Date/Subject

01/16/2000 Look Around

03/01/2000 Ol' Sim Dunn

03/04/2000 "Smiley" Dunn

03/05/2000 Little "Dag"

03/07/2000 Top Rose Award

03/20/2000 Three Little Pigs

03/24/2000 Odds 'N Ends

06/19/2000 Pop

07/14/2000 Reporting In

07/25/2000 Unusual/Good

08/19/2000 Velvet Report

08/29/2000 Allen Too

09/24/2000 Sevens Abound

09/27/2000 Ol' Sneaky Snake

11/03/2000 Mattamuskeet 2Thou

11/07/2000 Blackpowder Mid-day Blast

11/09/2000 Hail Sumter, SC

11/12/2000 Medico Interuptum Non Huntum

Entry, Jan 16, 2000

Look Around

"Loyal (readers) fans and true", as Bob Barker says on The Price Is Right, who have come to this point may or may not have seen some recent changes in this site. I would suggest if you haven't been here in the last few days, a quick scouting trip of your own around the various pages of the site. I've added some colorful graphics here and there and inserted a few topic subtitles. I provided new transits to interesting sites in the Links table. I also made some much needed corrections in my terrible spelling (not to include the ones I misspell on purpose) and in general raised sand, kicked butts and took names. In addition this page was created, and in a similar manner a second page for the Gallery will be trotting in as soon as I feel it's needed. I'm also toying with the addition of a guestbook for logging in and leaving tracks on, if you care to. I like that idea and the feedback it could provide me with. In fact if things work out it may already be here, even as we speak. All of this is in way of making the site more visually appealing and interesting. Oh, also to make it easier for me to find my damn way around and of course make it more satisfying to me. What can I say?

I do want to pass along a couple of things I've found worthwhile that I've been meaning to mention. One makes it easier for us old geezers (and you young bucks too) to see what we most need to see at the crucial moment. The other makes your feet more comfortable. Hoo-boy, I can get into that!

Fiber optic sights are what I'm hooked on first. Being a rifle/pistol coach for years, I know (and you need to) that sight alignment is much more critical/important than sight picture. You can let the bullseye fuzz out (in fact you're better off if you do) as long as you pay attention to your sight alignment and "hold 'em & squeeze 'em." That way your sight alignment and sight picture tend to stay how you eyeballed them just before the shot went off. In other words concentrate on your sight alignment (front with rear, blade or pin in peep, etc.) with your sight picture (position on the target) being secondary or subconscious. In order to do that you must really see your sights, and that's where fiber optics comes in. They are everything the ads say in visibility, even in low light. Tru-Glo is the brand I use. It was one of the first out for bows and I bought one for my old PSE the first year they came out. I also put them on my Mathews as soon as I got it. I've never deviated in my support for them or belief in them. When I decided to put some on my shotgun for turkey shoots and hunting, I was tickled to find Tru-Glo made those also. I'm sure other brands are just as good now and it is worth mentioning they are not near as prone to damage as some folks think, with normal care of your gear that is. I guess what I'm trying to say is, as far as I am concerned fiber optics shine. You should try some anytime you get the chance. The large majority won't be disappointed.

The foot comfort I mentioned is socks. My goodness, didn't they even get him to wear socks in the Marine Corps, you may be wondering? No, no, I mean some special socks. As a matter of fact I was never one to go barefoot to any degree. Nor even to wear shoes without socks as some do. As an adult I've always had trouble of one kind and another with my feet and therefore have always been conscious of their comfort. It seems my feet have always been the most comfortable in boots so that is what I tend to wear most often. I liked the cushioned sole socks used/issued in the Marine Corps but was glad after I got out to discover tube socks. Ah, no heel place to slip around and get out of whack inside the boot while walking, etc. However I still hated when wearing rubber boots, waders and the like (as we do a bunch of while fishing and hunting) how even tube socks would tend to slip down around your ankles. Sometimes it would even get so bad the top band would be around the arch of the foot when removing the boots. Well now, my good bud, Sonny gave me a pair of socks for Christmas that may just put an end to all that foolishness. I noted they were boot socks and was pleased as I can always use those. Later I noticed the dreaded "heel place" but then I read of the "special" part about them on the package. They are Rocky socks, by the makers of the well known Rocky boots and claim to have a kind of rib around the ankle to keep the sock from doing what socks take sheer delight in doing. Namely slippin' and slidin' and runnin' and hidin'. I thought, "Yeah! Right! I'll be the judge of that." Well after two days of slogging around in rubber boots, one even with my bog boots on while retrieving a tree stand, the other being the last day of the deer season in that heavy marsh grass, I'm here to tell you simply, "Yahoo!" No slippage - nada - zip - zilch - zero - none. Thank you, Sonny and thank you, Rocky. I told Rose when I first donned them that they really felt comfortable but it remained to be seen if they would function as touted. Boy, did they ever. I love 'em, so there. Gonna get some more too, be gorra.

