JAN-A-7
THE CUMBERLAND ISLAND HUNT 2003,
WITH THE DAILY DEPLOYMENT OF SEVEN HUNTERS
IN PURSUING HOGS,
THE EVENTUAL SCORE IN THE BEAUTIES OF
CUMBERLAND WILDERNESS,
AND EVENINGS CONSUMING THE VENISON PRODUCTS
OF MY MARYLAND HUNTS—
A GOOD TIME WAS HAD BY ALL!
Jan-6—8, 2003
We had toured the island and shown the first-time visitors some of the features of this secluded paradise, and now began the serious process of hog hunting. The sign-in process was very different from previous years with quite different personnel. A young fellow named Nick Towers was at the station and had picked up my message which I had left at the station the previous day, pointing out to me that it was addressed to the long-time regulars of Cumberland Island, none of whom re her now. I had seen Rene, whose birthday comes along at the time of our hog hunts, and I had brought her some pictures of her before and a birthday note. She said that after thirty years, she is no longer working the hunts. But, she asked me to request of the chief ranger who will be managing the hunt for a slide show on Cumberland Island and she would come up and give it—on Tuesday night, as it turned out. I had turned in each of our licenses, and he said to me—you have been here so often before, you have no need to show up at the orientation briefing, since you could probably give it yourself. In answer to any question, he said “You have Retained Rights—you can do anything you want to do.” This was in response to my offering to pick up hunters or their hogs, since the NPS is no longer allowed to make the seep and carry in the hogs hunters shoot and deliver them to the cold room. He said he left the cold room on 24/7 year-round, since if it ever broke down it would not be fixed or replaced. They were almost casual about the rules and regulations of the hunt, which is such a hotly contested issue, despite it being congressionally mandated as a part of the deal with the original donors to the NPS. He just said to me to tell my hunters the rules they are expected to follow, and offer anyone help if they need it, and he would neither suggest it nor request it.
We went back to Nancy’s Fancy and had one more venison feast, which everyone agreed was the best of the venison they had head—since it is fresh corn-fed Maryland deer well-processed by the meat cutter we used when we turned in my deer last month. We did not return for the customarily mandatory orientation, and the rangers there told of what they saw as the future of the hunts---they were implementing a three-year hog eradication program, and they would be less disposed to help out the hunt, which is supposed to be all done by hiking in without a wheel to support the hunters since the designation wilderness means no road, no electricity, and no wheel allowed. The presence of Plum Orchard mansion and the camp is annoying to some folk who want the cold room and facilities removed, and they ant to poison and use dogs in an attempt at hog eradication The hunt will be changing for many, and rather fortunately, less for us, since the magic phrase “Retained Rights” keeps popping up.
Of the 100 permits released, only 57 hunters showed up, since a number of them—including a number of my own teams---Paul Gibbs, Donald King, Donald Geelhoed, and Russell and Christian Elwell are reserved no-shows.
So,
as coveted as this unique and privileged opportunity is for whatever limited
time future, I am going to protect the future for us with a careful triage of
those requesting the joining on in, since no one once participating is ever
going to say they had done it once without wanting to do it again “every year”
as one of the “
regulars” displacing others who have also wanted badly to join in.
MONDAY: OPENING DAYOF THE HOG HUNT
We are able to get further north than most of the walk-in fellows from Plum Orchard Camp, so I had scouted the areas that we can get to that they cannot, and planned to deploy my hunters around the area of Oyster Pond, including my favorite tree stands. At 4:15 AM we got up, and had breakfast, as well as packing a lunch. My new backpack/folding stool combo fell apart before it was even used on its first day, so I carried what I would need and shoulder slung the SKS Craig had loaned, while Reg borrowed my big 44 Magnum Hog Pistol. I managed to make it through the dark to the narrow “eye of the needle” to get over the Oyster Pond—with a lot of water in it this year unlike the last several years, as we had also noted that the InterDune Meadows were flooded. I deployed folk around the open pines, and brought Gene Moore back passing my big five hundred year old live oak with all its festoons of Spanish Moss and draping of ferns and other saprophytes. He managed to climb up into the tree at the corner after falling out of it on the first try, until I braced a “ladder” against the tree. He did not see much on the first morning, and neither did I.
