JAN-A-5
MY “STAY AT HOME” DAY AT NANCY’S
FANCY,
SENDING THE TEAM OUT IN THE PRE-DAWN
UNDER HUNTMEISTER-PROTEM SCHAEFER,
AS I HUDDLE WITH THE RESIDUAL OF THE HUDDLE HOUSE LEGACY:
I ROUSE FOR TWO OUTDOOR FORAYS
THAT TOTAL ONLY SEVEN MINUTES,
DURING WHICH FOUR SHOTS ARE FIRED,
AND FOUR HOGS ARE BRAINED—ON MY “OFF DAY”
Jan. 8, 2002
Welcome to the “Bay of Pigs.”
I felt like one last night, and could hardly have been any better off in my own wallow. It had not got any better, and, if anything, had worsened, when we came back from the opening day hunt. We had not triumphed gloriously in the wilderness venues where we had been staked out, partly because I was a bit under the weather, and did not plow through the “interdune meadows” thoroughly where I had learned to squirt them out in the last years. I have been suffering recurrent crampy abdominal distension, which is causing pain and requiring close proximity to certain facilities generally scarce in wilderness settings. I managed to get everyone deployed again after the afternoon semi-drive which I was worried might lose a few of them; in fact, we flawlessly found both trees that I wanted to have Gene Curletti and me use as our treestands on opening day. We found them perfectly in the dark, but walked past them in the afternoon light, so we had taken up other posts beyond them.
We came home to Nancy’s Fancy, to prepare the lasagna, pre-programmed by Betty Rose, since she is the enabler who knows that Paul does not cook or make such plans, and would be scarfing down junk food if unattended. I could not participate, since I spent some time lying down and groaning, since, I was back into thigh gear in transit time.
This means that with the wholesale quantities of good food we brought along, there will be a huge surplus left over to carry back, since not only did two people we had counted on—Gene Moore and Reg Franciose—not show up, and Don King and Donald did not sign in after I had factored them into our party of ten, we are also missing out on one big eater, who is out of the eating business entirely—me!
Craig had said “No heroics” for me the second day, and as I was popping up every fifteen minutes through the night, I knew I would be taking a “By” on the day’s hunt. I got up at four with everyone, and started toting up the list of thing I had to do during the day—which now also included some serious laundry. I sent them all on their way with a plan to deploy along the Oyster Pond Trail, especially since the two fellows who were there yesterday would not be there again today—we had discovered by giving them a lift back toward Plum Orchard Camp after dark. I went back to bed and woke at about eight thirty.
I started in on my chores, and then said, “This is stupid; here I am in one of the world’s prettier places, and I am toddling along indoors, even if I do get dizzy standing up and am too weak to carry much.” I made plans to make a small sortie outside, which I determined to do when I saw a pair of horses out back, standing so as to take in as much of the sun’s warmth as they could. I put on my running pants and shoes (all others getting the wash and sun dry treatment), and also took the Model 94 Winchester 30/30, which holds 5 shells. I walked slowly through the open woods toward the road in the middle of the island, which accesses Nancy’s Fancy. I encountered a horse skeleton in the palmettos. I walked along the track leading to the cottage, and paused, largely to get stronger after being about four quarts low, and also to let my rumbling gut subside. Then I saw what looked like a bear, ambling through he woods and heading straight toward me.
I was on one knee, watching, as it would trot, then stop, with its nose pointed up in the air. I thought it would bolt, but it would then come forward again and stop suspiciously, and look forward at me. It was now fifty yards away, and I was watching it through the scope of the Winchester with the cross hairs an inch above its right eye. That is precisely where the bullet went, and the hog dumped over, with only a few kicks of its back legs. I waited, and then slowly walked over. I was crouching in front of it, examining that it had a couple of engorged ticks on its ears, despite the cold weather. I heard something behind the palmettos. I looked as an even larger black hog emerged, and stopped, again like the first, suspiciously advancing noiselessly. The rather dull pop of the carbine sent my second bullet precisely where the first had gone, an inch above its right eye, and it fell with a thud. I was going to drag one to the other, and see if I should dress them here on the cold forest floor, but I could not do that since it was too much effort and I was weaker than I had expected to be. I thought I should go back and get the cameras, the field jacket with the knives, dressing gloves, and plastic bags with the tags—but mostly, something with calories into my roaring stomach.
I slowly eased back toward Nancy’s Fancy and saw a small hog running followed by a larger one. I let them both run. I got to the house and tired to eat a few Cheerios and drink some OJ. I had been outside four minutes. As I looked out, I saw the target that the Gibbs and Schaefers had been using against the dune; Gene Curletti and I are hunters, not shooters, so we had not participated in the shooting, but only in cleaning up the spent brass. But the targets were still there. I planned to go out to pick them up.
I went out to the dune, and looked over into the “interdune meadows.” I heard an “oinking” on my right, and saw a dark shape moving the grass on my left. The only thing I saw clearly was an armadillo, flushed by the hog on the left, squirted out onto the sand to get out of the way of the rooting hog. This is the activity they do that is so destructive to vegetation, acting as rototillers. But, even worse, they also destroy over half of the turtle nests to scavenge the eggs of this endangered species, for which the NPS is being sued for failing to control the excess of the hogs and raccoons that are predators of this endangered sea animal, and is one of the reasons that the NPS has another “Hog Eradication Proposal” just now announced on the 13th day of its fifteen day period for public comment. All prior hog control programs have been failures, and the controlled hunts are one way to keep the problem barely manageable.
I saw the grass moving, and the hog on my left was heading toward an area where he might be exposed for just an instant. As his head entered that sandy space, so did my third 30/30 payload, and the hog squealed and thrashed. The squeal brought the other one for the right on the run, to meet my fourth bullet—just over its right eye—and I went back to the house, with one bullet still in the Model 94 Winchester. It was three minutes into my second outdoor excursion of my “off day” confined to home and bathrooms, and I had brained four hogs with four shots.
I went back for a bathroom break and to lay down for a bit, since I must be about five quarts low on any oil check and potassium deficient as well. My cell phone rang. It was Rich. They had deployed along Oyster Pond at dawn and seen nothing, and now they were up at North Cut Trail where there had been action yesterday, but nothing happening today.
I told him that if it was action they wanted, they could come on by and pick up the pork.