Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire A thread for good stories and storytellers.

Just for the lack of non political talk I'm gonna tell y'all a nice story and feel free to add one of your own as a responce.

About 16 years ago I was turkey hunting a 150 acre track of land that my Uncles wife grew up on. It is hard to hunt and if your not in good shape it will just about kill you. It's as we say in sealbilly land steep as a cows face and with lots of very deep hollows and rocky also. So I have tried to kill this gobbling prick all morning and he won't work. I have tried everything I know to do with this bird. I circled around, got above, got in front of, called at, played the silent treatment, scratched in the leaves, only clucked and purred every 30 minutes, tried to bushwhack and waited him out..... Nothing. Around 3 or 4 o'clock I throw in the towel and declare a bird with the brain the size of a damn grape the winner! Before I head back down to the cabin (old run down house that resembles a barn that my aunt grew up in) I get a drink from the spring that is halfway to the top of the ridge then head down the mountain only to stop about 20 yards away to take a leak, spring water is worse than beer I guess. It had rained a lot that spring and in fact it had rained so hard the steeper part of the mountain had no leaves in large strips where water washed them down the ridge. So I was standing on bare ground when I was taking a leak. When I noticed a black handled pocket knife that was all rusty. I pick it up, pry it open and try and make out the brand. I could make out a x, then another x. It was a case sodbuster jr.

So I drive home and call my uncle and low and behold he had lost his knife, a black handled case sodbuster. I clean the knife up with a dremel and sharpen it to a arm shaving edge. I told him when in a couple of weeks we meet to go deep-sea fishing I would return it to him. A couple of weeks pass and we go to Destin Florida to fish the first week that red snapper season is opened and I give it to him and he wouldn't take it. He said you keep it. Now this is the man that took me fishing as a wee lad and the man that took me out in a boat for the first time when I was about 8 or so, it might haseem well been a magic carpet! He also tree a groundhog and I killed it with a bear cub bow, at about age 9, the first kill I ever made. He was there the first time I rode and almost wrecked a motorcycle, it was my cousins litter suzuki 70 with a metal tank. Lets just say I love that old coot like I love my dad.

I carried that knife for 3 or 4 years and found the blade size to be just about perfect and it became my favorite pattern knife. I became afraid I would loose it so I put it up and bought a yellow handled chrome vanadium bladed Jr. I carried it for a few years and lost it. So I got my uncles old knife out just for a day or two till I could go buy a new knife. I go to my dad's old home place that weekend for some bluegill fishing, squirrel hunting and lots of relaxing and to show the younglings the way of proper mountain folk. When I got home it wasn't in my pocket later that evening. I looked in my jeep, I turned the house upside down and looked everywhere. It had disappeared! It made me sick. I was heart broke. My dad and uncle grew up so poor most people can't even comprehend it, so there are no heirlooms to pass down. To me this old knife was a heirloom.

I was at cracker barrel last night having corned beef and cabbage for the first time (quite tasty I might add) and I get a picture messages from my fishing buddy Randy, a young guy who is a hell of a fisherman especially for his age. He had attached a message, did you loose a black handled case knife bat-a-man. He calls me bat-a-man. The picture was of my dear old uncles knife! I had given my young broke buddy a couch about 5 years ago, and it had just made its way down into the floor! Made my day. He's bringing it by on his way to work tomorrow. Crazy, I guess its just ment for me to have that knife. First I find it in the middle of 150 acres of woods then 5 or 6 years in a couch that I gave away.

And my Henry .22 mag small game rifle should be here tomorrow. Happy man I am.

Long story even longer, I'll be putting both in the safe for safe keeping! Again Happy Man I Am!!!

Great Story! Thanks for sharing.

Things have a way of finding their way home sometimes.

I have several that aren't as cool, but just as happy. The ending in each story is the same though, the rabbit lives.

Great story, but IMHO neither of those great heirlooms deserve to be tucked away safe and sound in a locked box. They need to be used and cherished even if it means the risk of losing or damaging one or both.

Bob

Exactly.

If they were never lost there wouldn't be a good story.

