Debacles In The Area

To be (wet) or not to be (drenched, rinsed and wrung)…

That weren’t even the question. The question was whether or not to go hunting. Come to think of it, that ain’t much of a question either, is it?

Problem was, severe storms were allegedly “in the area.” Just where is that, exactly, “in the area?” And what is the penalty for—just once—kicking a would-be weatherman “in the area?” I ain’t never been behind bars—officially—but a couple of days might be worth it…

Just treat me like Andy does Otis and leave the key in place; I’ll mosey on out when I feel that justice has been served. OK; time’s up.

The root of this entire discussion/question/dilemma is that I don’t get enough time in the woods with my son, Myles. Since he packed up and moved 150 miles—those blondes again!—from my front door, we don’t get to hunt together over four or five days… a week!

Nowhere NEAR enough; capisce? And at this particular moment in time, we’re cogitating on whether or not to make the quarter-mile jaunt, on foot, to our starting point. To an area that we’re sincerely hoping is not within THE area. Which, last we heard, is north of the nearest town. The one we’re 10 miles south of. Just how big is this area, anyhow?

To further complicate matters, Myles’ thinking on the subject is exactly the same as mine: if we get an opportunity to hunt together, done deal! Besides, them whitetails tend to do quite a bit of skedaddling ahead of changing weather.

Let’s go head one off…

Occasions such as this tend to make my ruminatin’ bone go to itchin’ so I started thinking back over a lifetime of making addled decisions when it comes to the outdoors. I mean, I’ve been wet before…

Like the time me’n Johnny Fountain decided we were going camping, redneck style. Plan was to comprehensively ignore dire warnings of things “in the area” and drape a tarp over ladder racks in the bed of my ‘64 Ford pickup; crawl into sleeping bags under said tarp; arise before dawn and harvest a pair of 14-pointers.

Now I ask you, what could be simpler than that? 

(We wound up frying tailgate rabbit on a propane Winchester stove, under that hurriedly maladjusted tarp in a driving rain and “sleeping” in the cab. And who wants to kill a stupid deer anyway?)

If there are degrees of wetness, my 10 on the scale came on the Oconee River. It, too, involved a son—Dylan—who tried in vain to  talk sense into my brainbox.

“Daddy,” he said safe at home via phone, “there’s some pretty bad stuff in the area; you better get yourself off that river.”

Hey, he tried! But how do I pack up and leave after catching two stripers in 10 minutes that weighed 15 and 30 pounds?

When the lightning started, my fellow piscatorial lunatic and I dashed to the bank; when the deluge opened up, we began sinking into ankle-deep mud. Soon, it was mid-calf, and the river was visibly rising, the only time I’ve ever witnessed that happenstance.

The options were to pull back under some tall lightning-attracting trees or crawl into the aluminum boat and dodge bolts for 2 miles back to the truck. No, thanks; besides, I can’t get wetter.

It got pretty hairy, but I still think those two fish were worth it…

So, Myles, let’s start walking…

We quietly chatted our way across a pasture, thinking for sure we’d need only a half-hour or so to get the job done. Skies were not ominous, except for maybe a few miles to the north. We even had a little sunshine peeking through now and then, no rain.

Bottom line was that had I believed there was even a hint of danger, I would never have involved my youngest knucklehead. But even with all my experience, I’d never seen anything like this.

For starters, it’s never a good thing to HEAR rain before you SEE it. We had no more than picked out a spot to set up a ground blind when the roar of downpour came racing across the pasture we had traversed minutes before.

Up until this instant, there had been NO wind, NO rain, NO lightning. ZERO warning. In the time it took to look into each other’s eyes, literally, we knew it was time to hustle. And before breaking eye contact, we were soaked through.

I can tell you, boys, there are pleasanter things than dashing through rain blowing sideways, wind threatening to pick you up and hurl you backward—and watching your son going through the same firebolt-lit ordeal.

I mean, I’ve been a big dummy all my life, and Daddy taught me a long time ago that if you’re going to be dumb, you gotta be tough. Don’t remember EVER being scared for ME; but Myles is a very large part of me. Different matter.

Halfway to the truck, hail made its debut; when I reached the vehicle, a few steps behind Myles, I couldn’t open the door because of the screaming wind. He was forced to push from the inside. Ten minutes later, back at his home, things were as peaceful and sunny as a spring morning…

A local old hand told me that in his lifetime he had seen that type of straight-line-wind storm but three times, and this was the worst. It blew a door and all the windows out of a shop just the other side of that pasture, and there was quite a bit of surrounding damage.

Look close for that kind of stuff “in the area.” 

But when it comes to hunting and fishing, I ‘spect I’ll just get wet again… 

Order your copy of Daryl Gay’s books, “Rabbit Stompin’ And Other Homegrown Safari Tactics,” $19.95 plus $3 S&H and “Life On the Back Page,” $14.95 plus $3 S&H from www.darylgay.com or 16 Press, 219 Brookwood Drive, Dublin, GA, 31021.