We rendezvoused to get the lunch and a chance to go up to South Cut Trail and show the Dunes and the Swallowed Hardwood Forest, where we can walk through the canopy and look down into the flooded Inter Dune meadows. I took Gene out to the beach and looked into the freshwater pond that drains into the ocean directly. As I crossed around it in the bright, but not yet warm, sun, I saw what looked like an old tire casing along the bank, but it was glistening and shiny bright. I looked again, and made out a giant alligator, between twelve and fourteen feet long. He splashed under water when we came closer, but then circled around and reappeared, then dosed into a nap, as I took his picture.
We returned to deploy for the night. I put Gene in the same tree, and went up the tree I like best. As dark came over the marsh, I heard noise emerging from the water side ands tried hard to see through the brush at the margin. I finally saw the movement, and six big hogs came out and ran quickly along the leaves one directly under my tree limb, being screened by the thick limb I was perched on. I looked left, and a grey hog had emerged, and paused—as the SKS was centered on it. At the sound of the shot, the hog squealed loudly and swapped ends, thrashing back into the marsh. It was now almo0st six o’clock and too dark to see well, but a big black hog came over a patch of leaves and I had the scope there when it darkened the view. At the sound of the shot, he collapsed.
It was so dark; I could here him thrashing down in the leaves, but could no longer see him. I waited only a few minutes longer in the tree, then thought of the irony of my weaponry. When I had carried the muzzle loader at the time of the “primitive arms” hunt, I had worried that I only had one shot, and that at a shorter range than a modern forearm. I was eager to have a weapon that could shoot many rounds if I had encountered a herd of pigs. Two years ago, I had borrowed the weapon I now carried, Craig’s SKS with a scope, which has a clip of more than 20 rounds, which should have been a good assault weapon for taking on a whole herd of pigs and spraying in their direction. But, as noted before, I am a hunter, not a shooter, and I thought back to two years ago when I had carried this weapon up the same tree, and had fired one shot each at two different hogs, each of which seemed to think that quite sufficient. Last year I carried my 30/30 Winchester, and I fired four shots at four hogs, each of which were hit in the identical lethal place. But, the others on the hunt, had seen the results of the SKS, and Rich had gone out and bought one, (and sprayed at a group of hogs o n the first day, not connecting), and also David was carrying one. But, for me, it might just as well have been my muzzle-loader, since, like the only shots fired at hogs with the smoke-pole, it was quite sufficient. That is why I said to Gene when a whole burst of shots rang out “the more shooting, the fewer hogs taken.”
When I got out of the tree, it was so dark, I did not go over to where the hog had been lying, but went first to retrieve Gene from his tree, since we were late for our rendezvous time. He asked what the shooting was about, and I said, “Two shots, two hogs, but I did not go over to retrieve either, one of which headed directly into the impenetrable swamp. We will go over now and have a look.” When Gene and I went back there, I could see where the ground was all torn up by the flailing hoofs, but it was at the edge of the heavy palmettos, and I could not see in that direction, even with the headlight. We would look again in the morning after the hunt.
We hiked out to the4 Ford Ranger, where the guys had assembled, and all but Sage had not even heard the shots. Several were envious of my being the one, who had scored, but I have shot a lot of hogs and had hoped one of those who was either a newcomer or first timer might have been the one. We drove back to Nancy’s Fancy for the preparation of a big pasta feast, this one using the “mild venison sausage” I had specified in my order at Jim’s Custom Meat Cutting in Maryland. All remarked about the large volume of venison we have been eating, that it is the best tasting ever, probably sue to its being fresh, and corn fed Eastern Shore Maryland deer—well prepared. Gene said it was the first venison he had ever had which did not have even a touch of the gamy taste, and Sage—and Eastern Shore farm boy combiner, said it was the first venison he had ever had! So, the product of one hunt has made a big hit in the second. There is a curiosity about how the hogs of Cumberland score in the pork department, and at least one order for the wild boar from James Quigley, Keith Carr’s associate, for a Game Dinner he wants to contribute to. So, we will have to take back at least one large quantity of wild pig in the cooler Craig has carried down with his truck loaded with venison one direction, and the hoped for hog in the other directions, probably to return to the same Jim’s Custom Meat Cutting service as our deer were processed through.
