Went hunting one day and I shot a chicken
Report #1 from Stefano Martino, a sometimes bumbling free-lance correspondent traveling throughout the U.S.
Posted in Authors Den
WENT HUNTING ONE DAY AND I SHOT A CHICKEN
Dateline January 13, 2005 – Free Lance Correspondent Stefano Martino
As a free-lance reporter I love to travel whenever and where ever a story arouses my curiosity. After spending some time in Colorado I’m on my way to Alabama.
January 14 – DAY ONE – Temperature 30 degrees F.
The setting is near Birmingham in the proud state of Alabama. At least that’s where my plane landed yesterday afternoon, now I haven’t a clue as to where I am.
Presently I’m inside a tent in the middle of some unknown forest in western Alabama tapping laptop keys with gloves on. Its early evening and the temperature’s about thirty-five degrees, considered warm by locals.
My excuse for being in nature’s cooler is to gather information for an article on white tail deer hunting, and at the same time fulfill a stupid romantic decision to experience the great outdoors. During research I must have overdosed on those glossy hunting magazines. They awakened dormant macho instincts which in turn created warm and cozy fantasies of a roaring fireplace inside a cozy cabin. I still wonder how I fell into a trap full of illusions. Blind to harsh cold reality, I didn’t know how really cold it was going to be.
My research merely divulged statistics. The white tail deer-hunting season in Alabama is from Nov. 20 to Jan. 31, 2005 and about the same for 2006. The bow and arrow crowd gets first crack at the beasts with an October 15th head start. I’m guessing the reason for the four week difference is to allow the bow slingers time to adjust their skills, otherwise a lot of angry gun wielders with arrows stuck in their backsides is liable to create an unpleasant situation, like a small war?
To date there are over 210,000 hunters armed with firearms stalking a herd of deer estimated at 1.75 million, unarmed except for antlers. Cold weather is supposed to provide ideal conditions to hunt the defenseless prowling animals.
Hunters are allowed to take down one buck with antlers per day. Makes sense, how many can one person carry. Statistics for the 2001 – 2002 season shows over 410,000 deer “taken down” of which 376,000 encountered firearms. Others faced arrows, and possibly pick up trucks. Meaning over a million deer never showed up or outsmarted hunters. But on a serious note, I take pride in mentioning most of the venison is ground and packaged for distribution to the poor.
Festus, a six-four highly recommended hunter, arrived at the motel around five thirty this morning. His presence and huge form made me think I was having a nightmare. Sporting a dirty brown Stetson hat over a rugged unshaved weather beaten face, his hunting attire resembled clothing taken off a homeless person. His face seemed familiar, like that of a sea scarred shrimp boat captain I once interviewed. A weather ravaged three-quarter length leather jacket gives the impression he’s accustomed to sleeping on the ground but the worn out jeans held up by a belt with a shiny silver buckle compliment his appearance.
When I groggily introduced myself as Stefano, he shuffled a pair of old cowboy boots backwards, and grunted with a heavy southern accent, “Stay-fan-o, what kind o’ name’s that?”
I ignored the response but it definitely raised my concern level a notch.
I soon found myself inside a dirty pick-up truck with no heater, a fully stocked gun rack and a large rebel flag decorating the rear window. And most significant no breakfast, Festus doesn’t recommend it. Bewildered, I was assured of learning the reason later. My concern level leaped another notch.
He drove for over an hour to arrive at this pre-selected location deep in a dreary looking forest and I must add with deadly accuracy, he never missed a single hole on the unpaved trail. Each time the truck encountered a large crater it became airborne and returned to earth with a teeth-grinding shudder of metal causing Festus to yell “Yaa..hoo!”
My concern level also jumped a few more notches. During the roller coaster ride I gripped the door frame with my right hand and the seat with my left. My body however experienced weightlessness, causing my head to sporadically make contact with the roof of the cab. During my torment I feared three things, my breakfast-less stomach protruding from my mouth, the vehicle coming apart and landing in one huge pile of rusted metal or acquiring a neurological disorder of some kind.
Festus must have read my mind or saw the terror in my bulging eyes accompanied by the ridiculous posture resembling a cat hanging on for dear life because he shouted between yahoos,
“Have no fear boy, I’ve welded this old bucket so many times it’s strong as a tank.”
Fine and dandy I thought, who’s going to weld my frame back together?
On arrival, as if I had control or knowledge of hunting times, he loudly declared,
“We should have been here two hours ago boy!”
The bouncing truck experience obviously scrambled my brain. Instead of keeping my mouth shut, I made another stupid remark.
“Big deal, what’s wrong with seven in the morning, you make an appointment with the herd?”
I guess he wasn’t too pleased with my facetious comeback. He responded with a cold penetrating stare resembling a tiger preparing to pounce on a homespun idiot. I knew right then and there our relationship was going to be somewhat unhinged.
