From The Best Of September 2015
Goof Findlay grew up hunting gators in the Everglades, before back-to-back hurricanes ended his dreams and drove him as far north into Florida as he could tolerate.
Goof is a large man, tall and lean, with skin like yew bark, ageless, with a fine sense of humor and gentle in his ways . . . that is, unless he’s crossed by man or beast. Then, he can become a dangerous, devious man, who’ll likely give the knife an artful twist both on its way in and on its way out.
These days Goof makes his living running dogs and hogs and operating a deer camp and guiding bass fishermen and alligator hunters. Even runs a small-space ad occasionally in some of the high-end sporting magazines, hoping to snag the occasional unsuspecting nimrod and show him a good time.
And this time, Goof had hit the mother lode.
We could tell by their equipment and attire they were sure-enough big game hunters the minute they stepped from their sleek, British-racing-green Land Rover with the faux international license plate centered in the front bumper.
“Edward Toaraster-Alice,” declared the older of the two as he presented himself formally, with the finest elocution. “And this is Chad,” he proudly proclaimed, as he motioned with an overly elegant sweep of his leather-gloved hand to his young askari.
Chad was a tall blond youth with long wavy hair and wearing crisply tailored tweeds and wellies that fell barely short of Sir Ed’s sartorial splendor.
The salesman who’d seen them coming had obviously been quite the pro, for he had made darn well certain they were outfitted with nothing but the best and most expensive gear in the Empire—new boots, new hunting pants, new waxed cotton coats that whispered loudly as they exited their coach, and big flat-brimmed Stetsons with faux leopard hat bands.
Fact is, a lot of faux stepped from that shiny new Land Rover.
We knew immediately that Sir Edward was the real deal—he told us so himself, without needing to be prompted, regaling us with exploits from here to no-matter for all manner of beast and bird. He then pulled a brand new .338 Lapua tactical rifle, all fitted out with a big tactical scope, from its hand-tooled leather case, as if to assure us he was ready for the biggest, meanest swamp deer this side of the Suwannee.
Chad was impressed.
Goof just grinned, rather mischievously it seemed, and I averted my face.
“Tell me, sir,” Sir Edward then asked, his faux accent dripping pretension, “are there any snakes or spiders or crocodiles or such around here that should concern us?”
I glanced over at Goof, and I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was positively elated to be in the presence of such fine folk with whom he could share his abundance of wisdom and wit.
“Well, I think you boys ought’a be okay as far as the snakes and spiders go,” he assured them, as he adjusted his ratty old suspenders. “It’s winter, you see, and most of the really nasty ones have already migrated south. But now, as for the crocodiles . . . ” he continued, with a faux look of concern as he tugged on his scruffy chin whiskers, his voice growing suddenly more serious.
“Yes . . . ???” Chad interrupted anxiously.
Goof hates being interrupted.
“Well, son,” Goof said slyly after a well-timed and barely perceptible pause, “you see, crocodiles aren’t the problem ’round here. What you really need to watch out for are the armadillos.”
Goof had now transitioned to mustache twirling.
“Armadillos?” Chad parroted incredulously, in what I took to be a rather skeptical and condescending tone.
“Oh yes!” Goof assured him. “The state really doesn’t publicize it, but here in north Florida, just as many people die each year from armadillo bites as from crocodile attacks. Naaasty critters, armadillos. Eat stuff that would make a buzzard puke. Carry bacteria in their teeth so lethal that it’ll do away with you in a matter of hours if it gets in your system. Sneaky little scutters too. Sometimes run alone, sometimes in pairs—sometimes in whole packs. Start jumpin’ and twitchin’ sideways when they get agitated, ’specially just before they attack.”
Goof then proceeded to demonstrate their combat moves.
“Yeah, you boys keep an eye out for them armadillos,” he warned, then momentarily turned away.
Sir Edward looked sternly at Chad and nodded knowingly.
“Where you fellas from, Mr. Alice?” Goof asked politely, deftly changing the subject.
“It’s Toaraster-Alice,” Sir Ed quickly corrected. “West Midlands, northwest of Birmingham. Young Chad here lives in London.”
“Hunted much?” Goof inquired, as he dipped a shoulder toward the good gent.
“Oh, quite!” Sir Edward assured. Then for the rest of the day and well into the evening, we heard tale after tale from Africa to Alaska to Austria and Australia and all points in between. Four a.m. came mighty early.
Goof had quite the spread laid out for us, a full English breakfast with eggs fried, ham, marmalade, toast—plus tarpon patties, palmetto relish, and smoked squirrel sausage that he swore Mrs. Goof had made all by herself. By first light the boys from Britain were each well fed and securely ensconced in their respective treestands.
Goof picked them up for lunch at 11:15, and I wandered in around 1:30. I had killed a smallish 90-pound hog, perfect eating size, and passed up a young forkhorn. Chad and Sir Edward hadn’t seen any deer or hogs, and to their great relief, no armadillos.
Me ’n Goof laid low for the next couple of days, leaving the entire ranch to the Royals. We would take them to their stands each morning as soon as the sun was high enough for them to see without having to use their high-tech hand torches, then leave them to hunt their way back to camp for lunch. We’d drive them to their stands in mid-afternoon, and they would each arrive back in camp well before dark.
It was late on day four that Sir Edward failed to show up.
As dusk approached, young Chad began showing increasing signs of concern for his hero, and by dark, Goof decided it might be time to play fetch. So we all piled into Goof’s old pickup and drove a half-mile to the head of the trail where Sir Ed’s treestand was positioned. Moving as silently and discreetly as possible, we were within 60 yards of where we expected to find him before we fired up our flashlights.
The response was immediate.
A blaze of tightly-focused light beamed from above the trail in our direction, scribing the darkness in wild arcs as it cut through the tall pines surrounding us, followed by the shrill and urgent summons of Great Britain’s finest, frantically inquiring if we were armed.
Chad tippy-toed up close to Goof and me as we made our way to the base of Mr. Alice’s—pardon me, Mr. Toaraster-Alice’s—tree.
Directing our lights upward, we could see that Sir Edward appeared to be more-or-less okay, though somewhat disheveled and emotionally compromised.
“What’cha still doin’ up that tree there, Alice?” Goof calmly inquired.
“Armadillos!!” Sir Ed exclaimed. “A pair of them. They showed up an hour before dark, acting very strangely. Kept waddling around and bumping into each other and sniffing the ground around the base of my tree, and every once in a while one of them would go all twitchy, just like you described, and I realized that you hadn’t mentioned whether or not they can climb or if they’re even legal to shoot. They must still be quite close, because I could hear them shuffling about in the brush once it got dark.”
I looked at Goof and Goof looked at me, and with a knowing nod we immediately set up a defensive position, leaning back-to-back with our rifles raised to our shoulders and our lights on full bright, sweeping the surrounding understory.
Then, to all our surprise, Goof started howling.
This continued for several seconds, and when he suddenly stopped, he looked back up the tree at Mr. Ed and declared, “There . . . that oughta’ do it . . . ’dillers scared spitless of swamp wolves.” Then looking at me he said, “Best climb up and get him.”
Them boys from Isles claimed they received an urgent message that night on Chad’s satellite phone, and the next morning they rather haphazardly packed up the Land Rover and headed out. Left Goof a fine big tip, paper-clipped to a scribbled note, like they were paying a ransom or something. Said they’d maybe try to make it back next year when they weren’t so pressed for time.
And oh, by the way—“Do armadillos migrate?”
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