OT: Deer Season II; Funny Stories To Share?

[Svashtar]

Jebediah's thread about deer season and the story I mentioned there prompted me to share a funny story that happened to my Great Uncle Lester way back when. (Figured a new thread was better than hijacking the hunting topic thread.)

I never met him, but my Dad was always regaling us with "Uncle Lester" stories. Seems like Uncle Lester was a bit of a hell raiser, who lived in and around southern Indiana (Evansville) and northern Kentucky, near my Dad and his family back in the 30's, 40's and early 50's. Lester had little regard for game laws (or the law in general for that matter especially when it came to homemade liquor or women or guns), and ended up in a bar dispute involving knives and straight razors and managed to kill someone (or had the bad luck to come out alive if you want to look at it that way.)

Lester knew everyone in town though, including the Judge who was a duck hunting friend, and as the unfortunate victim was a black man, Lester only did a year or so in jail before getting out for "good behavior." The feeling was that Lester could have been killed as well, although it is doubtful that if their roles were reversed and he had died instead that the black man would _ever_ have been released from prison. (I'm not saying anything about how right or wrong this was here, that's just how things were then in that part of the country in the middle of the depression in the 1930's.)

Anyway, one of the good Lester stories (there's a better one involving a bicycle thief, Lester's treasured bicycle, the Chief of Police and a Colt SAA, but I can't really tell that here), had to do with hunting and the game warden.

Lester and my Grandfather were out deer hunting, the only trouble being that A) it was out of season, and B) you were not supposed to hunt with handguns. I guess many states have laws about the type of firearms you are supposed to use, and since they are afraid of underpowered handguns being used and crippling animals they specify that you must use a centerfire rifle cartridge.

So, Lester and Grandpa had split up and had been looking for deer for a couple of hours when Lester felt the call of nature. He found a big tree at the edge of a clearing out of sight to prop himself against, and leaned his rifle up against the other side of the tree and dropped drawers and proceeded to relieve himself, with a handful of leaves ready to hand.

While he was squatting there, a big buck strolled into sight on the other side of the clearing about 50 yards away (upwind of Lester of course!) and looked about, not seeing Lester hunched down at the base of this tree. Lester couldn't get to his rifle, at least not without alerting the deer, BUT he was carrying his old 1911 .45 on his belt. He didn't normally use this to hunt of course, but just carried it along in case he had to dispatch an already wounded animal.

Moving slowly, Lester reached down and carefully drew the pistol, and then took aim and blazed away at the buck as fast as he could pull the trigger. Well, with the first shot the buck was gone, and with the lousy standard sights and trigger Lester hadn't hit anything anyway, especially at that distance and from that position.

Around this time the game warden, who had been nearby and heard all the commotion, came upon the scene to see Lester squatted against an old tree, his pants down around his ankles, with fired brass all over the ground and holding his empty slide locked back auto!

The warden asked Lester what in the holy hell he was doing, and Lester said, "Well, what does it look like? I'm just taking a c _ _ p!" The game Warden (who was laughing his butt off at this point) just said, "Yeah, I thought I heard some pretty loud reports over here, that must have been it!", and let it go at that. The warden did manage to tell the rest of the town about it in short order though, particularly mentioning how loud Lester's natural functions seemed to be!

Anyway, the luckiest thing that happened is that he DIDN'T hit the deer, as then he would have had some serious "'splaining" to do. As it was though, it became one of my families favorite "Uncle Lester" stories, and every year we would hear it again, even years after he died.

So, how about the rest of you? There's has to be a bunch of good tales among the folks in this group!? Hope to hear from you all.

Regards,

Norm

 

[munk]

I have a couple stories I'd have to think about before telling.


munk

 

[raghorn]

Our former game warden (they call themselves "Conservation Officers" here) was a good friend of mine before he moved on and he told me a good story a few years back.

He got a call about some guys who shot a huge mule deer while setting up their hunting camp the day before the start of the season. When he went out to investigate nobody was in the camp and there were no vehicles around, but he found the mule deer hanging on a pole behind the wall tent. So he rolled up his business card and stuck it in the deer's ear before leaving.

On opening day he walked into the camp again and contacted the hunters, a father and a teenaged son, who were sitting around the fire eating a late breakfast. When he asked them about the deer, they nervously told him it was killed that morning (it was cold and stiff by now). He asked them if they were positive about the time of harvest, and told them they still had an opportunity to modify their story if they chose to. The father stood fast, insisting that he had legally shot it a couple hours earlier, and gave him permission to examine the carcass when subsequently asked.

