This coming Saturday will bring one of the “high days” of my calendar. It’s the opening day of gun season for deer in Alabama. It will be hard to get to sleep Friday night and my mind will go in circles thinking of all of the possibilities. Will I hunt the swamp or a green field? How about out on the power line or over a vast bean field? Who all will be there and what will we fix for lunch? And eventually I will roll onto my back, put my hands under my head and …….remember.
It may come as a surprise to some of you to learn that Alabama was not always teeming with deer. These days you are likely to see them just about anywhere, but it was not always so. It must have been around 1969 when we first came across deer tracks in the soft prairie mud of the hunting land we refer to simply as “Woodley Road”.
The actual road by that name runs from mid-town Montgomery southward for twenty miles or so and has been claimed to be the “Seven Bridges Road” of the Eagles’ hit song. One thing is for sure, it certainly fits the description and I have admired moonlight shining through the Spanish moss that hangs in beards from the trees many times. But somewhere in the dim ages past, my dad would say, “Polly, I’m taking the bird dogs for a run down at Woodley Road.” Soon, the term became synonymous to us with the piece of land.
Those first tracks filled my young mind with wonder and made my pulse quicken. Deer! I had read many stories of deer in Field and Stream or Outdoor Life, but I had never seen one. Like most folks who had never had a deer stand before them, they were much larger in my imagination than the actual live animal! I would hear stories of the guys jumping deer from thickets while quail hunting from time to time but it never happened when I was along. They remained ghost creatures of my fantasies.
Then, one Friday night in the winter of ‘71/’72, my dad’s first cousin, Gary Woolard called to say that he and some friends were going to run deer hounds at Woodley Road the next morning and that Dwight and I were welcomed to come along.
I pretty well went nuts trying to get everything ready. The main problem was, I really didn’t have much to get ready with! I had received a beautiful Remington 1100, twenty gauge shotgun for Christmas and while it was ideal for quail and dove, it was less than the perfect deer gun by a long sight. Dad gave me a few rounds of buck shot for it and I hoped for the best. My coat and boots were nowhere near adequate for “standing” exposed to the stinging north wind. I had no gloves or warm headgear. Like marriage, I entered the matter with nothing but a heart full of love and high expectations! I had a lot of trouble going to sleep that night and no trouble arising before dawn. I was going deer hunting!
The gang met at the old red gate where Woodley Road and Mount Zion Road converge. We spoke in hushed voices and our breath came out in clouds, illuminated by the glare of headlights. I shivered slightly as the warmth of the pickup gave way to the stiff, north wind. Four wheelers were still about ten years in the future and our means of transportation into the property was an old tractor pulling a homemade trailer. The diesel rattled like a tin can full of marbles rolling across an uneven floor and belched the aroma of partially burned fuel. When everyone was aboard, the machine lurched forward with a violent jolt and the big tires slurped into twin ditches full of sticky mud that served as a road. Every couple of hundred yards there would be a cattle gap that someone had to open. In my exalted state of euphoric anticipation, I leapt off the trailer and opened them with zeal.
These “gaps” consisted of three or four strands of barbed wire stapled to free standing posts about the diameter of baseball bats and spaced around three feet apart. The end post was dropped into a loop of barbed wire secured to the gate post and was held vertical by another loop around the top. To open the gap, you pulled the end post of the “gate” section and lifted the loop off of the top of it. Then the post was lifted out of the bottom loop and the gate was opened by walking it to the side, being mindful to keep it taught. Otherwise, slack would allow the strands to cross up and get tangled. I performed the tasks admirably while struggling to keep my balance on the slimy, muddy ground. I felt a trickle of water in one of my boots. I didn’t think much about it……at the time.
As daylight painted the sky a battleship gray, hunters were dropped off one by one and given somewhat vague instructions about where might be a good place to stand. (None of us knew what we were doing!) I was deposited at the west end of an irregular pasture. There was a climbable tree at the edge of a little swamp and I eased over to it. It was at this point that I felt an icy trickle in my other boot. I eased up the tree mostly by pulling myself up with my arms while my legs flailed wildly, trying to find purchase for my muddy boots. Soon, I was all of six feet or so above the ground and decided that it was good enough. After all, it shouldn’t take long for the dogs to run a deer my way. Strange, the world was dead silent except for the wind through the bare branches and the rustle of a few stubborn leaves that clung to them.
I reached into my pocket and withdrew one of the shells. Rolling the shotgun over on its side, I dropped the round into the open receiver and pressed the chrome button on the bottom. “SHLINK”! The round was caught and loaded into the chamber faster than the eye could follow. I pushed the safety on and loaded the other rounds into the magazine. Now, I was ready!
I had a thin film of sweat on my face and neck from the rigors of my walk and climb and within minutes I had my first violent fit of shivering. My feet began to throb and all exposed flesh began to feel the bite of the wind. Within a half hour I was miserable and found my thoughts focusing less and less on deer and more and more on hoping the tractor would come clattering for me sooner instead of later. I heard the distant sound of dogs a time or two, but they weren’t heading my way. I tried to concentrate……but nothing…….except cold!
I could barely move on my perch and this only made it more difficult to deal with the cold. Finally, I unloaded the gun, slid to the ground and reloaded. At least I could move around a little. I leaned the gun against the tree, stamped my feet and rubbed my crossed arms together briskly to try to stimulate some circulation. Gradually, I transitioned from trying to keep an occasional eye on my surroundings to not even thinking about deer. What I needed was to get warm! Where was the tractor? Please come soon!
The sun came out and I shivered all the more. I have noticed something odd during my hundreds of hours in the woods. The coldest time of morning is when the sun’s rays first fall upon you. I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands together and listened closely for the sound of deliverance.
Finally, I heard that familiar clatter and soon the rickety ensemble rocked into view. I ejected the shells and handing the gun to Dwight, climbed aboard. No one had seen a deer or knew what had become of the dogs. We were heading up the hill past the pole barn and came to the next gap. I handed my gun back to Dwight and hopped off to open the fence. When I had pulled it closed and dropped the loop over the post, Gary turned up the idle and took off. I ran to catch up and dove up onto the bed of the trailer, which sat about waist high off of the ground and sloped slightly down to the low hitch on the tractor. Gary was watching over his shoulder and as soon as I landed, he hit the brakes and sent me rolling forward. I sat up and was just beginning to tell him what I thought when he lurched off again and sent me rolling right off of the back and onto the muddy road!
I threatened him with all manner of violence but no one heard me for the roar of laughter by everyone but me.
By noon, we were back at the house where we enjoyed good, hot coffee and all the bounty of Mother’s well stocked pantry and fridge.
I have talked with many an outdoorsman who has no fondness for deer hunting. When I inquire further, they usually share a story similar to mine. One miserable trip was all it took! John Denver described a comparable story when he sang, “I took two shots, got no ducks and cold, cold hands!”
That was the only time that I ever went on a deer hunt where dogs were used. Gradually we figured out what we were doing and accumulated the gear to do it comfortably. The twenty gauge gave way to a Winchester .270. I have taken somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and seventy five deer in the ensuing decades but I will always remember the first time that I went in search of these fantastic animals. Lord willing, we will do it again this Saturday!
Note: Nothing gives me more pleasure than the memories of hours spent with so many of my friends and loved ones at “Woodley Road!” If I could go back for one hour with my dad, I would choose to spend it in front of a roaring campfire on the knoll. I’m sure he would lean back in his chair and reminisce. Why do old men do that?
Hal F. Leary