Though it was now past dusk and the forest was dark and still, I could see that, yes, it definitely was a door, alone, in the middle of the woods.
“Good boy, Rex, easy now. Whoa on the bird!”
The gathering gloaming of the approaching evening made it rather difficult to see what I was doing as I fought my way through the wicked tangle of greenbrier vines draped across the dense trees in front of me. I struggled to keep my head up and my eyes on Rex, my hat on, and from tripping on the treacherous stumps and logs underfoot. A veritable kaleidoscope-like blizzard of red, yellow, orange, purple, green and brown leaves showered down around me from on high. The October gale was so strong that I could hear the trees moan as they swayed to and fro with and against the wind, and I could hear sheaves of leaves being ripped from their anchorages on the tree branches.
Despite the rapidly diminishing daylight, I wanted to get one more bird for Rex, who was on the other side of a brook tumbling down the hillside, pointing at a leafy blowdown maple tree that lay running downhill from my right to left. Moving toward Rex and slightly to his left, I reasoned that I would cover the escape path of any grouse that emerged from the cover. As I eased into a clear shooting position, the last thing that I recalled was my own command.
“Get the bird, Rex!”
The sound of my shot seemed to be muffled, distant, and was accompanied by a sharp, searing pain in my head.
Rex was all business, nose down, as he snuffled through endless drifts of colorful leaves on the forest floor, seemingly trailing a bird. When I caught up with him, he was scratching at a door standing upright and tall in the middle of the woods. Rex was whining loudly, as if he wanted something that lay through the door. Though it was now past dusk and the forest was dark and still, I could see that, yes, it definitely was a door, alone, in the middle of the grouse covert that we were hunting.
That’s strange, I thought. Why would there be a door, all by itself, in the middle of the woods?
I circled the door completely twice, studying it very carefully. Rex continued whining and scratching at the door. I returned to the “front” of the door and hesitantly reached for the knob. My mental “danger detectors” were on DEFCON 1 status as I slowly turned the knob with my left hand and pushed the door open. I gripped my 28-gauge SKB Model 485 side-by-side firmly in my right hand, keeping it pointed directly at the middle of the door with my index finger firmly on the trigger guard, safety off.
The door slowly swung open, and I was relieved to see what appeared to be a continuation of the woods. Strange, I thought, but no big deal. I figured I must have been seeing things as I felt a little light-headed from the exertion of my struggle through the dense undergrowth of the woods. I lowered my gun and, suddenly, Rex bolted through the door. When I looked to the other side of the door, I could neither see nor hear him running ahead.
“What the…?” I shouted, as I followed Rex through the door.
I could not believe what my eyes beheld. Directly in front of me was a hunting camp of four canvas wall tents, laid out surrounding a central firepit from which lively flames danced on the gentle breeze. It was late afternoon, not quite dusk, and several dogs came to greet Rex with wagging tails as they invited him to play with them in the piles of leaves scattered around the campsite. Several men, whose features I could not make out, were in various states of repose, while others were sitting on log benches, surrounding the firepit.
“Hey, you!” A vaguely familiar, whiskey-roughened and very deep baritone voice startled me from behind my left shoulder. “This is a private party. What are you doing here?”
Before I could turn to face my unseen accuser, I heard a formless voice say, “Aw Hilly, lighten up a little, why doncha? The kid is only here for a visit, so why doncha pour him a drink?” In the flickering campfire light, I saw that it was Eugene Connett, admonishing none other than Gene Hill to be a more genial host!
I turned to see the scowling visage of Gene Hill, in his prime, not two feet away.
“He’s right, I’m sorry,” Gene apologized as his scowl changed into a smile. “What’ll you have?”
“Weeelll,” I stammered, as I was completely confused, “I do enjoy a nice single-malt scotch.”
“Hilly, why don’t you skip the drink and take the kid for a tour of the place while there is still daylight left?” another voice suggested. I turned to see Ted Trueblood raising his glass in a toast in my direction.