The CO walked over, looked closely at the head and asked the teenager to come over and help him examine the deer. He asked the kid what was wrong with the buck's ear. When the boy pulled out the business card with the CO's name on it he was asked how that possibly could have gotten in there. They admitted everything. The father lost his state hunting privileges for two years.

That mounted trophy mule deer is now part of a travelling display that Fish & Game uses for public education about poaching. The CO's business card is still in its ear.

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

This isn’t exactly a deer hunting story. It’s funny now that I think back, but at the time it could have had a very different ending. It’s one of those “What the hell was I thinking?” stories.

When I was a kid, my grandfather taught me how to call animals with just my hand and lips. He called it the “Indian Way”. I don’t know if Indians did it or not, but I found that with practice I could make any sound that a commercial device such as a duck call could make. I still use the technique today to call my cats, and it always sets the dogs who live about a half mile in back of me to barking like crazy.

I called ducks to land or feed, I could make Ringnecks jump up by using an alarm sound, and I could call squirrels out with the scolding call. My favorite was the predator call which imitated a wounded rabbit. It sounded like a baby crying only a lot louder and it would stop foxes, bobcats, or coyotes dead in their tracks. As long as I was downwind, I could call them in until they got close enough to realize something wasn’t quite right. I never killed them as I only hunted what I was going to eat, and fox or bobcat wasn’t on the menu. I just liked playing the game.

A few years ago I was fishing on the South Fork of the American River in the Sierra foothills. This was lion country, but I had never been lucky enough to see one. All of a sudden I saw a flash about fifty yards away. I knew it was a big cat. I started doing my predator call. It sounded good and was so loud any lion within a mile would have heard it. I knew they were in the area because a couple weeks before a hiker had been killed by one.

Then it hit me. Here I was with nothing but a fly rod and a wading stick, yelling as loud as I could in a language that a hungry lion would understand “Here I am. I’m wounded and helpless. Come eat me”

I don’t know if any came or not because I broke the land speed record getting back to my truck and on down the road.

 

[Bill Marsh]

I had a friend, Rodney, now departed, who was a serious deer hunter and an incredible shot. He never missed.

I was a kid and he was old, and he taught me a

When I went deer hunting, I had a cartrirdge belt that went around my waist, maybe 25 bullets.

Now in Georgia there is a two deer limit per hunter, per season.

I asked Rodney how many bullets he carried. He replied, "At the beginning of the season I now carry three. I used to just carry two since there is a two deer limit, why carry more ammo? But one day after I had shot my second deer and was empty, I noticed a mountain lion following me. I had to give him my deer, so now I carry an extra round."

I miss Rodney. He taught me how to tie dye our own camo clothing among other things. He died of some old guy complications, but he did have a nice mountain lion rug.

 

[munk]

I was hiking a hill once in the San Bernardino Mt's in Ca. There was a Santa Ana wind. As I neared the top of the hill, the thought occured to me anything up there would not hear me approach. I'm not very consistant but sometimes ideas pop into my head for a reason. Who knows why this one did on this day? It happens to me like that.

So I reach the top of the hill and all I can see is tall grass, over the knees, and all I can hear is the wind. I clap my hands together as stiffly and brisk as one can. Clop Clop Clop, the spaced reports went off. Out of the center of the hill, in the deepest grass, something started running around and around. When I saw him I just kept clapping, and as I clapped he just kept running in circles. He didn't know what was happening, which way to turn. And he moved so fast I couldn't tell what he was. The circles were tight- 7 or 8 feet, and all I saw was a whirl of tan colored fur. It wasn't a deer. It looked too big for a coyote.

I thought it was a mountain lion. But I never knew- it ejected from orbit suddenly, coming off the center to the side and over the slope and was gone. Like a rock from a sling.

Above Palm Desert once my wife to be and I were just leaving her old Datsun sedan behind to take a desert trail. We were 150 yards away and she noticed an animal by her car. It was a full grown lion, sniffing at the rear wheels where alley cats had long left their marks.

I used to carry a fishing rod with all the eyelets taken off for hiking in the desert- my snake stick. It was light, you could tap tap it along the trail and into the creosote next to you without effort. In all the time I carried it I never had to use it for a snake. Does that mean it was useless? Not at all. Using it forced me to pay attention to the ground around me. All the possible snake bites I've had are because a snake was hidden.