PS: The guestbook is all ready at Bernie's Guestbook. (Note: Changed my Guestbook on Jan.15, 2002 to one provided by Bravenet.com to compliment my pages better. Reach it from the link on the my Index/Home Page.)

PPS: It was recently brought to my attention (by a dumb TV commercial) that lake Mattamuskeet is not a manmade lake but this state's largest natural lake. At first I thought they'd made a mistake (figures) so I checked my brochure from the National Wildlife Refuge. Oh well, back to the drawing board. I have no idea where I got the impression it was manmade but I've always thought the Corps of Engineers had a big hand in building or developing it. Perhaps they built the road that cuts through the middle of the lake. At any rate not wanting to be spreading bad "scuttlebutt" and/or appearing stupider, I mean less informed, then I am, I have corrected that statement regarding the lake. The corrected statement is on Bernie's Dreams page.

While you're here you might check out the Gallery page again. On the morning the snow pictures were taken there must have been a good thirty or more birds of all types availing themselves of our goodies for them in that area. Disappointingly none of them show up but it was virtually alive with them flitting about.

Entry, Mar 01, 2000

Ol' Sim Dunn

Recently I posted another family photo to the Gallery pages of this site. As the info on that page indicates it is of five generations of males in my family. Besides the normal interest attached to a photo of this type it brings to mind a point about our family history, being one of the few pictures of "Ol' Sim Dunn". My Great Grandfather, Ol' Sim, died when I was quite young. He was as Irish as Pat McGinty's pig and definitely his own man. He also happens to be the catalyst that caused a split in the Irish Dunn clan of New England that was to last for generations. For reasons of his own which few, if any, of us are privy to he chose to renounce the Catholic faith of his ancestors and family and become a Free Mason. Apparently the rift was deep and wide but whether or not there was any active bitterness involved can only be speculated on now. The chasm was only bridged during very recent years when Tom Dunn (briefly mentioned elsewhere in these pages) and others decided to trace our history to promote a strong sense of family for the younger generations. They have done a great job and there are no wounds to heal among the family members these days. Well, at least none from the afore mentioned rift at any rate. Can't vouch for other "stuff" that may be hidden in family closets and ditty bags. We as children growing up were never all that aware of the family breach as such. I do remember mildly wondering from time to time why an Irish lad such as myself was not a catholic like the other Irish (and French) playmates I knew. However I was mostly just pleased that I didn't have to deal with all the church and parochial school "horrors" that they delighted in telling me about. Funny how things spin around but the family was put back in touch through Ev, my oldest (half) brother, also in that picture with Ol' Sim. Basically he met a Dunn, told him that he also started out as a Dunn before being adopted by our Grandmother Delworth and the rest is history - recent history. Ev was invited to one of the annual Dunn (in Vermont) family reunions and he brought the "banner" to us and now there is much hand shaking, back slapping, and general family bonding going on at the reunions and over the Internet. One can only wonder at how many things might have differed over the years, eh? Well for me, all I can say at this point is I like what I've seen so far about the whole-blessed clan. By the way, the "S" in B. S. Dunn stands for Simeon in case you weren't aware of that little tidbit.

On another subject, Randy and I have a SC pig hunt set up with new friend Allen in mid March. I'll be relating whatever there is/is not to report about that after it comes to pass. I know, you await with bated breath. RIGHT!
 
 