My brother and me have hunted together for as long as I can remember in the mountains of Eastern Oregon. This is some pretty big country with huge canyons, breaks, and doug fir, pine of several different types, and just about everything else you can trip on or shoot at at times. There is also some pretty open country, huge meadows, long ridgelines, and lots of cross fencing. Since this is Forest service land for the most part, I believe most of the fencing is to mark the grazing allotments for the ranchers who use it most of the year.

We have always been walkers, especially when were younger when this story takes place. We were walking behind camp to a place to watch for deer that would come up from the river in the morning and bed down in the trees behind camp. The river was at least 2-3 miles away and the trees behind camp were at least a mile away and followed the ridge and rimrock canyon behind camp for several miles in each direction. So, we walked for several miles checking out different canyons for a bit of time before moving on. Sometime on the way out from camp, we crossed a fence in some non descript spot in the middle of a mile long meadow and headed for a distant canyon to watch.

After many miles of walking, glassing canyons, seeing a few deer but nothing close enough to shoot at, we headed back to camp. Along the way, by pure chance we happened to cross that fence in exactly the same location. My brother was crossing and he looked down and said, "look, a wallet". So, he looks inside it to see who it belonged to so he could return it and it just happens to be his wallet. He had apparently dropped it when we crossed that fence in exactly that same place many hours before. Luck doesn't begin to describe that happening considering the amount of ground we had covered that day.
Everything he had at the moment was in that wallet. His driver's license, hunting license, all the cash he owned at the moment, his one or two credit cards, and just about everything he owned as he was going through a rough stretch at the moment.

We've hunted that particular area for over 45 years now and we have lots of great stories about my dad, three brothers, uncles, and acquaintances from that area. Some of them even involve hunting.

Bob

Seal Billy, That's an awesome story. I'm glad it's true!

Yours too Bob. Thanks

The only memento I have of my Dad is his pocket knife, a Scrade-Walden stainless. Locked away for twenty years, I only recently started carrying it.

A good story is a treasure to a share!

Thanks

Sheister, I will pull it out on occasion and be extra careful.

That is beyond happenstance you guys crossed in the same spot and found your brothers wallet. Good story.



WP47, be careful but enjoy the knife. I'm thinking I might put uncles knife in a leather belt sheath with a snap just so I can enjoy it but keep it secured.

Sup, Kwood. How you been dear sir?

Indeed about the stories, I had rather hear a good story told by a good teller than watch the best TV show. Though TV is ok when a man's tired or its raining. I know you have a good story to tell.

Best to ya.

Good story Seal Billy.

I've got you one and I swear its true.

