A “Bad” Season

It is just after sunup Jan. 14, 2021. I find myself sitting at the dining room table, computer screen aglow in front, fireplace aglow on my left, (but with considerably more warmth to it), and three mounted bucks a-glowering down at me from the den wall to my right.

Or maybe they’re gloating instead of glowering. From this perspective they seem to have something of a smug, “Serves you right!” sorta look on their usually fixed faces today. You see, I’ve had a bad season, and they seem to be taking a perverse pleasure in the fact of my failure.

You would think that after 58 years of deer hunting, and with several thousand acres of prime hunting property available to me, I would have taxidermy bills every year as a matter of course.

Not so in the crazy year of 2020. Despite spending countless hours in a deer stand, I never even saw a great buck in the year of COVID-19. Morning after morning, evening after evening, it was does and little bucks, zero, does and little bucks, squirrels…oh, and hogs—lots of hogs.

But no big bucks.

I suspect that by now a lot of you are nodding your heads in agreement, or shaking them in frustration, or both. You know what I’m talking about. I also suspect that like me, you have looked at every picture of every buck in GON and been more than a little jealous of the smiling faces behind the massive antlers of so many successful hunters. Obviously, some folks had superb seasons.

Maybe I’m the only one who had a less than stellar deer season, but I know that isn’t true. Take the case of my close friend Joey O’Neal, from Alston, over in Montgomery County. Being a school teacher, he had more time than usual to hunt because of school being shut down so many days due to the COVID outbreak. He, too, had a bad season with no big bucks. But on the Monday after the season closed, he did kill a dandy 8-point, with his vehicle, on the way to school, 200 yards from the driveway of Swainsboro High! I think he’s having him mounted. Sometimes insult adds itself to injury, but at least he will have to pay the taxidermy man. And he will have a nice mount to remind him of a bad season.

Me? I’ve got nothing except less time, less money and a substantially smaller ego. How about you? Are you feelin’ me yet?

But it wasn’t all that bad, was it? Well, if deer hunting is only measured in inches of antler, yes-sir, it was all that bad, but am I, are we, perhaps measuring with the wrong rule?

Are there other ways of measuring the success or failure of a deer season (or any other endeavor) other than inches, pounds and pictures?

As far as I can tell Jesus never caught a fish, but He was without a doubt the greatest fishing guide who ever lived. He knew exactly where His fish were at any given moment. And while He did make sure we knew exactly how many fish were in the net or how much money was in their mouths, He never said how long they were or how much they weighed. Instead, He said, “…with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” How about let’s you and I employ a different measuring stick and calculate again the successes or failures of our seasons.

In late October I spent a couple of days on some old familiar territory down in Seminole County, hard against the Florida and Alabama lines. My daddy took me there as a wide-eyed 12-year-old kid. I shot many a bobwhite, dove and duck, missed a great many more, and caught more bass, crappie, jackfish and mudfish than it’s probably safe to tell about, even though the statute of limitations ran out several coons’ ages ago.

Over the succeeding years, it grew to be perhaps my favorite place on the planet, except for home. The spring behind the camphouse was full of fish. The buttonwood ponds were full of ducks. The pine woods were full of wild quail. The peanut fields were full of doves. And I was the only boy there among a group of grown men. Those men became my heroes. Mr. Ralph, Mr. Brandy, Mr. Tom, Uncle Cary, Uncle Joe, and of course, Daddy. They, along with an assortment of their friends who came to eat, drink, play poker, tell outlandish stories and hunt were the oldest generation. Then, there were their sons, who I thought were the coolest farmers to ever grow a peanut. It was great to be me in those days. I see that more clearly now as I recall the memories from the recesses of my mind—with tears streaming down my aged, worry and weather-worn face.

The old camp house sits quiet and empty above Spooner Springs these days, but the author said the memories made there will endure as long as he does, and beyond.

You may be thinking, “This old boy has strayed a long way from the 2020 deer season,” and you would be right. But that’s my point. The memories matter more than the empty liquor bottles and empty shotgun shells, more than the number of the birds killed or the fish caught, more even than the snickering mounts on the wall.

You see, I took a rifle with me to Spooner Spring, and I sat in a deer stand for a number of hours. I did see a bald eagle and three hoo-yips, but zero deer. The truth is I wasn’t hunting bucks nearly so much as I was hunting memories. In that, I was successful. Not only did I revisit some of my fondest old memories, but I made some new ones, not the least of which was nailing a coyote at 310 yards with my brother Jimbo’s 1972 Model 70 .243. But that is a story for another time.

This 1972 Model 70 .243 belonged to Jimbo Thompson, the author’s brother.

There came a time when all my heroes died. Time takes its toll, and none can turn back its pages. It got so that I could not bear the blues that I got when I went back to what had been one of the happiest places of my youth. I could never go back to that time, or those grand old men that made it magical, and it broke my heart. So I quit going. Ten years passed by. My brother Jimbo, Uncle Joe, (who outlived almost everyone in his generation) cousins and friends continued to go, but I stayed away even though the invitation was always open. Jimbo said everyone always asked if I was coming and why I never went to Spooner Spring anymore. From all accounts they had a great time every trip.

And then came the funeral. Ms. Beatrice, who was Mr. Ralph’s wife, lived on long after her husband’s passing, but time eventually took its toll on her. I drove the three hours from Macon to Donalsonville as much as anything, to honor the old men, the old days and the old ways. After the service, Mr. Ralph’s grandson, Brad Trawick, who was a kid the last time I was there, now a grown man himself, cornered me and asked the same question again—pointedly, passionately, adamantly…

“Bobby, why don’t you ever come see us anymore?”

I told him, somewhat lamely, of the blues that overwhelmed me and the ghosts that haunted me because of the memories that ensnared me when I thought of those days long past. He looked me dead in the eyes and asked another question that changed my outlook, my attitude, my expectations, and to some degree, my life.

“Well, ain’t it about time to make some new memories?”

There was only one reasonable, logical answer. “Yes,” I said, “I reckon it is.”

“There are living things in our swamps and forests that speak volumes without words, if we just slow down to look, listen and ponder.”

I went back that next January and had a wonderful time. Yes. The faces were mostly different, but there were enough familiar ones from the old days that we had many a laugh remembering and retelling the old stories that live on long after the dirt has settled over the bones of those who have left us behind. I have been back every year since, and every year made new memories. They are sweet to my mind, and the new memories have even added a sweet savor to the old ones. Brad was right, thank God, and thank God I made some new memories with him while I had the chance. Cancer took his life far too early a couple of years ago, at age 49. He has gone to his reward, but I remain. Me and my memories. Every time I find myself getting the blues over what has been and gone, I remember Brad’s words. I am hunting memories each time I set out, gun or bow or fishing rod in hand. And each time I sit down, friends and family across the table, if I put away the tape measure, and measure with the limitless rule of my heart, and the much more meaningful, enduring depths of my mind, there’s just no such thing as a ‘bad season.’

The big bucks will come if and when time collides with opportunity and preparation. Don’t measure your success or lack thereof in inches. Measure it in memories, and there will be success to be had in every outing. Now ain’t it about time you made some new memories?

“Boone & Crockett spider in the Oconee River swamp… I didn’t shoot her. But I remember her,” said the author.