Autumn Awakenings

By Rod Davis

I squirmed and squiggled to get comfortable in the dry leaves on that October Saturday. I was sitting on a steep hillside in Pocahontas County, in West Virginia. It was mid-afternoon, probably about 3:30 -4:00 PM. The big man sitting on my left side watched the tall hickory trees intently, for any sign of movement.

It was one of those early autumn, blue bird perfect days that cause your nose to breathe a little harder than usual, just to get more of that crisp, clean air inside. It was the kind of day that you would look forward to all summer, and remember for many seasons to come.

It was around this time, I developed a life-time addiction to crisp, cool, fall days and to Pocahontas County, West Virginia - known as the Potomac Highlands. It is the states largest county, with only 8-10000 in population. The vast majority of Pocahontas County is made up of the Monongahela ( Mo-Non-Guh-HEE-La) National Forest and 10,000 acres of this county make up Watoga ( Wah-Toe-Guh) State Park..

Throughout the middle of this wonderful piece of geography runs the Greenbrier River - West Virginia’s last free-flowing, non-dammed river. Many, many, wonderful trout streams comprise the Greenbrier watershed..

The big man on my left was my father, Gordon Davis. He was the hardest working man I ever knew. He seemed to work all the time. He absolutely was bored to tears by football, baseball, and golf. Other than a vague interest in boxing, stemming from seeing Joe Louis fight in person while a soldier in WW II, he had only three passions: my mother, hunting and fishing.

I was 13 years old that October day and my birthday was coming up in just a few days. That day however, was my very first day in the field with my Dad on a hunting trip. He had been taking me fishing since the age of five, but was somewhat skittish about little kids and guns.

I felt his elbow poke my ribs and raised my head from the dirt I had been digging in. I looked down his arm and pointed finger and saw a grey jerking movement on a large horizontal limb, about 30 feet up in a white oak tree. The grey squirrel was shaking its tail and then began to bark. Many folks don’t know that squirrels bark, not like a dog, but a very vocal squeal that says, “I’m here! Are any other squirrels around?” Another hard poke in my ribs. I looked at Dad, and he was slowly handing me his shotgun. I could not believe my luck. He was going to let me shoot!

That old vintage 1954 Belgian made Browning Auto-5 12 gauge was pretty heavy as I pointed it toward the little rodent in the tree. After a lot of watching the bead sight moving around, I finally got it to hold reasonably still on the grey blur and ….BOOM!.

Dad grabbed the gun as I was falling. The recoil had pushed me backward enough to lose my balance a little and I set down hard on my seat. Immediately I jumped back up and looked…but no squirrel! I looked at Dad who pointed downhill at the base of the white oak, 30 yards away. He said “He fell at the base of the tree. Go get him.”

I walked downhill to see where the little fellow went and lo and behold, there he was a still grey lump lying in the leaves. I reached to pick him up and he twitched and tried to crawl away. I watched in horror as the little squirrel died.

My days as a hunter nearly ended right then and there. It was there on that hillside that two deep changes occurred inside a young boy. First a lifelong love affair with hunting was born, and second, a deep, deep knowing of the responsibility one takes when a trigger is pulled. Irreversible consequences usually occur at that point in time. I learned that day to respect the game I was harvesting, to take its life as cleanly as I possibly can, that no creature suffers needlessly.

Over the years, I have come to believe that as a religious man, we have the right and responsibility to manage wildlife and take dominion over nature. I have learned that harvesting an animal for food and sport are okay and are not immoral as some would have us believe.

That was a turning point in my young life. I have never stopped hunting in the 37 years since that day. Several days later, on my fourteenth birthday, my father presented me with a brand new Winchester Model 1200, 20 gauge pump shotgun with real walnut stocks, a full choke ( no tubes in those days) and blueing so deep and black that you thought you could see down into it. Over twenty years I shot that little gun at everything - squirrels, turkeys, ducks, grouse, rabbits, doves, starlings, groundhogs, etc. It finally got to the point it started jamming and a trip to the gunsmith told the tale. It would cost more to replace the worn parts, than the gun was worth. It made its way to the back of the gun safe and was replaced with a new Remington 870 - 16 gauge pump gun.

That day in October, 1969, I was awakened. A part of me that did not exist was born. That sounds a little dramatic and hokey, but true hunters will know what I am saying. I went through some years I hunted a lot harder than other years, and as I got older, I did not take it as seriously. But I always loved it.

This year, in 2005, I did not kill a deer……and I did not really care.

I have never been a trophy hunter. I always hunted for love of the sport. Not to impress others or even myself, but to hunt for the sake of hunting alone.

After all, I’m a hunter

In 2004, I pulled the trigger on my first bear and on the 99th deer I have killed in my life. That total counts bow kills, buck kills, doe kills, and deer killed in other states. This year, I thought I would like to take a trophy for #100, but it did not seem that it mattered that much. There is a lot of freedom in that. I just let them walk by. Maybe next year, I’ll kill another…

Four years ago, I was sitting in a tree house overlooking a little pond on the Bean Farm near our home. I was sitting looking out the window at a meadow at the base of a brushy hollow. On my right, sat an eleven year old boy with sandy brown hair, glasses and buck teeth, named Michael Davis. It was the early “Youth DEER HUNT” that West Virginia puts on a couple of weeks before the traditional deer/rifle season begins.

I had purchased him a single shot .243 caliber Handi-Rifle a couple of months earlier. He had spent a lot of hours plinking that summer with my .22 rifles, but after sighting in the .243, I never let him shoot it. Many thought this was a bad idea.

About 4:30, the deer began to quietly enter the field, looking for what was left of the 40 pounds of corn I had spread around the previous evening. (It’s legal to bait deer in West Virginia). Michael and I watched a while and I helped him judge and choose the largest of the does. Only antlerless deer were legal on this special hunt.

That evening he slid that .243 out the window next to me and when he fired at the doe standing in the meadow, he did not flinch, because he did not know what a high-powered rifle felt like until that instant. For all he expected, it was just like Dad’s .22. The little gun barked and the bullet flew true. The heart shot he made was a thing of beauty. The doe ran about 35 yards the fell over dead.

That evening in the dusk, as he and I approached the downed deer, another awakening took place, with all the sadness and all the joy that accompany these awakenings. I shared the crisp, cool, fall air with my son and knew this day would be remembered.

After all, he’s a hunter.

Later that fall, I got to sit with Michael and his older brother Adam in that same little tree house and share in Adam’s first buck kill. That meant more to me than to him I’m sure.

When the season is done, and the guns are cleaned and stored for the season, I suggest, you remember the day you were awakened. Remember your Dad, and the cool, crisp day, he took you afield the first time….

 

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Since publishing Rod’s article, he has gotten several emails in response. He would like to share a few of them with you.

 

“Hey Rod,

I enjoyed that story very much, it brought to mind some wonderful memories of my first hunts with my dad.

My first squirrel kill was at the age of 12 with my dad’s Model 37 Ithaca which I still own. I’ll remember that day always and I remember crying because I felt sorry for that little gray guy.

Memories like that will never die and thanks for reminding me of those special times on those crisp and cool autumn days. You have a great talent and ability to put memories on paper.” ..Phil

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“Brought back many wonderful memories - of both my father and grandfather.. Thank You

Very well written! As usual - I patiently await the next article…” …..Lee