Howard was a houndsman. He lived in a different time than us. A much simpler time. His hounds were his life. He hunted them year round. They would trail whatever Howard was hunting from Squirrel to deer. If Howard wanted to hunt coon they run coon. If he wanted to hunt rabbit they run rabbit.The hounds lived off of what they and Howard could catch and kill. Mostly wild hogs. Howard had a big cast iron pot on a fire that he kept going all the time. He would throw a hog in it and let it cook. He fed the dogs from the pot. Howard had cattle panels on his truck bed. He hauled his dogs in it. It's said he could open the tailgate and call one particular dog and that would be the only one that would unload. Deer were pretty scarce in Howards country then. There was a huntable population but because of the low number of deer still hunting for them was tough. So most hunting for them was done with hounds. One day some guys killed a deer. They cut a leg off and carried it to a dirt road that alot of deer hunters used. They used the foot to make tracks across the road. As deer hunters come down the road they would find the tracks and turn the hounds out. Naturally they couldn't run it. Hunters being hunters it soon became a contest to see who's dog would take the track. They werw getting a big kick out of it when someone thought of Howard. They sent for Howard with word that a good buck had been seen crossing the road and they wanted him to turn his dogs loose on him. When Howard arrived he he inspected the tracks. He went and dropped the tailgate and called for his best tracking hound. The hound sniffed around some but would not take the track. Howard unloaded a couple of more dogs. It didn't help. The guy's started ribbing Howard about his dog's and he began to get upset. There was no track that his dogs could not trail. He unloaded them all. He walked out through the bushes in the direction that the tracks pointed hooting and hollering to encourage the dogs. Still nothing. The guys in the road were laughing and hollering at Howard. Finally Howard had had enough. He grabbed the nearest dog which just happed to be his track dog and began putting a whipping on him to write home about. After a couple of minutes the dog began barking. Howard let go and the dog left a running just like he was on a fresh track. After a few kicks and alot of cussing the whole pack joined in. They run that imaginary deer out of hearing range. Howard announced to the astonished pranksters that his dogs would take any trail.
Ab was Howards hunting partner. They spent a many a day and night listening to those dogs. One thing they really loved to do was hunt bobcats. So one morning as soon as it got light enough to see they were in the truck, dogs loaded up in the cattle bed and tracking the roads for cat tracks. Soon they found what they were looking for and the race was on. Now bobcats will run a long ways before treeing and some may not tree at all. So Howard and Ab would usually spread out on a road and try to shoot the cat as it crossed. That's what they did this morning. Howard dropped Ab off and drove around a curve in the road and got on stand himself. The dogs were coming right for them and could cross on either side of the curve. Both men were ready. The dogs got closer and Howard realized that they were probably going to cross on Ab's side of the curve but he stayed alert just in case. Soon it sounded as if the dogs were right on top of Ab. Howard wondered why he had not heard Ab shoot. Then he saw Ab come running around the curve just as hard as he could run. By now Howard could tell that the dogs were very close to crossing the road exactly where Ab was supposed to be. What on earth is Ab doing he wondered. As Ab approached Howard he never let up but continued running right past Howard. But as he run by he hollered "Run Howard run! It's a gawd damned bear!" Howard didn't know what had come over his partner because there were no bears in this country at that time. Rumors of bears were heard from time to time but Howard had never come across one in all his expeditions in the southern Mississippi forest. He got Ab stopped and questioned him about what he'd seen. Ab reported that a bear
had crossed the road just a few yards from where he had been standing . Howard didn't know what to think of this so around the curve they went and sure enough there were what had to be bear tracks in the road. As I said earlier Howard was a houndsman and any smart houndsman always has some fresh dogs in the truck. Howard turned these fresh hounds out on the track to put some heat on the bear. It worked and soon they heard baying. When they got to the baying hounds the bear was up a longleaf pine. Howard had a 20 Guage shot gun with number 1 buckshot. He shot the bear and he fell out of the tree. It was dead when it hit the ground. Later Ab said he believed the fall actually killed the bear. They went for help to get the bear out of the woods and the word traveled fast that howard had killed a bear. Back at Howards house he had the bear tied up on the cattle panels on the truck hanging head down. People were coming from all over the county to see the bear. People couldn't believe it. Quite a crowd was gathering up and Howard was feeling pretty proud of himself when his son drove up. Howards son was the local game warden. When Howard saw him he went to meet him. Son he says you ain't going to believe this but I done killed a bear! Buddy walked over to the truck where the bear was hanging and inspected it closely. Then henturned to Howard and said "Your right I can't believe it but you surely did kill a bear. Now I'm going to have to write you up". Howard was confused "write me up? For what?"
"For killing an endangered species." Buddy told him. "It's against the law to kill bears in Mississippi."
He began filling out the ticket. Howard was furious. People were grumbling and shouting their disapproval. Buddy handed Howard the ticket. Howard saidto him "How was I supposed to know it's against the law to kill bears when I didn't even know we had bears."

That's a hoot.

Here is an episode from the long ago days of my youth I put together into a story told from my younger brother's perspective:

Lessons From A Groundhog

The first Saturday in June 1981 dawned full of promise and potential. You see this was the first day of summer vacation. The recently completed school year had been a tough one. Second grade had been a big change from kindergarten and first grade. We had to sit in desks instead of around large tables, read books, practice our handwriting, and worst of all we had to actually do real homework. Our teacher, Mrs. Ruth Halsey, was a real grouch too. Forty years before the chalkboard had soured her on life. She just did not understand the boundless energy of modern youth. All Mrs. Halsey seemed to want to do was constantly tell us that, “children your age in my day were far more studious and industrious” or vehemently declare, “you children have more fidgets than an ant farm” and “if you all don’t be still, I am going to hang you up and let you wiggle to death.” Thankfully, I had escaped this grumpy old taskmaster by being promoted to the third grade with a final report card that read two A’s, three B’s and one C.