I’ve never hunted anything in my life, only cheap cooked meals and the only time I fired a rifle was at already dead beer cans. Festus sensed it and wasted no time in challenging what little macho I had left.
“When’s the last time you hunted or killed anything and what you know about deer boy!”
I nervously added, “The only thing I know, it’s cold and I’m freaking hungry.”
Another stupid remark on my part but after the syllables escaped out into the cold it was too late to bring them back.
My guide or captor growled, “A hunter has to be hungry it helps fine tune animal instincts and necessary for sniffing out prey and completing a kill, darn where you hail from boy?”
Oh yea right, as if I’m likely to sniff out a prowling cheese omelet in the middle of nowhere, which is what my instincts were concentrating on.
I wished he wouldn’t repeat the word “kill” so much and also “boy”, he’s lucky I’m not black or is it the other way around? My brain started to numb a little as hunger began getting the best of me. As my whining increased, Festus offered some beef jerky but only a small piece, so as not to dull my animal instinct, what a guy. If he only knew the only instinct I experienced was an urge to get the hell out of here.
I prefer carrying my laptop in the field and write things as they happen but unfortunately Festus didn’t like the idea and threatened to cut my jerky rations if I did. Meaning, after stomping through the woods, I’m condemned to write in the evening which is a lot colder.
After putting gear and tents in place, we traipsed into the woods with loaded rifles ready to confront the armed herd. Festus didn’t like the way I carried the weapon and commented, “Keep the rifle barrel aimed at the sky until you’re ready to aim boy.”
He then mumbled something that sounded like “Fool’s liable to shoot his foot off.”
The remark went for naught. After hours of silent trekking, the experience was disappointing. I frequently stumbled and wandered in the wrong direction, including creating unnecessary noises, as he referred to my chatting. Needless to say I literally drove Festus out of his Stetson.
We returned to base camp empty handed and in a sullen mood. After Festus finished going over everything I did wrong, which was everything, we settled down for the night but not before declaring, “Sharpen up for tomorrow boy, we gotta be up real early.”
January 15th – DAY TWO – Temperature 25 degrees F.
Festus attempted to rouse me at five in the morning and it soon became evident I’m not cut out to be the outdoors man I thought I could be. Festus’ first wake up call caused me to simply roll over to the right and continue snoring. The second call was more direct. He kicked the crap out of my feet while screaming expletives. I must have mumbled something and immediately curled up again. The last was more dramatic. As I lay dreaming of a nice warm bed the odor of gunpowder tweaked my nose, followed by the sensation of cold steel poking my ears. After caressing my face with a rifle barrel he offered a stern warning.
“Boy, if you ain’t outta that tent in three seconds this here rifle is gonna send you home deaf.”
Aware he’s capable of that and more, my cowardly instincts responded. In one mille-second I was on my feet wearing the tent on my head.
When I contracted this guy, he seemed normal enough but now that we’re out in the wild, he’s done some kind of strange transformation. His voice sounds identical to Clint Eastwood with a southern drawl and hunter guide turned Navy Seal instructor.
He’s even walking similar to John Wayne. The moment I begin to hear strumming banjos I’m out of here. My concern level’s rapidly rising.
Lately, he’s been confusing me. With his drawl and cold wind striking my ears, whenever he shouts my name, it sounds as if he’s saying, “stay down” causing me at times to dive nose first into the ground. I also learned not to wander around after his remark,
“I’ll shoot anything that moves.”
I must look ridiculous in camouflage garb, concern level rising.
I’m only glad we occupy separate tents. He’s starting to smell similar to a dumpster on a hot summer day and defends his appearance and woodsy cologne with a logical explanation.
“Animals are attracted by my scent, you’ll see.”
No I don’t see, I can smell, whew!
The second excursion into the woods proves to be as unforgettable as the first.
Festus began shouting commands as though training for an encounter with an enemy regiment and after hours of stalking in the “kill zone” as he calls it, we return empty handed. We spend the rest of the evening going over things I screwed up and ads,
“Hit those keys quiet boy, prey could be just a foot away. We need be alert at all times, no noise or dosing out here Stay-fan-o!”
Followed by, “Be ready to git up at the crack of dawn boy.”
January 16 – DAY THREE – Temperature 30 degrees F.
I quickly discover what “crack of dawn” really means. It’s my back doing the cracking at dawn and after gulping some hot disgusting liquid he calls coffee, we rush to the kill zone. For all I know this guy probably pissed in the cup.
After a couple of hours he reasons my presence is somehow spooking animals. Great, it means I can stroll through the African plains without fear. Festus lectures me on how to freeze and not even breathe on encountering an animal. He totally confuses me, how do I shoot anything while standing frozen and not breathing? I would definitely faint. Once again we return empty handed and Festus is ticked off at me, again.