Entry, Mar 04, 2000

"Smiley" Dunn

Always known to his friends as "Smiley", my Grampa Bernie truly deserved his nickname. He was the nicest, most pleasant man I ever met in my life. (Reference the same photo as previous entry.) I never remember seeing him when he wasn't easy going and happy and his infectious smile was never more than a moment away. On the rare occasion when he did correct his adopted daughter, it always seemed mild and momentary to me. She, Theresa, was my closest pre-school buddy and teenage confidant. We were the same age, tighter than ticks and pretty much always known as cousins. We never hid that she was my aunt but "cousins" worked better all around. It is entirely possible that our closeness put my Grampa Bernie and I in a most favorable light to each other. You see, she was my very special dear friend and also the apple of his eye. However this is about him, not us. Before my time "Smiley" had the reputation of being quite the ladies man and with his personality I have no doubts he was. During my lifetime though it was a well known fact he was only with and devoted to Theresa's mother, Diana. I remember well, frequent short visits to our homes near The Weirs and in Glendale by "himself", when returning from hunts. He was my idea of a "Gentleman Hunter". Always looking like he stepped out of a calendar picture, in his matching red and black checkered outfit from the top down to his leather and rubber pac-boots. His impressive, no, beautiful shock of white hair and his impeccable appearance never failed to stir in my young mind the desire to "look right". I only recall a very few times that he had the odd pheasant, partridge, or a brace of rabbit, but he always had his smile. I loved him dearly and only chided him slightly for not having Theresa with him on those occasions. These are my impressions of the man but the story I really want to tell is one my mother used to relate often. It was before my time and follows, to the best of my memory.

When Ma and Pop were courting and or first married, Grampa Bernie was a motorcyclist. He loved speed and cars but the cycle put him closer to the feeling. In latter years we would call it a rush. "Smiley" loved to participate in so called Uphill Motorcycle Races. That was in the days when the cycles were not designed for this sort of dangerous pastime and tended to flip over backwards more often then not. In my mother's words those who raced, "had to be half drunk to attempt those uphill climbs." I presumed Grandpa Bernie was no slackard in that department either, in those days. The racers wore old time leather pilot helmets back then and riding britches, much as early car racers did. "Smiley" was sure to have cut a dashing figure resplendent with silk scarf and all. Sidecars for passengers came out about then. Being one who loved all the accessories, "Smiley" certainly had to have one. Now sidecars worked fine as long as they held a passenger, but again cycles were not designed to balance empty sidecars. I really can't recall if it was the first time Ma was to meet my father's father or just an impression that always stayed with her. Be that as it may, when "Smiley" pulled into the curved, downhill driveway with his usual speed and dash, he forgot his new sidecar was empty. Suffice it to say he zigged when he should have zagged and the sidecar went up in the air, threatening to carry him over sideways. Had it not have been for his considerable "skill and preparation" as an uphill racer it is doubtful he could have bested the machine and finally brought it to a safe landing. No sooner had he done this then he dismounted easily, whipped out of his helmet and into his famous smile. "Jee-e-zus Ke- riste," he side-mouthed his favorite expletive, "the damned thing like to of got me, didn't it?"

He was the only man I ever knew who could mouth that curse and never sound like he was cursing. Ma always cautioned us against following his lead in that trait never the less.

Entry, Mar 05, 2000

Little "Dag"

While I'm on family and grandfathers I feel a compulsion to tell this one on my brother, Durwood. The actual story also took place before my birth and is one of my parents favorite tales, repeated through my memory again. First a little background on the cast though. Durwood was the name given my brother, six years my senior, by my mother after careful consideration. She hated nicknames and felt sure she had chosen a name for her first born that would not be easily abused and contorted. Poor misguided soul on that count. Durwood hadn't much more than established himself in the school system of the Laconia area before his schoolmates realized that Durwood was too close to "Dagwood" (of Bumsted fame) to pass up. Ma was crestfallen and disgusted. Durwood accepted it with resignation and ever-growing pride. To this day he is known to co-workers, friends and most family as "Dag". As a youngster growing up it became evident "Dag" was quiet, thoughtful, considerate, and sensitive but always outgoing enough with those around him. Our Grandfather Bradley, Ma's father, was a tall, straightforward, rather reserved, typical New Englander. He had been a stone mason most of his life and built many of the stone walls around the Lyndonville area of Vermont, some probably still standing if the truth were known. He was as enduring and reliable as those silent stones but with heart. He was much in evidence when Durwood was a baby, for these were close to and in depression years and Grampa Bradley's wife had gone on long before, when Ma was but a youngster. Grampa Bradley and Durwood developed an abiding closeness and respect for each other over the years that never wavered.