>>>>>>>>>

The pallets of apple flavored corn were largely missing this year from Wyoming Wal Marts. It seems the legislature passed a no bait law. Not because of all the 2 to 20 acre Ranchettes where the tasty corn was commonly used to attract Whitetail, but because an outfitter was caught with a salt lick. This was related to me by a friend in Sheridan and is his version. At any rate, Walmart will miss the revenue from the corn. Pallets on the floor stacked high as the ceiling every hunting season in Sheridan.
You could say you were using it to feed the pheasents....

My landlord's son one year in Sheridan already had two animals hanging in the shed when the Ranger stopped by simply to tell the Old Man to buy a few tags asap, which he did.
Most residents in the wild places have an entirely different attitude about game than do the sportswriters and "conservation officers'. Deer in particular are seen as nuisances. Here locally one year a neighbor shot his food locker full 20 feet from his house- against the law, of course, and the animal fell right into the boat he had parked there. I thought that was tidy. He simply wheeled the boat towards the house, dressed out the animal and hosed the boat down.




munk

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

...All the possible snake bites I've had are because a snake was hidden...

I usually walk as silently as I can when I am in the woods, but when I am in snake country I make as much noise with my feet as I can. This way the snakes know I am coming and usually get out of the way before I walk up on them. Another rule I follow is to never put my feet or hands anywhere I can't see at least a clear three foot radius.

 

[munk]

Yes, I do the same things. However, while with me a friend almost stepped on a coiled snake, sleeping in the shrubs, another friend saw one in the rocks I was about to stand on, and once I was walking down a trail at dusk and almost stepped on a Mojave Green. It was asleep. I was a foot away.

For all the time I've been in the desert, I'd say my incidents were low. I used to hunt rattlesnakes. Never been bit- knock on wood.


munk

 

[Svashtar]

Good stories! Here's a different one: A few years ago in the outskirts of Cotati CA where I was living, a guy out in the sticks spotted an odd looking big white deer just standing by his fence and shot it and took it inside and started cleaning it. Unfortunately a neighbor saw and turned him in. Turns out it was some kind of super-rare white Ibis deer, escaped from a local game preserve, and was worth about 2 years salary! Big mistake. Not only was he fined for hunting out of season and lost his license, but had to pay the game preserve for the deer. He was asked about it later, and as an avid hunter he said he just couldn't resist this big-ass white buck standing there totally unafraid looking over his fence!

I can almost empathize!

regards,

Norm

 

[Dave Rishar]

Here's one that may give you a chuckle. It's not a hunting story per se, but close.

Last summer there was a lot of brush clearing going on at the Camp. In theory, there's supposed to be 20 feet of open space on either side of the fence. As the fence encloses roughly 400 acres of forest, there's a good amount of work involved. It's not too bad when everyone keeps up on it but we found, unfortunately, that it had been neglected for a few years. Thus I found myself at a neglected corner, armed with a machete and a radio.

Besides the usual deer and such, we also have coyotes, at least one black bear, and one or two cougars. The latter was what worried me. From what I understand, adult humans are not the prey of choice for them but attack instincts in all cats can be set off by the strangest things and an accident would be unfortunate for both parties. So, to be safe, I made a lot of noise while I worked and tried to keep a clear area behind me.

I was moving to a new area near the abandoned 850-yard line when I heard some rustling in the tall grass ahead of me. I grew alarmed and froze. More noise and a bit of movement. I took a step back and raised the machete. I caught a glimpse of light brown fur and assumed the worst. I didn't want to turn my back on whatever it was but I wasn't interested in sticking around either. Being gifted with an extremely loud voice that carries well, I decided to challenge (and hopefully scare off) whatever it was with a bellow. I let out a roar and all hell broke loose.

My memories of the occasion are a bit hazy; we know for a fact that after I yelled, the doe that had been hiding in the brush made a break for it. Evidently she'd become confused and had thought that I was behind her, as I do partially remember something charging out of the grass directly at me from less than fifteen yards away. A coworker nearby confirmed that my intial shout became a screamed expletive, there was some commotion, and a doe bounded past them at a high rate of speed. (Right after she'd blown past me.) Another coworker saw me moving in another direction at a pace I have yet to duplicate. The machete was discovered stuck in a tree near the grass. Evidently I'd thrown it at the doe while I was beating a hasty retreat although I have no memory of either.