As I climbed out of bed and got dressed, the house was a beehive of activity. A faint honeysuckle scented breeze quietly crept through the screen of the open window and softly rustled the thin rose pattern curtains my mother had insisted, “were much nicer than those awful black things with Darth Vader on them.” The sounds of giggling and growling came from the direction of the carport where my five year old sister, Sherri, was teasing her Australian shepherd/beagle mix puppy, Puddles, with an old rag. Pots and pans were clanging and the smell of bacon frying filled the kitchen as my mother made breakfast. In the living room, I heard my father preparing to leave for his half day Saturday shift as a band saw operator at the local Kincaid Furniture plant reminding my thirteen year old brother, Shannon, to be sure to, “get the yard mowed before I get home from work.” I had just sat down at the dining room table with my plate of bacon and pancakes and started to mentally debate whether the morning would be spent watching the Roadrunner and Scooby Doo cartoons or terrorizing my little sister and pestering my big brother when it happened.

A blood curling yowl of, “NO!” followed by the sound of the big galvanized mop bucket crashing into the washing machine erupted from the laundry room. At first I was not unduly concerned, figuring that Puddles had puddled all over mother’s clean laundry again and had knocked over the bucket as he made good his escape from mom’s limber peach limb switch. This indifference disappeared in a flash when I heard the laundry room door open and saw my mother running across the yard swinging a broom over her head like a Maori war club. Afraid that mom had finally flipped and was going to attack the neighbor’s jackass, I left my second pancake in mid-bite and charged out the laundry room door in hot pursuit closely followed by my sister with Puddles bringing up the rear. My brother saw all the commotion and stopped the lawn mower and came running up from the lower end of the front yard. We caught up with mother just in time to see the cause of this ruckus disappearing over the crest of the bank into a kudzu patch. A serious situation was at hand. A huge, fat groundhog had been caught raiding the garden.

The garden was one of mother’s greatest joys in life ranking just slightly behind her husband and children in importance. She spent many long hours carefully planting and tending all sorts of vegetables across the near one half acre rectangle of rich black and red dirt. Mom even reserved the southern corner just for flowers and a small stand of fresh herbs. Trespassing in or trampling on any part of the garden brought a swift and certain reckoning. Violators could expect no less than five stripes from the limber “hickory switch” that hung above the laundry room door. Not even Puddles was dumb enough to mess with the garden.

When my father got home from work we informed him about the morning’s events. Dad sat silently and considered the dire news of the groundhog as he finished his cheeseburger and dill pickle. Once the large bowl of banana pudding was polished off he spoke to my mother about a course of action. “Honey, don’t worry so about the garden. After supper this evening, I will go down to the back of the garden and see if I can catch this old whistle pig and shoot him.” My mother’s reaction to dad’s proclamation caught everyone by surprise. She said, “No, I don’t want you to shoot the groundhog. Find some other way to get rid of it.” In a few minutes the shock from mom’s reaction wore off and dad spoke up with a plan. ”Boys, you can help me find a way to run the groundhog off. We’ll get started right after supper.”

My brother and I spent the time between lunch and supper looking for ways to rid the family of the marauding marmot. It seemed as if we looked through my dad’s entire expansive collection of Sports Afield, Outdoor Life, and Field & Stream for information on getting rid of groundhogs. Despite our best efforts no help was found. We discovered plenty of articles about bagging an elk in Colorado or tracking a muskox through the frozen barrens of the Northwest Territories but the closest we came to a groundhog was an article in Sports Afield about using noisemakers to scare off alfalfa eating ground squirrels in the hay fields of Eastern Oregon. We reported our findings to dad and after a bit of thought he determined the noisemakers might be worth a try. By the time the sun set on that first day of summer vacation the garden was completely surrounded by a diverse collage of abandoned Coke bottles, used Vienna sausage cans, and crumpled aluminum pie plates held in place by baling wire and a length of old clothesline.

