My father was not
really a hunter. I think he felt an
occasional duty to train his boys in the use
of firearms, but he really had not done any
hunting in over ten years on the occasion. He
used to hunt Canadian geese in California as
a young forester, probably because he was
invited and felt obligated—it went with
the image of outdoorsman. He quit hunting out
there on the day he accidentally shot a swan,
mistaking it for a honker. He admitted this
sheepishly, at the same time swearing us to
silence. There was a large fine for killing a
swan, accidentally or no. This is the first
time I have ever revealed it, though he died
in 1993.
Somehow he felt the
urge to take it up again, whether for his
boys or for his own reasons, he didn't say.
At any rate he invited us to go down on
Saugahatchee creek (known locally as Stink
creek—with good reason, effluent from
some smelly operation drained into there) to
hunt with him. Since he had the only legal
firearm for duck hunting (shotgun), my
brother and I took along our trusty single-shot
22s, in case we saw any squirrels we could
pot at.
He warned us about
shooting at any ducks we saw on the water.
This was strictly illegal to do with a rifle.
It was frosty cold
and boring and we saw no game. Nonetheless we
stalked as quietly as we could down the
creekbank. Nothing moved but our steamy
breath. Occasionally a wet branch would rake
stingingly across my face, twice as painful
in the cold wet air.
My father felt a call
of nature, told us to stay where we were and
disappeared into the brush. Ike and I waited.
And waited. We were silent at first; then we
began to horse around to stay warm and out of
boredom and cold.
I bet Ike I could
shoot a sweetgum ball off, high up in a gum
tree. I drew a pretend bead and Ike bumped me.
The rifle went off—exactly in the
direction my father had taken!
Silence.
"DAD!"
Silence.
"DAD, ARE YOU
OK?"
Silence, then my
father came out of the bushes with his face
white and wet, and a peculiar determined look
about him.
"Dad, where are
you going?"
"Home!"
And that's exactly
where we went.
Part Two—Over a
Cliff
My father was a
camper about like he was a hunter. He enjoyed
it occasionally, but it had been a few years
since we camped as a family. In fact the last
occasion was when I had put a rubber snake in
one of mom's cooking pots. We never to my
recollection camped as a whole family again,
but Dad did take several of us camping
individually when it struck him.
One of his favorite
spots, and mine, was Chehaw Mountain in
northern Alabama. We would camp at the lake
near the foot of the mountain, hike, fish,
loaf, swim and generally have a lot of fun.
Dad liked to go to the store and museum at
the top; which, not being a physical
activity, bored me to tears. He enjoyed
finding out the history of the area.
One trip stands out
in memory through all these years. He took me
and my little 5 year-old brother to Chehaw
for a weekend of camping. As soon as we had
set up camp, he made a beeline for the museum
at the summit, about 5 miles of slow, second-gear
driving by twisting road to the top. He left
me in charge of my little brother and went
into the store.
We waited what seemed
an eternity, but he didn't show any sign of
coming out. I went in and told him we were
going to walk the cliff trail to see what we
could see.
"Mm, hmm. OK."
He was preoccupied with a history display.
So, with little
brother in hand, I set off on the trail. We
came out on a little bald where we could see
for some distance. I could even see our
campground, some 500 feet below.
An idea crept into my
pointy little head: boy, wouldn't Dad be
surprised if we climbed down the rock face
and waited for him at the camp. Don't ask
where such an idea came from out of my 14
year-old peabrain, but I began to put action
to thought. I just loved to climb!
First, I persuaded my
little brother that it was OK, that nothing
would happen to him. I swore roundly that it
was perfectly safe.
We started out. I
would let him down by hand to a ledge, then
climb down myself. I would let him down to
the next ledge and repeat. This worked well
until we got about 100 feet down, and I
didn't see another ledge to let him down to.
Reluctantly, I decided we better go back up.
Truthfully, the whole thing seemed more and
more like a real hare-brained adventure.
I found out that
pushing a 50 pound kid up a rock face was a
LOT different than letting him down one! What
made matters worse was his crying out of fear.
We finally made it to the top. I was
exhausted and my brother was crying
hysterically. My father was at the top, lying
face down on the rock, with his eyes closed!
I asked the question
I usually asked of him under stressful
circumstances:
"Are you OK, Dad?"
"NO, I HAVE A
MIGRAINE." He had been at the top
watching us for most of the climb down and
all of the climb up, never saying a word.
When I think of him
then, so many years ago, I could not love him
more.
Sign
My Guestbook
View
My Guestbook
©Phil
Hodgkins 2002
