The Misadventures Of Mollygrubs Messer
Episode 10: Duxbak Debacle—Redux
An earlier chronicle of Mollygrubs’ seemingly unending misadventures involved a prized Duxbak cap, misbehavior, and a “sho nuff whupping” from a high school English teacher who had endured all the juvenile high jinks he could stand. Yet for all the physical agony associated with that example of the misfortune that seemed to plague the young fellow at every turn, it paled in comparison with the fate of another piece of beloved Duxbak headwear. After all, bruises of the flesh heal in time, but there’s no patching or recovering a hat that has suffered the full impact of a load of #7½ shot at a range of 20 yards. That treasured item in Mollygrubs’ wardrobe ended up being shot—literally as well as figuratively.
The sad saga unfolded on a late season grouse hunt with Mollygrubs cherished fly fishing and sometime hunting buddy—a boy we’ll just call Bill in order to protect the not-so-innocent. The pair of what some might have styled unlikely lads got it in their heads to go on an all-day grouse hunt. School was out for a “teacher’s work day” or some such foolishness which existed to some degree even in those simpler and saner times. Since there were already plans for a big rabbit hunt the following day and because the senior Messer wouldn’t allow the family pack of beagles to be afield two days in a row, chasing cottontails was out of the question. Likewise, it was mid-February and squirrels in all the boys’ favored bushytail honey holes had been killed out or else were wily, wary, and nervous as a backwoods Baptist minister in a big city bordello. Accordingly the boys decided that a change of both their quarry and the quarters where they hunted was in order.
After due deliberation of the kind that only male adolescent minds can conjure up, Mollygrubs and his buddy decided that a grouse hunt would be just the thing. Both had killed a few grouse, although truth be told most if not all of them had been “ground swatted” while out squirrel hunted as opposed to being taken on the wing. However, Mollygrubs had managed to shoot one in flight, a drummer in the woods that unquestionably needed to be removed from the gene pool since it had flown through a totally open area in a fashion contrary to the bird’s normal behavior, and he reckoned that made him something approaching an expert in the sport.
Now admittedely there were grouse in the region, but they were by no means plentiful. Experienced local bird hunters, even those equipped with first-rate dogs, often had days with few flushes and empty game bags. Such matters never crossed the minds of our venturesome lads, so they set out in the grey, grim February woods for an all-day outing. They had plenty of food in the game bags of their Duxbak jackets, all the optimism that goes with the blissful unawareness of being a teen, and every expectation that day’s end would see each one toting home a brace of grouse.
It was a lovely late winter day, with just enough chill in the air to make walking, a requisite part of grouse hunting, a welcome way of staying warm. The two lads, full of energy as a pair of frisky colts, covered mile after mile of likely grouse cover. Never once did they hear so much as a distant flush, never mind have a bird get up within range. Moreover, nary a squirrel did they sight and they weren’t in cottontail or quail country. In short, by late afternoon they were frustrated and their guns unfired. It was at this moment a most regrettable moment of inspiration laid its ugly hold on Mollygrubs’ mind.
He knew that his buddy’s gun was choked rather tightly whereas his improved cylinder bore threw a wide pattern ideally suited for wingshooting in tight quarters. Accordingly, any odds on hitting a flying object were, at least insofar as gun performance figured in the equation, decidedly in his favor. That thought led to what he considered a special moment of craftiness. He proposed that each of them throw their prized Duxbak hats in the air and shoot at one another’s topper. It was nonsensical, would accomplish nothing other than wasting a shotshell, and had no possible positive outcome. But what are such considerations to a boisterous and rather bored boy?
After a flip of a coin to decide who would get the first shot, Mollygrubs was led off. His buddy Bill sent a Duxbak cap of the traditional Jones style (sides that folded back but could be lowered in foul weather) a-flying and the resultant shot actually put three or four pellets, likely the outermost edge of a wide pattern, in it. A bit chagrined, although he had so to speak drawn blood (or at least fabric), it was now time for Mollygrubs to launch his hat—a sort of cross between what later would be known as a “Boonie” and a shape with a wider but equally flexible brim. He belatedly realized that the hat possessed aerodynamic qualities sure to make it float like a Frisbee, but at that juncture it was far too late to make any adjustments.
He set the hat a-flying in much the same way you might launch a Frisbee. For a breathless moment he thought all might be well. At that exact instant, however, his hat brushed against a maple limb. Against all odds it perched there, maybe precariously but unquestionably a stationary target at 20 yards distance. Bill took careful aim, drawing a bead as if he was squirrel hunting, and the tightly choked pattern of No. 7½ shot neatly blew away the hat’s entire crown. Mollygrubs had once more managed, in his inimitable, inept way, to court—and win–Duxbak disaster.