Unfortunately, all our work and planning were for naught. Shortly after breakfast on Sunday morning a great clattering and clanging arose from the garden. The family immediately rushed out see what had happened. We arrived just in time to see the interloping rodent disappear into the kudzu with a mouthful of mother’s tender baby carrots and our carefully constructed noisemaker barrier lying in a tangled heap in the middle of the newly bloomed green beans. Over the remainder of the summer my brother, dad, and I tried various other gambits to catch or drive off the groundhog. Nothing worked, not even a two pronged pincer assault through the kudzu patch with Red Ryder BB guns or box traps baited with baby carrots and fresh turnips. By the time school started on the first Monday in September 1981 even my mother had resigned herself to defeat and told us to, “quit worrying about the garden and leave that darned old groundhog alone.” Rather than being defeated, I learned a lot from that wily woodchuck. I learned to not let things get in your way and stay determined to reach your goals even if all the world seems to be against you. Quite simply, never give up.

The groundhog remained a constant fixture around our place every summer until we moved away three years later. He became ever more brazen and tricky constantly foiling all our best efforts to catch or drive him off. I think mother even came to love and respect the audacity of that hoary old rascal. Our last encounter with him came on the very day we were loading the last bits of furniture on to the moving van. We heard a noise from the direction of the garden and caught a glimpse of the source going over the bank into the kudzu with a clump of sugar beets clenched in his teeth.

Doin' ok. Leaving in a bit for a long needed getaway. Seems it's time for our annual hog hunt. Buch of us been at this since '83. I missed last year.

Ive got stories. But they are for the real campfire! Can't type em on on this phone. Take forever!

Best wishes to all!

Bob

Really enjoyed these Guys, Thanks!

Groundhogs were once eaten by poor folks around here. I have never ate one but i would try it. Sugar beat feed ground hog with dressing and cooked potatoes. Might be good.

The Hide


As I sat in my hide, I wondered at the source of the sweat running down the back of my shirt. Was it from the merciless sun beating down from the cloudless blue sky, or was it apprehension caused by the words of the guide regarding my quarry? They are pugnacious and can be down right vicious when wounded or cornered.
I tried to remain focused as I sat waiting, knowing from my research that I would only get a brief glimpse of my quarry and I would need to be ready if I was going to get a shot. Constantly surveying the empty landscape was taking its toll and my mind would wander to all sorts of mundane topics that were merely distractions to the purpose which had led me here. Each time I would soon realize what had happened and snap my attention back to the task at hand. As I swept my gaze around me, something [bleep] at my subconscious. One sweep, two, and a third, before it began to dawn on me that something out there had changed! Slowly I swept my gaze across the sea of grass, studying each detail until I identified that which had piqued my interest. It soon became apparent that there was a new color out on the grass.
My pulse quickened as the amount of sweat increased as I focused on this new feature. The preparatory thoughts went through my mind as it began to become clear that a shot might soon be imminent. Weapon loaded? Weapon cocked? Safety position? Clear background? Is everything ready and in order? There’s nothing to do now except concentrate on that one spot and wait for the quarry to show itself.
THERE! A quick movement on the left side of that spot. And just as quickly nothing. But that’s the way it starts. Showing itself briefly then disappearing just as fast. He’ll show himself again in just a moment. There! Movement and some grey. And gone once more. I slowly bring the rifle up, this next showing will most probably be the last. He’ll be up longer this time, but only just long enough for the shot if I’m already on the spot where he will appear. Waiting and waiting, I’ve been waiting for so long for this moment. The final moment where it will either all pay off and make the heat the bugs worthwhile, or will the excitement get to me and I’ll rush the shot and blow it and have to suffer the humiliation of a missed opportunity? From somewhere deep in the primordial core I feel the moment. I haven’t seen my quarry this time, but I know he is going to appear right there, and right now. I align the sights and start the trigger squeeze, and just like that there is his head right above the front sight. The last bit of pressure on the trigger and the rifle spits. The 22cal pellet flies at nearly 1000fps and hits the gopher right in the head.
One less hole digging pest in the yard.