DAY TWO OF THE HOG HUNT:
FIRST SCORES EVER BY THE SCHAEFERS:
CRAIG IN A PAIR OF PIGLETS IN THE MORNING
AND DAVID IN A GOOD BOAR IN AFTERNOON
. I had staggered around a little in finding my way in the dark to the big tee I always use, since it is hard to “thread the needle” in the dark. I had dropped Craig and the two boys up at South Cut Trail, and brought the others around to the Oyster Pond Trail, and throughout my hunt, I had never encountered any other hunters, since it is too far to walk up from Plum Orchard Camp and too far to hike down from the Brick Kiln Camp, especially if one has to anticipate dragging a hog back in the dark. I put Gene in my favorite tree, and I went to his, but, up two limbs higher. It was cold, and we were each uncomfortable in cur lofty perches. But, early in the morning, before it was light at all, I heard a big bunch of hogs, smaller that the “Six minus Two” I had seen last night, and could aubit sight different sounds from them. By the time the first glimmer of light had come in a half hour later, I could see only where they had been rooting around, but no sign of any that had stayed. In deer hunting from a tree stand, one often sees a deer standing like a statue, that has simply appeared, and then disappears, but hogs are always moving, and give out few standing shots at them. They were in a cuprous approach avoidance posture at the spot in the leaves where Gene and I had peed the day before, so they seemed curious but scared by the scent.
I had a chance about ten minutes later to observe the difference in the approach of hogs and deer. A large very brown deer appeared almost immediately under the tree. He waited, then sniffed, and then ran off, alarmed by the same urine scent the hogs had been skittish around.
A half hour later, I was peering around the Spanish Moss to see what was making somewhat more noise than the ubiquitous busy little prehistoric armored cars, the armadillos (which I was now encountering in pairs) when a fat raccoon emerged, and jumped up on the second tree of my stand, the one I put my foot on to get up ion t my primary tree. I startled him into a full flight fall from the tree by a maneuver he encountered in midstream.
A second deer appeared this one smaller and tanner colored. I then saw a movement, and two piglets came out of the palmettos, and a large crashing noise was behind them. I waited for the bigger hog to emerge, but did not see it, although it was heading in Gene’s direction, and the little piglets followed. The NPS position is to shoot all hogs of any size3 or sex, since each one of them represents a threat to the environment in general and the turtles in particular. I have not shot at piglets, but, as you will see, Craig had the chance this same morning. When I had dropped him off at the South Cubit Trail this morning two hours before light, I had shined a big hog with two spotted piglets in the headlights, standing on the property of the Retained Rights folk opposite the South Cut Trail. “Do you want me to shoot them?” clamored Rich eagerly from the back. He is eager to get beyond his score of one hog one time on his second day of the first time he has been out here, but I will not jeopardize any part of the sensitive regulations that govern this delicate privilege to hunt here.
When we picked up Craig, he had two spotted piglets—which looked remarkably like those seen early pre-dawn. He had an apple core in the mouth of one for the pictures.
We made a wide sweep through the open pine forest of the central island hardwood ridge, and saw sign where the hogs had torn things up for the acorns and tubers, but saw nothing except one horse one time. But the sun had warmed up so that Gene and I could stop along the still hunt and take a traditional forest floor nap. We returned to Craig and talked there for a while before I gathered up a few of the fellows, leaving the Schaefers in the same position where David got luck an hour after we had left. I took Reg and Gene down to Oyster Pond and put Gene in my favorite tree and Reg in the one I had been up high in this morinng, and neither saw anything from them. I was down the area further in a new tree, and at dusk, turned to see emerging from the direction of some hog-like sound, a big brown horse, one of the products of the release of Lucy Ferguson’s stables into the wild. These were blooded horses, Tennessee Walkers, Thoroughbreds, and Appaloosas and now they are reverted to wild type, from the naturally selected breeding of the stallion’s duels on the beach, clobbering each other with hooves in battles for breeding on the beach sand---not too different from the teen crowd at Ocean City kicking sand in each others’ faces.