“How about it kid, want to go for a walk?” asked Gene.
What could I say except “Yes!”? How could I turn down a walk through the October woods with Gene Hill!?!
It was a dream come true!!
I asked Gene where we were, and he allowed that we were in New Brunswick, high upon a mountain along the headwaters of the Tobique River. “That figures,” I said to myself, “Gene Hill, in the Tobique River Valley in New Brunswick, in October.”
Before we left the camp, I spent a few minutes next to the campfire listening to Ed Zern telling jokes, and verbally jousting with Gordon MacQuarrie and Patrick McManus as to what it truly means to be a sportsman.
The pungent aroma of Hoppes #9 permeated the air everywhere I turned. Bob Brister was standing with Michael McIntosh loudly discussing the advantages of Briley choke tubes. Michael was having none of it, quietly extolling the virtues of simplicity and classic gunsmithing to purpose, without resorting to technical tricks turned in titanium or another other space-age metal.
“Hold on there,” came a voice from nearby the campfire. Sitting in a rocking chair, taking it all in with an amused grin upon his face, was none other than Nash Buckingham. Mista’ Nash said, “I am a little tired to do anything afield today, but when you get back to camp, we can stretch out our legs, warm our feet by the fire, and you can tell me all about it. Be on the lookout for some surprises along the road you’ll soon have trod.”
I had no idea what he meant, nor what lay in store for me.
“C’mon kid, we’re burning daylight,” Gene said, snapping me out of my mesmerized observations. I immediately noticed that Gene’s clothes had changed. He was wearing breeks, chukka boots, a butternut-colored canvas hunting coat, wool necktie and a jaunty driver’s hat. And so was I!
Gene motioned me over and bade me to inspect his shotgun. In a moment, it was recognized as the 24-inch barreled 16-gauge side-by-side Greener from his story “The Woodcock Gun.” Gene examined my own side-by-side and pronounced it “acceptable for our purposes.” Gene whistled in a female English setter that I knew to be Pat from his “Lost Dog” story. Rex came in to heel, and we started down the path to a nearby covert. I was on cloud nine, as I was going woodcock hunting alongside Gene Hill in the New Brunswick uplands, in October!
I was in paradise!
Rex was working hard along the edge of the densely packed alders and soon made game, setting up on point at a leafy blowdown maple tree, running downhill from my right to left on the far side of a brook tumbling down the hillside and disappearing into the alders. The setting looked suspiciously familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it at the time. Suddenly, a beautiful English setter was honoring Rex’s point on his right, as was Pat on his left.
“That’s a nice point for a Labrador retriever,” came a voice from our right flank, “and good afternoon, Gene, who is your companion today?” Gene replied from my left, “Hello Corey. This is…say, kid, I don’t believe I got your name.”
I could now see that it was Corey Ford and his English setter Shad! My mind was reeling and I wondered if I was on the Road to Tinkhamtown. There was Rex, a Labrador retriever, solidly on point, being backed by the expert woodcock dogs of two of the most legendary bird hunting writers in history. I knew that I had to walk up to flush the bird soon, and Corey Ford wanted to know my name!
“My name is….”
Before I could finish, Rex twitched his left leg, and I anticipated the incipient flush. A fall of six woodcock came up from that fallen maple tree, a mixture of females and males, flushing simultaneously and twittering out from amongst the branches of the blowdown like a bunch of hummingbirds mixed with bumblebees. I don’t recall shouldering my gun, but I know I heard six evenly spaced shots ring out, and I saw six birds fold and plummet to the earth. Simultaneous doubles on woodcock for Gene Hill, Corey Ford and me!
I turned to congratulate each on their outstanding shooting, but they were gone; when I turned back toward the blowdown, so were their dogs.
“What the…?” I asked out loud.