During those harder days there came a particularly cold day. Grampa Bradley was very concerned. Vern, our father, was logging in the woods close by. The money was needed but it was the kind of cold that could freeze a man's fingers to a trace chain in a heartbeat. To make matters worse, one horse of the team Pop was using had been giving him some trouble and tended to be unpredictable. It was later than Vern normally returned from the woods and darkness was fast approaching. Ma was doing womanly meal preparation things and trying not to appear too concerned, so as not to add to her dad's obvious anxiety. He meanwhile was standing tall and straight by the window with hands clasped behind him, watching intently for signs of a son-in-law he had great affection for. He was in deep concentration. A quite young Durwood was kind of crawling and staggering around the room amusing himself. Perhaps he was wondering why his normally attentive grandfather was so preoccupied. He crawled to him and pulled himself up by the man's pant leg. Now my mother's father had never been one to curse. Understandably, when she heard him scream out the Lord's name in vain she was sure he had beheld a terrible sight. She rushed to the doorway of the room and found her shocked father looking back down over his shoulder at an equally bewildered Durwood, while gingerly rubbing the sparse Bradley butt cheek. For that was where the young Dunn had decided to try out some of his newly acquired teeth, right at that particularly tense moment in time. Grampa Bradley continued in a quieter but no less amazed voice, "Why boy, what in God's good world ever made you bite me like that?"

Ma could hardly suppress a much-relieved laugh and Pop returned home safe and sound shortly thereafter. Maybe that had some bearing on the close relationship of "Dag" and Grampa Bradley, for surely that is getting pretty dog gone close.
 
 

Entry, Mar 07, 2000

Top Rose Award

On this date my web site has received an award that pleases me no end. To start with, it is a beautiful award using my favorite flower of all time, even before I met my wife. (You should have seen it on my Home Page unless you failed to scroll down all the way. Please return to see it.) Next, the reason it is awarded as stated on it, is "For Making A Difference" and that is what I try to do in my own small way. If I ever or never get another award this one will be the most treasured as it comes from someone who is really trying to live that criterion. Susie Q, by which the presenter is known, strikes me as truly a "Woman for All Seasons" if I may take that liberty. She is a huntress, bow person, presenter of recipes, Web Designer of some note as seen by her site and others she (and her husband also) have designed, and a mother and wife who must be inspiring the support of her family. You will see what I mean if you take some time to visit her site. You'll find the link in my Hot Links table (# 13) on my Life and Times page. Please go and bookmark it, you'll want to return, trust me on this. She has beautiful photos, stories, info, hunts, an on-line store for bow hunters, and easy traveling throughout. One Final note on Susie Q Burch of SC, She is accomplishing all of this through days of excruciating pain. As she puts it, "some good days, some bad days." Some Two and a half years ago she was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. I recently saw a kind of documentary on TV about a couple of women with this. Believe me, this is no fun. Perhaps because that was fresh in my mind when I saw the notation on her web site, I was drawn to that and forgot all the rest of it until later. She has a page/section she calls simply, "My Journey with Fibromyalgia." It logs her progress, up and downs, but mostly it is designed to provide a venue of support, fact finding, and just plain contact with others in the same boat or interested in supporting, etc. Judging from the entries in her guest book, it's doing a good job. Make A Difference; go visit Susie - more than once.

Entry, Mar 20, 2000

Three Little Pigs

No, that does not refer to a harvest by any stretch of the imagination. It refers to the Great White Hunters, Randy, Allen, and yours truly. In truth there was a harvest, after there were no longer three of us, but more on that later. The title of this little report actually refers to our numbers, our quarry, the way we ate, and the way we looked most of the time. "How many times do I have to tell you kids to stay out of that mud?" Those words seemed to echo and re-echo from our pasts down into that Sav River area throughout the hunt. Fortunately our trusty hip waders and bog boots bore the brunt of the mud and helped to keep us shielded from the bulk of it. Well, at least a couple of us anyway. More about that later too.

Let me first state without reservations that Allen turned out to be, as predicted by Randy, a pleasure to hunt with and a fine and welcome addition to our campfire. He is a dedicated hunter but with a ready sense of humor and quiet wit. This quickly endeared him to this old Dr. of Mirth, for I am fully convinced that laughter is the best medicine available to mankind. I also met Allen's wife and his father-in-law, Stan who may join us on later hunting and/or fishing experiences. They are nice, pleasant people. Stan dubbed Allen with the computer chat handle of Future Hunter and the humor in that is also enjoyable and evident. However I feel assured there is no real question of his competence, just good interaction. You've got to believe a person who gets along with both his wife and his father-in-law can't be all bad, right? I can just hear Allen replying, with a put on, quiet, kind of little-boy, hurt expression, "Well you don't have to go and get all sarcastic about it." That's an insight into his personality. He is also an avid and knowledgeable turkey hunter and we had some good conversations about that.

