp, and on an island surrounded by the sparkling waters, and thinking life does not get better than that. I believe to this day, that if Peter Pan had swooped down at that moment and offered me the chance to never grow up, and staying in LaCompte marsh forever, I'd have shook hands on that deal in a heartbeat.
On one day when it was still cool, but the sun sparkled off the water like a field of diamonds, my old friend Tyrone, son of grandads hired man Jackson, and I were off in LaCompte marsh in an old wooden punt. It was one of those glorious days when all things seemed possable in our youthfull enthusiasim. We had packed some supplies along for lunch, as well as our .22 rifes, and were making our way out to what we called our island. The marsh was spotted with high dry spots that were hidden from most of the rest of humanity, unless you knew where they were and what turns to take on the narrow winding waterways thru the tall reeds. Or what pathways to take on land to wind your way back to them in ankle deep water, where a mistep plunged you in over your head. Tyrone's family was decended from runaway slaves that had used the marsh to hide in. Some folks say they knew the marsh even better than the Rankin's, who claimed it as thier territory.
We had been poling our way thru a very narrow and shallow part, talking quietly, when we heard the shot. It was not loud, just a quiet crack like a firecracker in the distance, but with the thick vegitation in the marsh deadening sounds, we knew it was closer than we thought. A .22 by the sound of it. Tyrone had mixed feelings about investigating, the possability of surprising one of the Rankin clan while they were poaching was a danger not to be taken lightly. But by way of granddads dealings with Matt Rankin, I felt I would not get shot if it was indeed a Rankin. Being young and dumb, curiosity won over common sense. We poled over to the wooded shore.
Making our way slowly and quietly thru the undergrowth, we soon came to a clearing, and silently we peered out to see who had fired at what. What we saw surprised us to say the least.
Old Bill Harding, AKA Bill the trapper, had a fresh killed doe hung up from a limb, and was in the prosess of dressing her out. His little Case Finn was in hand and he had already gutted her by the time we got there. We stood and watched him for a bit, and it was like watching an artist working with a brush on a painting. Not a single wasted motion, the slim little blade flicked this way, cut that way, and in a little bit he had the hide mostly skinned off. Bill Harding was as much an artist with his knife as Rembrandt was with a brush. To this day I don't know what evil red god of fate prompted me to speak out.
"Hey, what are you do'in on Rankin ground?" I yelled in as deep a voice as my teenaged throat could muster.
Bill must have jumped a foot in the air, turning around and searching the shadows under the pine trees till he saw us.
"Christ almighty, you near scared me to death!" he yelled at us. "What if I keeled over dead, huh? Very funny that would be, huh?"
He put his hand up to his heart and felt to see if it was still beating. Then he pointed a finger at us and told us we were lucky. Then he regained some of his composure.
"So, what are you boys do'in here anyways?" he asked us in a studied casual way.
"Oh we heard the shot and got real curious what was go'in on." Tyrone told him. " I didn't know Mr. Matt gave other folk the right to shoot in his marsh. "
"Uh, now, now boys," Bill slowly stuttered, "I don't see how its important for anyone else to know I was here, I'm sure we can keep this just to ourselves, huh?
Tyrone and me looked at one another, and he turned to Bill.
"Well Mr. Bill, we've worked up a powerfull hunger poling that boat all the way back here. Sure would be nice to have some fresh back strap for lunch." Tyone said as he looked over at me with a wink.
"Now boys, boys, I got a buyer for this venison and cain't go givin away no parts of it. Come on now and be good Christians about this and give me somethin I can do for ya."
"Say," Tyrone remarked to me, "Ain't ya see'in Miss Lizzy tonight? Imagine if it came up in conversation how we ran into Mr. Bill today"
Bill gave us an evil look, then knelt down by the deer and went to work with his Case Finn. The razor sharp blade sliced right through the choice cuts that Tyrone pointed out to him.
Later, much later, after we had taken leave of a gratefull Bill Harding, we had made a nice fire on our island. Selecting only the driest of twiggs, we made a low smokeless fire so's not to attract any attention, and had fresh veison grilled over the coals on green willow skewers. I don't know if anything is as good as meat over a fire. Maybe there is something engraved deep on our genes from the days of the hunter-gatherers that fire+meat=good. I've had many a fine meal in my life, but looking back to the chunks of deer that Tyrone and I cut up with our pocket knives and put on skewers over the fire, I don't think that can easily be topped. Tearing into the smoking hunks of meat with our teeth will be a pleasure I will never forget, especially as it came at such a cheap price. Bill paid for our silence, with a fine lunch out on our island in Lacompte marsh on a sun washed spring day. I recall sitting there with fresh meat on the fire, our .22 rifles close by, our knives sharp, and on an island surrounded by the sparkling waters, and thinking life does not get better than that. I believe to this day, that if Peter Pan had swooped down at that moment and offered me the chance to never grow up, and staying in LaCompte marsh forever, I'd have shook hands on that deal in a heartbeat.