To my amazement, my 20-gauge AYA sidelock side-by-side was in my hand. I found myself walking through mixed hardwoods on a steep hillside while watching Rex work through a nasty raspberry and high-bush cranberry patch slightly below. I looked away from Rex for a moment and saw that none other than William Harnden Foster and Burton Spiller were standing on either side of me. Mr. Foster was holding the “Little Gun,” his fabled 16-gauge Parker side-by-side, and he simply said, “Shall we go gunning?” Mr. Spiller silently smiled.
Rex was the only dog in the game this time. He locked up on point deep in the raspberry patch. Being the long-legged youngster of the group, I waded into the raspberry patch after him and when I was halfway through, I noticed Rex twitch his left leg and anticipate the flush. As with the woodcock before, a thunder of grouse gloriously rose out of the raspberries like a starburst aerial bomb. Once again, I heard six measured shots and I saw six birds drop. This time, William Harnden Foster, Burton Spiller and I had scored simultaneous doubles on grouse.
Wow! What were the odds of that happening?
As crazy as it might sound, Messrs. Foster and Spiller were soon gone, so I sat down to await the next clothing and equipment metamorphoses.
My lightweight upland clothes were traded for heavy canvas pants, a red and black checked shirt, and a blaze orange vest and hat. In my hand was Doug Baker’s Belgium-made Browning “Sweet 16” bird gun. I walked along the edge of an enormous field of standing corn where Rex was making game a few dozen yards ahead of me.
“Mind if we join you?” asked yet another unknown voice. I recognized Datus Proper and George Bird Evans, along with several bird dogs, including Briar, one of George’s all-time favorites from his decades-long breeding program. George was carrying his treasured 12-gauge Parker that had been left to him by Dr. Charles Norris upon his passing.
“Of course not,” I said. “Where are we?”
“Just outside of Lancaster, Pennsylvania,” answered Datus.
It was a classic ringneck pheasant setup. The late fall afternoon sun was high in the cloudless sky and the air was crisp. Each dog was working a scent trail deeper into the cornfield, and when Rex cut sharply to his right, the top of the cornfield was suddenly alive with flashes of brilliantly colored cock pheasants climbing into the azure sky in a riot of color and noise. There were so many pheasants in the air it was pure bedlam, and their raucous calls filled our ears. I pulled the trigger thrice, the “Sweet 16” barked three times and for the first time ever, I had three dead in the air. A triple on wild pheasants, while hunting with Datus Proper and George Bird Evans.
As Rex began to work the corn to retrieve the downed birds, Datus, George, the dogs and all of birds vanished, seemingly back into the dense cornfield from whence they had come.
My clothing finished changing a few short moments later. I found myself bundled up against a snow squall driving hard on a stiff northeast breeze, lying in a three-man battery-box on the hallowed Susquehanna Flats just off shore of Havre De Grace, Maryland, with Capt. Bogardus and Ralf Coykendall. Ralf assured me that Rex would get his work in, as he was safely aboard the tender boat that I could see lying at anchor a few hundred yards away.
Holding Nash Buckingham’s “Bo-Whoop” the Bob Becker modified Super Fox 12-gauge, a big flock of bull canvasback rushed the stool of hand-carved wooden decoys. Red and black heads and necks stretched out, and silver backs and wing liners flashing, on the “cans” streaked through the blocks, and after the reverberation of our barrage faded away and the heavy smoke from Capt. Bogardus’ ponderous blackpowder 8-gauge had cleared on the breeze, we were thrilled to learn that they had left six of their brave squadron mates scattered in the waves, black legs kicking. James Lamb Free sailed the tender boat over and released Rex to his work.
To be honest about it, this time, I was so bone cold and exhausted I did not see or feel the transition to my next adventure.
Rex and I found ourselves in a goose pit on the storied eastern shore of the Delmarva Peninsula, just beyond the outskirts of Easton, Maryland, with Roy Walsh and World Champion Tim Grounds. Roy was blowing a Sean Mann Longshoreman, and Tim was grinding on one of his modified Olt A-50s in tandem calling to garner the attention of distant flocks.