Randy said early on in the trip, " I can readily see trying to carry on any semblance of a meaningful conversation with you two guys during the next three days is entirely out of the question." That became his "cross to bear" (and beat us over the head with) the rest of the trip. It was one of the great trips believe me. Randy also informed me at the outset that Allen had, on previous scouting trips displayed a penchant for jumping in the water and or mud. He was right about that too. We've decided he is part seal and just can't resist it. He is drawn to it like a moth to the flame, yet isn't about to let it interfere with his enjoyment of the hunt. Strange! I must admit though, much to my chagrin, one time it probably would not have occurred had he not been trying to lighten my load. Sorry about that, bud. Or as we used to say in the Corps, "ZBD," which meant, "zorry bout dat!"

I traveled to SC and Randy's on Saturday and met the others that evening. We also went to an Ace Hardware and if you are ever in Sumter you really need to check it out. It is a full-fledged hardware but everyone refers to it as Simpson's and not Ace. I understand they have three of them in that area. They cater to the outdoorsman and the aisles are just loaded with camping, fishing, and hunting supplies as well as all the hardware items. It is like going into an old-time hardware with modern goods. Trust me, a person could sure spend some time looking around in there and enjoy it.

The next AM we picked up Allen and his gear, after giving him the normal grief over how much of it he had. It's a hunter thing. Though the hunt wouldn't start until the next day we wanted to get camp set up and then do some stand placement and looking around. It was a long, hard slog in to where we wanted to put stands but it felt good to be back at it. It didn't eat up too awfully much time and soon we were walking around in another area. Then we had little to carry other than Allen's trusty camera. He is an aspiring landscape and wildlife photographer and will soon have a web site displaying some of his work. He also should be providing us with some good visuals for the Gallery page. We certainly had a number of great opportunities this trip. In fact that afternoon found us playing peek-a-boo with a litter of seven wild piglets. While Allen wore out his shutter Randy and I kept a watchful eye out for the mama. She never appeared so either she was off on an extended food forage or had met with some ill fate. Perhaps at the hands of one of the many gators in the area, since that locale wouldn't be open for pig hunting until the next day. Never the less we stayed nervously watchful while the little pigs played and started to move off a little. Randy decided he would work his way around the far side of them to head them back to Allen's camera. I joined Allen and even though we talked in hoarse whispers the little ones decided to bed down on a sunny hummock close by. It was hilarious to watch them. Like a litter of pups, the outside ones would keep rousing and jockeying for position in the warmer midst of the rest. Randy sneaked all the way around while we exchanged signals about the non-appearing but expected sow. Even domestic pigs are not overly friendly when they have young, let alone wild ones who may never even have seen people or may have had bad experiences with them. When there still was no sign of an irate mother, Randy began advancing on the litter. Now, Randy has never made any secret of the fact he has always wanted to get his hands on a little one. The train of his thinking was becoming more and more evident to Allen and me. We were doing our best to discourage this potentially foolhardy turn of events but it was becoming obvious it was to no avail. Randy couldn't help it; he was driven like a leaf before the wind. Let me say he did not have to chase them or scare them for that matter. However when he made his final pounce they scattered, except for the runt who happened to be closest to him. He came up with that little feller in both hands just as if he knew what he was doing, calling out, "Where's the mother?"

My reply was simply and honestly, "Have no idea!"

Luckily she was a no-show even though the runt was doing his share of calling out also. The upshot was Allen got a picture (we hope) of "The Ranman" fixing to kiss the pig and the little guy squinting like a child expecting a distasteful buff from a dotting aunt. After that the piglet was rewarded with a quick release followed by a hurry-scurry back to his retreating siblings. In retrospect, probably the best that can be said about this incident is the following: if some ill fate had befallen the mother, at least those youngsters learned an early and probably lasting lesson about the smell of man. I don't imagine they'll be bedding down any time soon when the wind is swirling man-scent all around them as they did that day. Allen and I had to admit it was a neat experience but we sent Randy packing off for a visit with his psychologist while we returned to set up camp. I fear it probably didn't do any more good than the dancing lessons his mother sent him off for as a youngster. He didn't go to them either. It was obvious when he made that flying leap at the litter of pigs.

That evening while the other two set up camp I prepared the venison chili Rose had cooked and provided us with. The three of us mooched it down with great relish, gusto and uncouth noises of appreciation. The next night we wolfed down stuffed pork loin roast (from the turkey shoots) and fried rice, also pre-prepared by Rose. On our final night, Allen prepared fried, breaded catfish nuggets from big cats that he and Stan had taken by bowfishing/gigging. We also had some cornbread muffins with them, compliments of my good wife and insisted on by Randy ever since the first time they were included in our trip larders. As I indicated at the beginning, we ate like three little pigs.