Needless to say, my credibility as a "man of the woods" was pretty much shot at the Camp after that. It'll take me a long time to live this one down.

 

[Svashtar]

Great story Satori! That one got me rolling on the floor! Frankly, I could see myself doing the same thing in those circumstances. Hey, thank the Gods you didn't hit the doe with the machete. A dead doe with a machete sticking out of the chest would have been too hard to explain! (-:

Regards,

Norm

 

[tbarahon]

Back in the day, while I was living in Spain, a group of friends and I would organize camps for children with disabilities, churches, city youth councils, clubs, etc, and so we would go a two or three times a year to scout new camping areas. We tried to find places remote enough that no one would disturb or get disturbed by the outdoor activities but close enough to civilization that in case of an emergency we have fast access. As we try to have as many activities in the camps as we can we look for areas close to rivers, with places you can climb, and enough sturdy trees to build monkey bridges and the such.
One of the guys on the group mentioned a place he had been previously with his father, right by a nice trout river, a three hours walk from the nearest town. We decided to give it a try, and there we went, eight of us, to check the area.
As we usually ended in far away places, where you could find unfriendly two and four legged visitors and we could carry no firearms due to the restrictive nature of Spanish gun laws (Resumed in few words: NO YOU DON’T) we would always carry a few big knifes on us, night and day. You know, just for companionship and warmth.
The thing is that we found a nice place, we pitch the tents, prepare the campsite, and around seven that night I decided that it was the right moment to answer nature’s call. I walked from the campsite, found a nice old tree, and well, you know the drill. I look around to be sure that it is a safe place to drop my pants. I used the shovel to make a nice deep hole, stick it on the ground put the toilet paper on it, and proceed to drop my pants, and put around my shoulders the belt with the knife, flashlights, canteen, and other accoutrements so that even with the pants down I would still have access to them. While I am there trying to concentrate in the task, I suddenly heard something that sounded like steps over the fallen leaves. I looked left, looked right, and saw nothing. I heard those steps getting closer. I thought that it was someone from the camp trying to find another nice tree that would fulfill his or her needs, so I shout: “Ok, pal! Stop there! This is my tree! You’ll have to find your own, this one is taken!” And I heard someone from the camp site: “Hey Teo! Talking alone again?” I swear that at that very instant, if my pants weren’t down already I would have soiled them right there, because right after my friend said that I heard again those steps getting closer! I got my knife in one hand, my flashlight on the other, and I tried to see who or what was walking towards me deciding that I would fight to the end…with my pants down to my knees, of course, but to the bitter end! I still could not see anything, until I finally heard the dreaded sound coming from between my legs. I shine my flashlight to the ground, and I am not exaggerating. I observed like fifteen thousand eight hundred and thirty two trillion billion toads looking at me with their fluorescent eyes. Apparently they would hide under the leaves during the day and come out during the night. And that night was the equivalent of Saint Valentine for the toads…I suppose that for them I was the sideshow, because I swear that I saw a few laughing their little blistering *ss*s out.

Best,

Tbar

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

I was going to school in Ft. Collins, Colorado and it was Thanksgiving vacation so I was spending the week up on the divide looking for a cave that was supposedly discovered years ago by silver miners and had been forgotten about. Only a few locals knew where it was, and my friend was one of them.

He told me all about it, but he couldn’t go with me because he, and some other members of our Mountain Climbing Club were going to spend the vacation skiing over in Aspen. This before Aspen was discovered and developed. It was just another broken down semi-deserted mining town, but it had a cleared slope and an old miner’s hotel where you could get a room for a couple bucks a night.

The cave was a few miles above a dirt road that was a shortcut from Fairplay to Leadville on the way to Aspen, so my friends agreed to drop me off and pick me up a few days later on their way back.

It was late when they dropped me off so I just walked a few yards off the road into the trees and set up my tent. I was up about twelve thousand feet and was beginning to get cold. Evidently it got so cold that it froze my brain because the next thing I did was really stupid and almost killed me.

I got in the tent, zipped it shut, and proceed to cook dinner on a little one burner gasoline stove. It was toasty warm in there and I made spaghetti with tomato sauce that came dehydrated in a package. I got about half way through the meal and I started feeling dizzy and got this pounding headache. Then I got sick to my stomach. I wanted to just lay back and sleep, but I didn’t want to vomit all over my sleeping bag so I unzipped the tent and crawled out side.