Tim declared: “Got ’em.” as a flock turned towards the pit. “Git down, cover up, and git ready!”
Tim’s dulcet tones worked the wary geese in like they were on strings. Rex was straining in the dog box, frantic with anticipation. Roy worked flags as Tim used one of his custom laydown calls to sing a beguiling song to the geese in a dialect that was a siren song to their ears.
Tim ordered: “Take ’em!” My American Arms 10-gauge over/under goose gun roared twice, and Rex was headed to retrieve my daily limit of two Canadian visitors when the inevitable occurred.
Of course, Rex and I were shortly transported to another place and time.
I came fully alert high up in a creaking wagon, sitting in a soft leather-covered chair. The wagon was being pulled along by a pair of mules in full harness under a bright blue sky beneath towering pine and live oaks along a broomsedge and pea field. On either side of the wagon, flashy and stylish pointers were trailing Rex, scouring the field, followed by their handlers on horseback. I looked behind me. On the back seat of the wagon were none other than Archibald Rutledge and Havilah Babcock. I could see a water tower in the distance displaying Thomasville — as in South Georgia — plantation unknown.
Rex was in the thickest cover in the field when he locked up on point, and the other dogs honored him. Havilah, Archibald and I disembarked from the wagon and were handed our guns by the Huntmaster, spreading out for safety. The head dog handler cracked the whip, and pandemonium ensued as a covey of 25 bobwhite quail burst into the air. Six evenly spaced shots rang out with six birds falling, and then, it was just Rex and me together in the deepening mystery when the southern gentlemen, dogs and wagon disappeared.
I was sitting on a tree stump with Rex by my side swatting ’skeeters in the inky darkness of a cool Florida evening.
“Good morning,” whispered a voice from the swirling mists then surrounding me.
I rubbed my eyes and squinted hard as I looked towards the unseen person, trying to make out who was talking.
“Head towards yonder oak tree, y’all. There is a blind set up there,” intoned the mystery man.
Walking through the incomprehensible darkness, Rex rushed ahead and we heard a flurry of powerful wings and the protestations of what could only be a scattering flock of turkeys as they flushed from their roost.
“Excellent work, Rex!” exclaimed my still unseen companion. “Now they will work in perfectly at sunrise!”
The dark veil of the moist night gave way to reveal the rosy pre-dawn eastern sky. Wearing a sniper’s ghillie suit, I was sitting on a stump in a shelter made up of stacked oak logs. My perch allowed a broad view of an expanse of grasses, sedges and scattered oak hummocks. As I gazed out upon my unfamiliar surroundings, it occurred to me that I now was hunting turkeys deep in the Everglades of Florida. Rex lay in the cool damp dirt in the shade of the logs.
I was indeed in Florida, and I soon learned that I was accompanied by Tom Kelly and Charley Waterman. Tom handed me a long-barreled, exposed hammer, 10-gauge Lefever side-by-side shotgun. Tom and Charley expertly scratched their box calls and fluttered their in-mouth diaphragm calls so masterfully that I believed a whole flock of hens were flitting about our blind.
Presently, three huge Osceola gobblers were out in front of the blind searching for a date. The boss tom had a beard that was at least 14 inches long. Leveling the Lefever on his head, I let my shot fly when the boss stepped away from the two lesser birds. Down he went, wildly flapping his still powerful wings in a storm of black, chestnut and bronze-hued feathers.
I let out a rebel yell and laid the gun down to admire and retrieve the spectacular bird. When I returned to the blind to thank Tom and Charley for their efforts and for the hunt, as always on this sojourn, they, the gun, stump, calls, ghillie suit, bird and all else were gone, and only Rex was sitting in the blind.