By now he must think I’m a sissy city slicker but am not going to admit it, not yet.
Tomorrow will be my last chance to take down a deer and in retrospect, not sure if I’m capable of executing some defenseless animal. If no deer comes my way, I’ll just squeeze off a few rounds into the ground, just as my strange friend did a while ago.
He startled the crap out of me when, without warning, began firing repeatedly at some thick dry shrubs and exclaimed, “Yup, now I feel better.”
What the heck was that all about? Does this mountain guy get his kicks just firing the stupid rifle? Which causes me to think, where does this character go to relax, the firing range at a local Army base?
From my tent I can hear him cleaning his rifle and wonder what it means to him.
I envision Festus relishing the sweet aroma of gun oil, the rhythmic metallic click of parts affectionately oiled and gentle strokes of a soft polishing cloth over a firm wooden stock. He’s without a doubt in sheer ecstasy. There has to be another way of relieving stress in the wild.
In Festus’ vernacular, we hit the sack at seven.
January 17 – DAY FOUR – Temperature 30 degrees F.
Today began as usual, with Festus screaming his infamous wake up call.
“Last chance to kill. Git up boy!”
Half asleep the words seem to be emanating from some far away nightmare.
Fully dressed and ready to roam, he adds, “Come on boy, you wanna kill an animal today or not?”
I again wished he wouldn’t repeat the word kill so much.
The tirade continues, “Dam it Stay-fan-o, in the old days you wouldn’t have lasted one day.”
Well at least he left out “boy”. His Seal Instructor’s imitation is still intact but he’s right. The closest I came to killing anything is a palmetto bug my hysterical wife found one day in the kitchen. I scared the critter away and in all probability deaf after my Flamenco dance on the tile floor.
Adrenaline rushing we marched once again to hunt the elusive deer. After four days without a bath, my body’s emitting a Festus type aroma. I take this to mean I’m ready for the hunt. With this in mind I began sniffing for prey and detected a foul odor akin to an indoor Zoo. I quickly realize it’s not an animal, only Festus’ unique cologne. Well at least my olfactory organ’s working.
Later, as we stalk I sniff again, see thick dry brush moving and as instructed, freeze! Sure enough something’s lurking out there and before he could stop me, I fire!
His reaction is, “What the hell you shooting at boy?”
I nervously answer, “You were right, my instincts did it.”
Poking around the brush he mumbles “Sure hope you didn’t cancel some hunter’s latrine plans.”
I froze in terror; the mere thought of murdering some poor squatting soul sent shivers up and down my frozen spine and aroused the latrine instinct in me.
But, to my relief, Festus comes up with something resembling a chicken and a skinny one at that. I never saw Festus laugh before and he did with complete abandon.
He held up my kill, as he called it, exclaiming, “It ain’t much, but am proud of you boy, you had the guts to follow your instincts. You shot its skinny head off but that’s okay. Just remember Stay-fan-o we came to shoot big game, not skinny birds.”
His small accolade gave me a surge of confidence and I proceeded on a search and destroy mission. But, as the day wore on, I continued to spook prey. He finally gave up, grumbling, “Let’s git outta here and head for camp.”
What a relief, I was ready to call it quits on the first day but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Actually, I feared he would hurt my feelings or worse.
Tonight I get to sleep an hour longer as per Colonel Festus’ declaration.
Concern level slowly dropping.
January 18 – DAY FIVE – Temperature 30 degrees F.
It’s six in the morning. I was going to do some re-write before packing for our trek back to civilization but figured what the heck leave it as is. Festus wanted it that way. He didn’t want anybody remotely resembling me looking him up as a guide and still refuses to divulge our exact location. In addition to my chagrin he informs me Festus isn’t his real name and suggests, “Next time go further north. I’ll give you the name of a guide fella I don’t much care about.”
Approaching the entrance, the motel never looked so beautiful. I bid him good bye and he replied, “So long Stay-fan-o or Stay-fen-o, oh darn it, why don’t you just change your name boy?”
With a guy like him you really don’t know if he’s kidding or not.
No matter, I learned many things in the past few days. One, stay away from the deep woods in winter and two never go hunting with a man bigger than you, especially if he smells worse than your wet dog. Last, bring your own food including a couple of cheeseburgers hidden in a knapsack.
Inside the warm surroundings of the room, I dropped into bed and passed out for four hours. After taking a long overdue shower, I scurried down to the restaurant around noon. Disregarding wide-eyed stares from patrons, I proceeded to devour food in a manner resembling a hungry wild animal.
Afterwards, I wondered what Festus was doing right now but it soon dawned on me and felt stupid for not having thought of it before. He’s probably headed to an Army base for some R and R.
Good bye Alabama and if I see you again it’ll definitely be in the summer.
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