That save my life because I had been poisoning myself with carbon monoxide from the stove.

The next morning I felt fine, but it had started to snow. I didn’t realize it then, but the real fun was just beginning.

(I’m burned out. I’ll finish this story later and tell you about being buried in the snow drift, terrified by the Phantom Black Panther, and almost being eaten alive by the horde of rats from Hell.)

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

I figured I had better get up to the cave before the snow got too deep, so I left the road and headed off cross-country.

“Go in here and walk up to the ridge, walk along the ridge about half a mile and you will see the old mining camp to your right about 100 yards down the side. You can’t miss the mine. Just look for a pile of logs. They are piled in front of the entrance, but they have slipped and you can walk right around behind them. Go in as far as you can, and you will see the breakthrough into the cave on your right. Be sure to take your big flashlight, because your carbide headlamp won’t be enough to show how beautiful it is. You will see thousands of “jewels” glistening in the ceiling. They’re always falling down, and used to be all over the floor, but most have been stolen over the years. Be careful where you step, don’t break anything, and don’t take any souvenirs.” I promised I would respect the cave and keep the secret.

As a parting thought he said “It sometimes gets kind of, ah, well, ah, ‘weird’ up there. Watch out.”

About ten years later I heard that some drunk deer hunters out of Denver had stumbled across the cave. They tried to blast the opening bigger and succeeded in bringing down half the mountain on themselves and burying the cave. As far as I know the cave has never been found again.

The snow was about knee deep, but I knew that once I got above the timberline it would have been mostly blown away and walking would be a lot easier. I strapped on my snowshoes and headed out.

I had never used snowshoes before. These were traditional Bear Paw shoes made of willow and rawhide that I had borrowed from the club. It was not easy walking with them, but I felt like a real “Mountain Man” and was about halfway up the ridge, high on the cold thin air, and my own sense of accomplishment when I head a loud hissing sound. It sounded like somebody had punched a hole in a huge air tank and it was getting louder and louder.

Avalanche! My mind raced around bumping into itself looking for what to do. “Swim and you will float to the top as you are swept down the mountain”, I had read somewhere. So I closed my eyes and trusted my life to the dog paddle.

I had camped a lot in the winter, and I had hiked the Appalachian trail in Vermont, so I considered myself an experienced woodsman and an expert mountain hiker. But this club I belonged to, officially called the “Colorado State University Hiking Club” was being run by a couple of hard core climbers and “hiking” always involved ropes, pitons, and carabiners.

It was a long way from hiking the cleared, well marked trails, that meandered over the gentle Green Mountains of New England to rappelling down a cliff in the high Rockies, so as to not appear to be too much of a greenhorn, I spent hours in the library reading everything I could find on mountain climbing. I found the U.S. Army manual put out for the Ski Corps in WW II to especially helpful. That’s where I learned about swimming through an avalanche.

A had always heard that an avalanche made a roar like a freight train, but this one just hissed at me like an angry alley cat. I could feel pressure against my body and I knew I was being buried alive. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but I kept thinking of sitting at my favorite booth at Herm’s, with a bowl of stale peanuts and a .99 pitcher of Coors, listening to the click-clack of the balls while I waited for my turn at the snooker table. I felt my jaws chewing the imaginary peanuts and the 3.2 percent buzz warming my body, starting with my ears.

Then it all stopped. Nothing was moving and everything was super bright and clear. I was standing there with snow up to my chest waving my arms like a spastic cheerleader. I don’t know what happened or where the snow came from, or why it didn’t sweep me away, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of there, set up a warm safe camp, brew up a cup of coffee, and forget about the “Magic Cave” for a while.

I was buried standing up, and my snowshoes were trapping me in. After about fifteen minutes of pulling and twisting my feet, I was able to pull free of the bindings. But, I wasn’t able to retrieve the snowshoes. When I got back to Ft. Collins I had to pay for them by building some shelving and organizing the club’s equipment storeroom.

It had stopped snowing, the sun was warm, and I knew things were going my way when I stumbled upon an old log cabin. It must have at one time been a homestead because there were several small outbuildings long reduced to scattered piles of gray lumber, and a small corral which was still standing. The cabin itself was in good shape. It had two rooms, a fireplace, a big glass window, and a bed with a fairly comfortable mattress. There were animal droppings all over everything, but there was also a broom so I cleaned up, brought in some firewood, and got ready top spend the night in relative luxury.

