Memories

Growing up, I did not hunt.  My dad wasn’t a hunter so I wasn’t.  I did get into fishing even though my dad wasn’t a fisherman either.  We had a cabin in the Smoky Mountains growing up and almost every weekend we were there.  There was a small trout stream that ran in front of it and it was heaven for a kid growing up.  I would get up at day light and go fishing.  Sometimes I wouldn’t make it home till dark. 

I soon made friends with a kid that also liked to fish.  We became best friends.  I would take Mark with me for the weekend and we would fish together all weekend long.  It turns out Mark’s dad was a fisherman and a hunter.  They started taking me fishing on the lake with them.  They had a bass boat and this opened up a whole new  world to me.  Mark’s dad taught me to catch crappie and bass, fish that were foreign to me. 

They also taught me the finer points of jugging and trotlines.  Mark’s dad had a buddy with a barn on the lake.  We would load up on Friday after work and head for the barn.  The barn had a bathroom on one side and a kitchen on the other.  The first thing Mark’s dad would do is send us to the dock to catch some bluegill while he fixed supper.  Our job was to get the bait for the evening’s festivities.  We would catch a mess of bluegill and throw them in a bucket.  Supper usually consisted of some sort of game that had been harvested.  It might be deer, elk, or fish.  After supper, we would prepare the bluegill for the trotlines and jugs.  Trotlines,  for those that don’t know, consist of a long string that is attached to a tree on the bank and the other end was usually attached to a small weight.  Every five or six feet would have a short piece of string attached with a stout hook at the other end.  To this hook we would attach the chunks of bluegills we had prepared.  We would stretch these out from the bank and leave them for later.  Then we would take the jugs and bait them.  Jugs were usually an empty gallon milk container.  We would attach a five foot piece of string to the handle and a stout hook to it.  Again we would place a piece of cut bluegill on the hook and toss these out around the lake.  Usually it was getting dark by then so we would do a little bass fishing until it was good and dark.  Then the real fun would begin. 

Now those of you that have never been frog gigging before, pay special attention.  Those of you that have, you know what I am talking about.  If you have kids, you need to give this a try.  Once it got dark, we would break out the spot light.  We would slowly drive around the lake scanning the bank for the bright lights of a frog’s eyes.  A frog’s eyes will shine brightly with a light in them.  Once a frog was spotted, we would keep the light in their eyes to keep them frozen as we inched in closer.  Mark’s dad would drive the boat in while one of us held the light and the other one grabbed the gig.  A gig is a long stick with a three pronged spear on the end.  The trick was to ease in quietly while keeping the light in the frog’s eyes until you could get close enough to gig or spear the frog.  Once in the boat, we would stick him in the live well and move on down the lake. 

While we searched for frogs, we also checked our trotlines and jugs.  It was always exciting to pull up to a jug that was slowly bobbing along.  We would take turns reaching for the jugs and hoping we had a big one attached.  We were often rewarded with a fat catfish.  This was what we were after.  Sometimes we got more than we bargained for.  Sometimes we would have a big snapping turtle attached.  I never cared for the turtles, they scared me.  Some of those things were huge.  We would stick the turtles in a large garbage can.   We would do the same thing with the trotlines.  Checking each one periodically throughout the night.  I always enjoyed the jugs more for some reason.  Not sure why.

We would frog gig and check our lines until one or two in the morning.  Then we would head back to the barn for a little rest.  I slept some of my best sleeps ever in the loft of that old barn.  There was a stack of old mattresses in the loft and we would drag one out and throw our sleeping bag out on it and sleep listening to the sounds of the night.  Even better if a shower moved in.  Anybody that has slept under a tin roof in the rain knows what I mean here.  It doesn’t get any better than that.  Mark’s dad would wake us up right before day light to go and check the jugs and trotlines one last time.  As we drove around checking them, we would pick them up and store them away for the next trip.  More times than not, we would have a mess of catfish with a few turtles mixed in.  We would head back to the barn for all the cleaning.  Mark and I would be in charge of the frogs.  Our job was to get the frogs out of the live well one by one and cut their legs off.  After we cut all their legs off, we had to skin them.  Mark’s dad was in charge of the turtles.  I won’t even go into how to clean a turtle but I was happy I had the frogs and not the turtles.  We would then clean the catfish.  After everything was cleaned, we would clean things up around the barn and load up to go home.  These trips were some of my fondest memories.

Fast forward a few years and we started high school.  It was here that Mark and his dad introduced me to hunting.  I still remember that first hunt.  Mark called me up and asked if I wanted to go squirrel hunting.  Well that was a stupid question.  Of course I did.  Turns out Mark’s dad was going to do a little fishing and was going to drop us off on the lake to hunt squirrels.  I didn’t have a gun because my dad wouldn’t let me have one in the house because I had three little sisters.  I borrowed one of their shotguns.  I had been shooting with them before and had learned the proper way to do things.  This was the first time I had actually been on my own.   Mark’s dad dropped us off on the side of the lake and said he would be back at dark.  We started up the ridge and it wasn’t long before we saw a little movement off in the distance.  We went into hunting mode.  It wasn’t long before we had snuck close enough for a shot.  Mark let me have the honors.  I still remember the boom and the smell.  To this day, every time I shoot a shotgun and smell the gunpowder, my mind wonders back to that first squirrel hunt.  I love that smell. 

As I approached the squirrel, there was a small part of me that felt sad for the squirrel.  For the most part though, I was excited, my first squirrel.  That is the how I started hunting.  I quickly became obsessed with squirrel hunting.  Mark and I started going every chance we could.  It wasn’t long until we started chasing grouse also.  We never did as well with the grouse as we did with the squirrels but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. 

There is no telling how many miles we hiked chasing those birds.  It wasn’t long before we tried deer hunting.  We decided we were going to use bows instead of guns.  The more we deer hunted, the less we squirrel hunted.  We continued deer hunting and fishing through college and after.  It wasn’t long before life got in the way.  I took a job teaching in a town 2 hours away from Mark.  I would come home on the weekends and we would do a little fishing or hunting.  Every now and then, Mark would come up for the weekend and we fish or hunt at my place.  Then I met my future wife so my trips home became less and less.  Mark met a girl and married her and immediately started a family.  It wasn’t long before I was married and started my family.  It seems like all we do now is talk on the phone about once a month and check on each other.  Every year we plan a trip somewhere and vow that this year we will actually make it happen.  Then life steps in and something comes up and we don’t get to go for one reason or another. 

Why did all this come up?  Sunday after church, my wife wanted to know what my plans were.  I didn’t have a clue.  Out of the blue I announced I was going shopping for a bb gun for the boys.  She didn’t even blink.  “Sounds like a plan to me” she announced.  I really expected a little resistance since the boys are only four and five.  I guess she knew that I wasn’t just going to turn them loose with it.  We found a small gun that fit them and home we headed.  You talk about two excited boys.  They wouldn’t shut up on the trip home.  We got home and grabbed a couple of cans and headed out to the back yard.  We sat down and talked about how to safely handle a gun.  I then showed them how to aim and shoot.  I then let them take turns shooting at the can.  After every shot, they had to go check the cans for holes.  They never hit a can but that didn’t seem to matter to them.  That is all they talked about until they went to bed that night.  I am glad I bought the big container of bb’s. 

I really hope that thirty to forty years from now, when things start to cool off from a long hot summer, my boy’s minds start to wonder.  I hope they get to remember all the fun they had growing up hunting and fishing and hopefully I will still be around to reminisce with them.  I love this time of the year.