Sage had seen something on the mud flats when it was too dark to shoot, so he had shot in that direction and wanted to check it out by flashlight, so Reg, Rich and he stayed there as I went back to retrieve the Schaefers who I had thought would be out on the road walking toward the truck . That they were not, meant the ate single shot I had heard about 4:30 PM followed (unfortunately, I thought) by a rapid stream of other shots—usually signifying misses—might just mean that they were dragging something. When I got to South Cut Trail, I saw them in the lights, and Craig explained that this is exactly what had happened. He had had a good talk with David after I had left them, and after he had separated he heard a shot from David’s direction. He debated at first, and then decided to go over to see what had happened when the barrage occurred. A large black boar had suddenly appeared fifty yards from David, and it had fallen with a single shot, but then kicked a bit and David did not want anything to suffer. Craig and David then dragged it all the way to the South Cut Trail where we picked it up, dragging it in a trash bag to make it easier to slide along. We picked it up and put it in the truck to David’s great elation. “Four years I have been hunting hogs in Cumberland, and this is my first score!” he said. So, we picked up the others at Oyster Pound Trail to the great envy of all when they saw the sharp tusks of this young boar, and drove to Plum Orchard camp picking up several more hunters who were very grateful for the ride, especially one who was dragging a small hog. David participated in the process of gutting and skinning the hog after the weigh-in at 130 pounds, and I had asked Rene, who no longer works the hunts, to come up for a Cumberland island slide show, particularly for those like Gene who had not been here before, to se the island and its history. It was a good show, and gave just enough time to have three of the guys who skipped the show finish skinning and dressing the4 hog for the cooler—which, in contrast to prior years, had very few hogs hanging in it. It is probably not just that they are getting scarcer or smarter, but also that the hunters are discouraged, and may simply shoot them for control, particularly in the deep interior of the island, since there is no easy way to get them out.
We had a late venison dinner, and made plans for an early hunt around the schedule Rich was very alarmed to see, since the ferry we had at 3:30 reserved for all of us was a half hour after his flight left from Jacksnville, so we would carry him there after deploying the rest for a morning hunt, carrying the trash up to Plum Orchard and the hog back in the cooler.
DAY THREE—A FINAL MORNING HUNT—
PACKING OUT AND A GLORIOUS RUN
As we left in the morning, a big and beautiful buck jumped across the road in the headlights right at Nancy’s Fancy, with a wide spread eight point racks. I later found that he had gone down to the ocean surf line by his tracks. We deployed on a very cold morning, but pulled out early, no one having seen any hogs, but we did see a good flock of turkeys, bronze and beautiful toms in the sun.
I dropped off the guys at Nancy’s Fancy and picked up Rich to get him to the Lucy Ferguson 10:45 AM departure, and scrambled back with a plan in mind. The sun was warming up, so much so, that now I coluld use Nancy’s Fancy for what most people usually do here as opposed to these weird guys who get up and out before dawn, coming back long after sunset. As I packed up, Craig made omelets of our abundant eggs and ham and cheese stocks. I had got so much groceries that we would be leaving a bunch for Liz McComis. When Reg had called by cell phone, and asked if there was anything we would need, Rich had said we would be needing snacks and beer, both of which he thought we would be running out of! Right! We had so much beer we had to leave a case or more, and snacks that could not be used by an army. We all had a n omelets from Craig’s special “Schaefer sauce” and then went out on the deck to snooze or watch the horses on the beach, or what I had wanted to do—and did.
I got shorts and tee shirt and the last miles of the Reeboks, and went out to the sand to await Gene Moore as I took pictures of Nancy’s Fancy with a horse in the InterDune Meadows in the foreground. I did not see Gene emerge, and I knew he would be having and arthroscopy next week which might change his long-running career (after a harrowing ordeal with three cystoscopies and a catheter with a leg bag for eight days for something found later to be only “marathoner’s bladder” hyperplasia) ---so, I set out on a run in the sun north wards on the beach at the surf line among the shore birds---and no one else.
I had a glorious run, and did not stop until I came to a large tree that was washed by the surf on the vast sand flats, barnacle encrusted and isolated, near the exit of the South Cut Trail. I stalked over with my little camera to where I had seen the gator in freshwater pool, and ---there he was! He was fully out on the sand soaking up the solar energy, and I took a few more pictures of the first big gator I have seen on Cumberland Island.
I ran back, crossing only cat tracks, and hog tracks, and a few horse prints. For fifteen miles, I had no evidence of any human visit to Cumberland Island. The only house facing the Atlantic is the Nancy’s Fancy I had left at the start, and it is set back so far it would be easy to miss. So, I had an el primo Atlantic beach at the right time and place, and ran it well for another hour. I finally saw Gene come out and up the beach, and had found a giant razor clam for his collection, a very delicate shell, so we saved it wrapped in tissue. I also promised him a sharks tooth, and ran toward Nancy’s Fancy only to have Reg emerge. He was eager to run a little on the beach, so as Gene went in, I continued South with Reg. We ran to Greyfield Beach, and there encountered six horses, four mares and two stallions in the interdune meadows.
The two stallions were sparring with each other and kicking after rearing high up as the mares appeared disinterested in the outcome. I then walked up the road and found the Shark’s tooth I had promised Gene and came back to shower and final pack to make our reluctant departure from Nancy’s Fancy and Cumberland Island---treasure upon this earth.