McCoy's Woods

McCoy's Woods

On the Christmas after my 16^th birthday I received a shotgun from my father as one of my Christmas presents. I'd been hinting and begging for it for months and months and my entreaties had finally bore some fruit. Some people nowadays might think that a shotgun would be a strange gift, even a dangerous one. But my father was a small-game hunter, and he thought it was time for me to have my own gun.

My own gun! Wow! I was like Ralphie in the '83 classic “A Christmas Story”. Except this was NOT a Red Rider B-B Gun. It was a REAL gun.

I still own it, you know. It's not the best shotgun in the world – far from it. It's an old Mossburg 16-gauge with a Vari-choke on the end of the muzzle, probably late-50's vintage. The choke can be twisted to give you full, modified and open chokes. It's clip-fed and bolt-action. Heavy, clunky in a lot of ways and not particularly accurate. The clip had a habit of falling off the gun after every shot. But it was mine and it still holds a warm spot in my memories.

Dad was a good teacher, especially insofar as hunting went. He hunted with his brothers, brothers-in-law, uncles and his dad – most of our extended family liked to hunt, mostly small game like rabbits, squirrels and pheasants. A couple went after deer from time to time but dad wasn't interested in them. For some reason most of the family were 16-gauge shotgun men. When you think about it, it's a little-used size of shotgun. Purists like to go for the 20-gauge, maybe an over-and-under or a smooth auto. The vast majority of shotgunners opt for the popular 12-gauge. A small group like to hunt with the .410. Probably to test their accuracy with the small bore weapon. But for some reason my family liked the 16.

So that's what I opened up that Christmas morning.

Dad believed very strongly in gun safety and taught it before, during and after any trips we made out into the woods or fields. He drummed into me a number of “laws” concerning guns and gun safety. For example: “The gun is ALWAYS loaded until you verify that it isn't.” “Never aim a gun at ANYTHING unless you're ready to kill it.” “The muzzle of the gun ALWAYS faces away from any of your hunting partners.” “Always verify EXACTLY what it is that you are shooting at before pulling the trigger.” He had some more, but those were probably the most important ones that he stressed all the time. He'd been in World War II as an infantryman and was quite familiar with guns.

Besides going hunting with his dad in the pre-WWII years.

When we'd go hunting I'd carry the Mossburg and he'd carry his Fox-Savage side-by-side double-barreled 16-gauge. Some people quibble about carrying a double when you could save the weight by using a single tube with some sort of loader, either a pump or an auto. That's fine if you subscribe to the weight notion. But I always felt that the weight wasn't that much of an issue. And the sight picture as you looked down that WIDE double-barrel at the game you were hunting out in the woods was like looking down a laser straight, two-lane highway. His shotgun was a little on the short side, swung smoothly and quickly and really seemed easier to aim with and to hit your target, especially when comparing it to the Mossburg. It had two triggers, the forward one fired the modified choke barrel and the rear one the full-choke. It was a marvelous rabbit gun. I own this well-used weapon now and cherish it even though I rarely hunt anymore.

I remember going squirrel hunting with dad when I was a new hunter. I remember one of the first trips we took together after I got my own shotgun. Dad liked to get into the woods way before dawn, when the sky was still black and the stars still shone, so that meant getting up really early. He had a “pet” cast-iron skillet he made his breakfasts in and he'd use it to make bacon and eggs for both of us. We'd eat that with toast and coffee (for him) and milk (for me), then load up the car with our hunting coats, the shotguns and some 'number six' shot shells. It was almost always on a Saturday morning when we went out, as he worked two jobs during the week and rarely ever took any vacation time. He liked to hunt squirrels in a woods north of our hometown. He called it “McCoy's Woods” so it must have belonged (or used to belong) to someone named McCoy. I don't think I ever knew. He apparently had permission for us to be there.

We'd park next to a barn on the property, get out of the car, put our coats on and pick up the shotguns. It was a bit of a walk across a field before we hit the wood line and it was a dark walk. We'd usually have wet boots from the dew by the time we got into the trees. We'd load our guns at that point and walk quietly and slowly until he reached what he thought might be a good spot. It was generally near some nut trees – walnuts, oak, hickory. The hickories seemed best. We'd sit near each other, stay quiet and wait for the woods to wake up.

You'd generally hear some of the birds awaken first. They'd start calling to each other, squawking, chirping, marking the boundaries of their territories, greeting the first hint of light in the sky. There was usually some ghostly mist slowly rising from the cold, wet ground and evaporating when it hit the treetops. If you were lucky, the day was close to windless. We liked those days particularly well as squirrel hunting requires a lot of listening and looking. Swaying branches and wind noise made it a lot more difficult – a quiet woods was the best. We'd sit there silently, watching the black woods begin to gray a bit and then a touch of color would start appearing as the false dawn approached. Along about then, if you were lucky in your selection of spot, you'd generally hear a nut drop. You'd turn your head toward where the sound originated and listen really, really hard. And wait. And wait some more. Then another one might drop near where the first one did. Hmm... Interesting. Just might be ol' mister squirrel starting to cut some hickories and have him some breakfast. We'd generally stand up then and slowly and very, very quietly ease our way a bit closer to that area.