As the vision of the beauty and majesty of the boss tom faded from my mind’s eye, I could hear the strains of “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes,” a great Jimmy Buffet song, wafting out to us on the offshore breeze. I surmised that I was somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, just off of the Florida Keys. My guess was confirmed when I scanned the nearby shoreline with binoculars and saw a sign for Robbie’s, a famous people watering hole on Islamorada. I was wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and Crocs.
I could see in all directions the south Florida sky of brilliant sunshine, fluffy cumulus clouds and several thunderheads well off in the distance. I turned seaward to scan the horizon from a south facing palm-leaf camouflaged duck blind and detected a cloud of diving ducks racing across the shimmering flats. On cue, the raspy-buzzy chatter of two diver calls emanated from the far end of the blind. Rex and I peered through the palm fronds where Charley Dickey and Jose Wejebe were working hard to coax the ducks into the bobbing blocks, expertly arranged in a classic J-hook pattern in front of the blind.
Onward they rushed.
“Go!” barked Jose.
Browning Gold Hunter in hand, Jose, Charley and I rose in unison, and nine shots rang out. The rapidly departing flock left nine of their number floating in the decoys. As I offered my congratulations on their fine shooting, Jose and Charley disappeared and, yet again, Rex was greatly disappointed as his work was cut short when the ducks vanished.
Over the murmur of the waves gently brushing the blind, I heard the muffled sounds of a boat motor emanating from a now nearby thunderstorm.
I saw a huge blue marlin leap from the surface of the churning sea on the east side of the tempest. The magnificent marlin hung for a few seconds above the cobalt waters, its radiant colors resplendently reflecting the evening sun, now sinking low in the western Florida sky over distant Key West.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the prow of a wooden boat emerge from the south side of the squall, headed in the general direction of Cuba, some 90 miles southeast of our position. The deck of the boat was crowded with men, and I swear I saw Gilligan and the Skipper manning the helm.
A robust man stood at the boat’s transom with three bikinied beauties hanging on his shoulders, and I could plainly see that he was smoking a huge Havana stogy, had a mojito glass and had what appeared to be a Colt M1911 .45 ACP in his upraised left hand. His right hand grasped a massive deep-sea fishing rig, one that was clearly attached to the leaping Marlin.
“Whaaaaattt??”
As a matter of fact, I could now plainly see the other men were none other than the crowd of famous outdoorsmen that I had met way back at the hunting camp on the mountain in New Brunswick, as well as all along the way from there to here in the Florida Keys. Every man on the boat had a glass in his hand, raised in a toast, harmoniously exclaiming:
“Adios nuestro hermano! Y, vaya con dios!
“Tight lines, and full game bags to you!
We all hope that you enjoyed the journey!”
As the boat passed the blind on its way to destinations unknown, I could barely make out the name on the transom; still, there it was — Pilar!
It can’t be, I thought, Ernest Heming…Gene Hi…and the rest?
Rex was whining piteously whilst vigorously licking my face. Struggling to clear my mind and to regain my vision and senses, I realized that I was sprawled out on the forest floor amongst the colorful leaves. The SKB was lying to my right; a long, thick, tree branch was lying to my left. A beautiful cock grouse was near to my left hand.
Suddenly, everything became clear!
I recalled that as I had walked in to Rex’s point, there was the sudden gust of wind, the swirl of leaves and I realized that the zephyr must have snapped the branch off of a nearby tree that, by dint of my throbbing head and the lump on the back of my skull, had obviously hit me, laying me out.
Haltingly walking the 400 yards of fire trail back to my truck with Rex at heel, carrying the bird in his mouth, I shouted aloud: “What an incredibly lucky break for me!”
Truly a first in the world of outdoor publishing, Monsters, Mayhem and Miracles is a one-of-a-kind collection of unforgettable tales from the sporting world. Its 44 stories range from harrowing encounters with deadly predators to astonishing tales involving spirits, ghosts and even the devil himself. Buy Now