Little did I know that when the moon came up I would be spending the night staring, terrified, out of the window watching for the red glowing eyes of the Phantom Black Panther.

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

When I was gathering the firewood, I started to feel nervous and jumpy. I felt like I shouldn’t have been there and that somebody was watching me. Even though I knew there was no one else around, I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure. I figured that maybe I was just feeling like a trespasser. After all, this was some body’s home at one time and I really had no right to be there, but judging from the old magazines that dated from the 1930s and 1940s, they hadn’t lived there for a long time.

The cabin had two and a half rooms. The room with the fireplace, table, and chair was the main living space. The room in the back was originally the bedroom, but a corner of the roof had collapsed so the bed had been moved into the living room. The half room was a kitchen nook. There were some shelves, an old iron sink, and a spot where a cook stove used to be, but all that was left was part of the stove pipe. There was no water, or pump, on the sink, so I assumed that there had been a well somewhere outside.

In the back bedroom was a big overstuffed easy chair that had been torn apart and used for nests by various creatures. Scattered all over the floor were old hunting and fishing magazines. There was Fur, Fish, & Game, Sports Afield, Field and Stream, and Outdoor Life, and a book of short stories.

When I saw these magazines, my feeling of impending doom faded away. I loved outdoor magazines. I grew up with them. Every month when the new issues came out, my Grandfather would bring me copies from his drugstore. I read them over and over. Articles by Ted Trueblood, Colonel Townsend Whelan, George Hiengold and a score of others influenced my life to a depth that I have yet to fully realize.

The light from the fireplace, my carbide cave lantern, and a couple of candles gave plenty of light to read by. Some of the magazines I had read before. They were the same issues I found in my Uncle Harry’s attic. This connection with home made me feel especially secure and relaxed as I finished the last magazine and picked up the book of short stories by Ambrose Bierce.

The first story was “Eyes of the Panther”. It was one of the scariest stories I had ever read. I don’t remember the details but it was about ghosts, a man eating Panther, screams in the night, and eyes in the window. All those warm, secure, happy thoughts of Uncle Harry’s attic vanished. The hair on my neck stood up and a chill came over me like it had earlier when I was gathering firewood. I tried to divert my mind with other thoughts. I pictured Willie Best, who played the handyman on the Stu Irwin TV show. He was like a grown up Buckwheat and his specialty was running from “ghosts” by high stepping with wide eyes and a scared expression. I knew it was racial stereotyping, but I loved seeing him do it. He always made me laugh. But this time it didn’t work.

I heard a loud thump on the roof and a crash as something fell into the firewood that I had stacked right outside the door. If old Willie was there it would have been me yelling “Wait for me, Boss”. And the only way you could tell us apart was that I had less contrast between the whites of my eyes and my face than he did. But Willie wasn’t here. I was alone, scared out of my wits, and something was outside, something big.

It was on the roof again. This time it was going from side to side. Dust was falling inside from the roof rafters. I thought about the hole in the back bedroom and I was ready with my gun. All I had was an old Harrington Richardson .22 revolver. It held six shots, but it was single action so the hammer had to be cocked for each shot. Not much for protection against a charging panther, especially one with glowing eyes that was a ghost and could change into a woman.

There was one big thud, the whole roof shook and a shadow flashed in front of the window. I hoped it was gone but the last thing I could do now was sleep, and I sure didn’t want to read any more stories, so I sat in front of the window and watched and waited.

When dawn finally broke, and I could look out the window without being afraid of seeing anything looking back at me, I figured it was safe to go outside. The first thing I did was straighten up my firewood pile that had been scattered and kicked around. Then I looked for tracks. There were none. It hadn’t snowed since the day before and the only tracks were mine. Even in front of the window, where the shadow jumped off the roof, the snow was smooth and unmarked.

This didn’t make me feel any better, because I either imagined all of it, or it was something I couldn’t explain. I went back in the cabin, brewed up a cup of coffee and started to smile as I thought what an active imagination I must have to spook myself like that. Then I noticed the dust covering my sleeping bag that had fallen down from the ceiling.

I felt like packing up my gear and getting out of there, but I had another day before my friends were coming to pick me up, and if there were animals (or ghosts) around, I would be safer in the cabin than in my tent. I was really tired from staying up all night so I thought that I could probably sleep as long as I didn’t read any more ghost stories and slept with my gun.