If we were lucky we'd soon spot one of the furry rodents up in a tree. You'd usually just see a quiver of his tail, just a twitch, but that was usually enough to pick him out. You'd slowly and quietly move closer until you were close enough for a decent shot. On some of my earlier hunting trips with him, Dad sometimes would have to point out the game to me. He'd raise his hand and point his finger. “Do you see him?” he'd say. “Right there where the branch kinda makes a vee. Can you see him now?” I'd look and look and look and then, like some sort of magic, I'd see the squirrel.

“Yeah, dad, yeah. I see 'm now!” I'd slowly raise the Mossburg, lay the fore sight on him and pull the trigger. The resulting boom was very loud in the still morning. If we were lucky and the Mossburg anywhere close to accurate, the game would drop quickly to the ground and we'd go pick him up. We'd smile at each other while I slipped the animal in my coat's game pocket.

I can still see dad tapping out one of his Camel cigarettes, putting it into his mouth and lighting it up with his old Zippo after taking a squirrel. We'd relax for a minute, smiling, talking quietly, enjoying the moment, letting the woods calm down after the shot. Soon the birds would begin to squawk and call again and the animals would go back to ignoring us.

Then a nut might drop somewhere else nearby. Or one of the furry beasts might start barking. They did that sometimes when they'd see you before you saw them. They were scolding you for sneaking around in the woods. At least that's what dad said. Hunting a barking squirrel was always fun. Sometimes we'd even employ a squirrel call, trying to temp the little buggers to respond. This was a little wood and rubber device that, when you tapped on the rubber bellows, would make a sound remarkably similar to a squirrel bark. And sometimes, if a nearby squirrel heard it and was incensed enough, he would answer. I never did find out whether he was trying to say 'hello' or he was saying 'get the hell out of my territory'. It was always a chuckle to “talk” one over if you could. They were curious little beasts and would try to investigate what was going on.

If it was a good day we'd get 3 or 4 (or maybe more) squirrels and head on home. Dad always made sure you helped him clean the game you'd harvested. That was part of the bargain of hunting. You only killed what you were going to eat and you didn't waste any of it. He had a good technique for cleaning the game and I use his method even now. After we had cleaned and gutted the carcasses, we'd take them to mom and she'd put 'em in a pot of salted water and let them soak in the 'fridge overnight to, as she'd say, remove the gaminess from them. Then, usually on Sunday for dinner, she'd cut them in pieces, roll them in flour and fry 'em up. Along with mashed potatoes and gravy and peas or string beans.

Don't let anyone tell you that squirrels (and rabbits and pheasants) aren't good eating. They are. Very much so. And they do NOT taste like chicken. Chicken tastes like chicken. Squirrels taste like squirrels. It's a rich, dark meat and quite tasty. We were not a rich family and the extra meat for the table on the weekends was quite welcome. It never went to waste and was an expected autumn meal.

I even remember getting a lead pellet or two of the buckshot in my mouth that we'd missed when cleaning them. It was no big deal to spit it out and keep on eating.

I've often been disgusted when listening to someone complain about the barbarity of hunting, how the taking of an animal's life with a gun was an atrocity and how it should be banned. This conversation usually took place while the complainee was filling his mouth with beef. Or chicken. Or pork.

Don't. Give. Me. That. Crap!

At least the hunter is involved in the ENTIRE food gathering process. He KNOWS where his meat came from. He KNOWS how it was harvested, how it was cared for before cooking. He is aware of the entire cycle of how his meat came to be on the plate before him. He knows that the plastic-wrapped piece of beef in the grocery store was a living and breathing animal not too many days before and he's thankful and aware of its sacrifice to provide him nourishment. He's aware that he's an omnivore and that he eats meat. He's NOT ashamed of it.

Enough said about that. I wanted to tell you a bit about how pleasant it was to go hunting with my dad and didn't actually want to go off on a diatribe against anti-hunters.

I never got to spend much time with dad when I was growing up. He worked a LOT in those days, so it was always a great treat to have him all to myself on our little hunting trips. We could talk or not talk as the mood struck – we were comfortable with both. He could impart fatherly wisdom with his words and his actions. He could teach you the way life operated by the way he humanely harvested a squirrel, the business-like way he cleaned the animal and the enjoyment he took at the dinner table with the game as the guest of honor.

I learned lots and lots from him without a word being spoken.

On several of our last squirrel hunting trips, when he was getting on in years and had some difficulty getting into the woods, I'd make sure to really savor the trip. I knew in my heart that there wouldn't be too many more of them. I cherished every moment out there with him, father and son, sharing a bond that was forged in the primitive mists of time when the first hunter took his son out with him to hunt. Being in the woods early in the morning at the beginning of autumn is every bit as spiritual and breathtaking to me as is a beautiful church or cathedral is on Christmas morning. The quietness of the dawn as black night slides softly into greyness which is then, in turn, slowly overtaken by the coming sun. The first peek of the sun's light as it illuminates the woods from the bottom, moving the shadows back to the west. The finally arisen sun's golden rays shining through the misty green leaves which are sprinkled here and there with the flaming reds and the vivid yellows and oranges of the turning fall leaves. The perfection of everything in its place and in its time.

If heaven exists, I pray that it will resemble Old Farmer McCoy's woods on a sun bejeweled early autumn morning. With dad waiting for me in there next to a shaggy ol' hickory tree.

I'd be content with that.