But, I had no idea that the rats were coming to eat me that night.

 

[munk]

Ben, you sound as crazy as I am. Keep going. Gotta get to the end of this. How much did those snowshoes cost?



munk

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

Ben, you sound as crazy as I am. Keep going. Gotta get to the end of this. How much did those snowshoes cost?

I checked them out from the Hiking Club. There was no rental fee. But since I lost them, I would either have to pay $20 or spend two weekends building shelves and organizing the club's equipment shed. I opted to do the time and save my $20 for beer and snooker.

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

I was planning to stay in the cabin and catch up on my sleep, but the several cups of coffee I had just consumed forced me to go outside. It was cold and musty inside the cabin, but outside, it was sunny and warm. I found a big flat rock overlooking the valley. It was warm from the sun and at that moment seemed like the most comfortable bed I had ever lay down on. I slept for hours.

It was late afternoon when I finally got back to the cabin. I built a fire and decided to treat myself to a gourmet dinner. I had found a couple of boxes of C-Rations in an Army Navy store in Denver, and I had brought some of it with me. I didn’t matter that it was dated 1943, that was only fifteen years ago and it was packaged all in tin cans so I thought it would still be good. And it was.

The Beef Stew was delicious. The can of Eggs and Ham could have been tastier, but compared to the Spaghetti and Carbon Monoxide of a couple nights ago, it was quite enjoyable. The can of round unsalted soda crackers and slab of chewy sweet orange colored material made a subtle contrast with the saltiness of the stew and the slightly mouldy smoke flavor of the ham and eggs. I belched contentedly and lit up one of the Chesterfields that were always included with the C-Rations.

I went to the back room to look for more reading material and found a Mechanix Illustrated with an article on how to build a tear-drop camping trailer. I wanted one of those. Mechanix Illustrated always had such great articles on projects “the average guy” could build. I must have been “below average” in both resources and craftsmanship because I was never able to build any of them. I would charge headfirst into a project, run out of steam or money and would never finish it.

I knew I couldn’t build that trailer, but maybe I could get my buddy Skeezix to do it. I could usually talk him into all sorts of crazy stuff. He had a car, a job, his dad had a workshop in the basement, and Skeezix was an excellent craftsman. I once talked him into buying these two old canoes for $25.00. I was going to pay him back my $12.50, but I probably never did. They were classic cedar planked, canvas covered canoes by Old Town. Skeezix stripped his down, replaced planking and other pieces, recovered it with new canvas and had a beautiful boat. I stripped the skin off mine, but that was as far as I got. It eventually rotted away and ended up burned in the brush pile. But, we usually fished together so all we needed was one canoe anyway, and now Skeezix had one.

When I went home for summer vacation, I would show the article to Skeezix and talk about how great it would be to pull that trailer down to Cape Cod to fish for Stripers, or up to Rangeley Maine, for lake trout. And if we had it for deer season, we would finally get our bucks and see our names on the “Successful Hunters” list in the newspaper.

My eyes were tired from studying the plans for the trailer, so decided I would turn it for the night. I was a little apprehensive, considering what I had gone through the night before, so I took my tent and strung it up across the window. That made me feel a lot more secure. At least nothing would be looking in at me as I slept. I took my flashlight and my gun, snuggled down into my sleeping bag, and was soon travelling around the country in Skeezix’s finely crafted, handmade tear-drop trailer.

I had been asleep a couple hours when I was wakened by some shuffling sounds and some pulling on the bottom of my sleeping bag. I turned on the flashlight and saw a rat down at the foot of the bed chewing on the tie strings of my sleeping bag. I have never been afraid of rats, especially rats in the woods. Although they do carry fleas which can spread disease, and they are susceptible to rabies, they are no more dangerous than a squirrel. I considered them an entirely different animal from the nasty sewer rats of the cities.

My dad, Leo, didn’t share my opinion. He hated all rats. And with good reason. He had an extremely hard childhood growing up during the Great Depression. They were very poor and lived in terrible conditions. He was the second child named Leo in the family. The first Leo was killed by a rat as he slept in his cradle.

I clapped my hands, the rat ran off, and I went back to sleep.

It wasn’t long before I was awakened again. This time there were about a half dozen of them. Most of them were over on the table rooting through the remains of my C-Rations, but there were a couple on the bed. I was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable so I clapped my hands again, yelled “Beat it!” and they were gone.

When I woke up again, I thought it was raining, but it wasn’t. It was the sound of dozens of rats scurrying around on the table. I had to clap my hands several times before the left, and they didn’t seem too afraid of me anymore. It was starting to get creepy.

I didn’t go back to sleep. I just lay there for a few minutes and listened to the “rain” get louder. When I felt them on the bed, I switched on my flashlight and saw hundreds of them. They were on the table, on the floor, up in the rafters, and on the foot of the bed. Some were starting to climb up where I was sleeping and I could see their heads peeking over the bed just a few inches from my face.

They didn’t scatter now when I clapped my hands or yelled. They just stopped for a minute then went back to what they were doing. If I got up out of bed maybe they would leave, but what if they didn’t. What if I stepped on one and they attacked. I was scared now. I took out my gun. I only had six shots, but I had to do something.
I took aim at one that was sitting beside the fireplace. He was a mean looking bugger and I thought he was getting ready to jump up on the bed. I missed.

But, the noise was so loud that they all immediately vanished. I switched off the flashlight and listened, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. They didn’t come back so I relaxed, gun and flashlight in hand, and nodded off. I must have slept for an hour or so when I felt the sleeping bag getting tight around my body. I woke up to find dozens of them on the bed. They were so heavy that I could hardly move in the bag. I tried to kick them off but it seemed to get them stirred up and they started to squeak and chirp to each other.

I stuck my gun out and took another shot. This time I didn’t aim at anything in particular. It worked again. They vanished. I had four shots left and it must have been about three in the morning. If things kept going like they were, I would make it until dawn and hopefully when it got light the rats would go away. What bothered me though was that each time I fell asleep and woke up, the number of rats had increased. Now is seemed like there were thousands. If we went though four more cycles, there would be millions. The entire cabin would be filled from floor to ceiling with rats and I would have been transformed into a pile of tooth scarred bones and a few pounds of little black rat turds.

I didn’t even think about going back to sleep. In a few minutes I started hearing shuffling and a few squeaks. They were coming back. There was one crouched down on the table facing me. He looked like he was about to leap onto the bed and lead the charge to finish me off. I shined the light directly at him. He stood up on his hind feet. I took careful aim this time, and squeezed off the shot.

He flew back against the window and made a noise that was halfway between a growl and a scream and just lay there. He was dead. The others had vanished. I had three shots left and was going to stick to my plan hoping that they wouldn’t get used to the noise. But I didn’t have to shoot again. They never came back.

In the morning I threw his body outside and packed up my gear. I didn’t feel much like cooking breakfast or eating at that table anymore, so I got out another can of unsalted soda crackers and chewy sweet orange colored material, and a Chesterfield, and had breakfast while I made my way back to the road to wait for my friends. It was about noon when they pulled up.

“Did you find the cave?”
“Nope. The snow was too deep. Never got that far. How was the skiing?”
“There was no snow over there. We stayed in the hotel and played cards and drank beer. You should have been there. We had a great time.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I should have been.”

That was all I ever said about my trip. I told them I “lost” the snowshoes, but didn’t give any details. On the way down from Ft. Collins, since there was four of us and only three would fit in the cab of the pickup, we took turns riding in the back. On the trip back, I volunteered to ride in the back of the truck the whole way. I made a nest among the camping gear, buried myself under a couple of sleeping bags and slept all the way back.

I planned to go back and find the cave next year before the snow fell, but I never made it. That summer I got a letter telling me not to come back to school. I had spent too much time at Herm’s Tavern becoming the Chugging Champion and resident Snooker Expert, too much time fishing the Poudre River, too much time climbing the Rocky Mountains, too much time trapping muskrats up by Wellington, and not enough time on my studies. I had flunked everything including R.O.T.C.

But, life is about changes and I needed one. I joined the Air Force.

 

[munk]

I still have school nightmares.
I wonder why there were so many rats? What could they live on? They wintered in that cabin. If you'd shot several up front they may have left you alone while eating their comrades.

One great old tale you have here.


munk

 

[Ben Arown-Awile]

..If you'd shot several up front they may have left you alone while eating their comrades...

But I only had six shots and six rats wouldn't have gone very far feeding that herd. I'm afraid it just would have served as an appetizer, and guess who the main course would have been?