The next morning, the first day of the actual hunt found us not zipping across the waters of the Sav River as would be the norm but trucking to our departure point. We would hoof it in through a goodly distance of swamps and flooded timber to check out numerous small hummocks and ridges that my two partners had pre-scouted. It would be a long hard walk with hip waders and bog boots becoming like lead weights to winter-spoiled, lazy leg muscles. The idea was that opening day hunting pressure by others should drive pigs to less handy locales. The strategy was valid as it turned out. We had our best chances that first morning. Not only that but a revisit of the strategy and location on the last day of the open season by Randy and Allen would garner them another chance and a nice pig for Allen. Too bad I couldn't have been with them for the score but our hunt ended Wed. afternoon and I was not in a position to return on Sun. as they did. In fact I was working that day but Randy called me on his cell phone in the early AM to say excitedly, "Guess where we are?" I guessed correctly and he filled me in on the details of what had just occurred. It was a fitting end to some very hard scouting and hunting. I was disappointed I wasn't with them for the end but I did not envy them the job of hauling even that not too large hog out over that long distance of rough going.

On that first morning though, we came, we saw (Randy two - no shot opportunity, Allen and I - four in one group), we shot, we missed, and then we beat our heads on the cypress knees. Finally we made a pact to drown each other in the swamp rather then face the full realization of our failings. However Randy said he didn't want to walk out alone (in case he saw and shot one and would have to haul it out) so we dissolved the pact before consummating it. Allen, by shooting at a target later found his shotgun was throwing those darned slugs low. That information stood him in good stead on the following Sun. I found my shots from my trusty Mossberg right where I put them, judging by the marks on a stump and a cypress knee. Which meant basically they had passed through the rather largish black hog I shot at, or he was taller and leaner than I thought and I shot just under him. At any rate the three of us spent a lot of time plowing around in that swamp and found not hide nor hair of him so it most likely was the latter choice. *##@%&$(_#+ @%!)+^~** #@%*$&!, anyway.

The rest of the hunt was great in more ways than anyone who wasn't there can imagine but we saw no more pigs at all. On the last day we talked to a ranger and he informed us they had checked in a fair number on the first day but all had been taken on the Georgia side and only one exceeded fifty pounds. So the one Allen was destined to take on Sun. would beat that and make at least one from SC. However we enjoyed pretty good weather, not too hot - not too cold except one morning. That was one of those that Allen chose to go "swimming" on, I seem to recall. There is no figuring some peoples' taste. We saw and hopefully got good pictures of deer, alligators, ospreys, ducks, a Bald Eagle, herons, and what according to my identification book was a bittern that put on quite a show for us right up close. We also visited the refuge nature drive one evening and were able to point out all kinds of the above to the less capable eyes of a couple of older ladies from MA and NY following in a car behind us. We enjoyed it and they were enthralled. Randy also got to really hear and see turkeys living and interacting in the wild for his first time. No pictures there but they were in the process of going to roost in a tree right out in front of his stand. Allen and I were positioned wrong to see them but we heard all the action. Randy said two toms and a large armadillo walked right under his stand while all this was going on.

All in all it was a trip to remember and well worth the wait, the preparation, and all the hard work (extra by Randy and Allen) that went into it. Thanks, guys, even though you did go back without me and get a pig. Some buddies!

Entry, Mar 24, 2000

Odds 'N Ends

Just a little family trivia that should prove entertaining. The first two are exchanges between me and my new found cousin, Tom. They appear/occurred on a family web site elsewhere on the internet. The third is a visit to our past triggered by my taking Rose to a cat show a few days back.

This exchange took place after a scheduled St. Patrick's Day family voice and text chat on our west coast family web site failed to work. A number of members, myself included, had made entries hazarding guesses as to why it hadn't worked. Tom, ever the Irishman stated:

"How many Irishman does it take ......... "

"...to change a light bulb or get a chat going. Our ancestors are rolling over in their graves and dying of laughter...finding it hard to believe that an bunch of IRISH DUNN'S could not get a gab fest going. And on St. Paddy's Day no less!! This will undoubtedly go down in the ANNALS as one of the saddest moments in the Thomas and Marry Higgins Dunn family for this Irish clan. And to think we had Bernie 'The Lip' Dunn, Raymond 'Mr. Silk' Dunn (ed. Delworth), Peggy 'The Wise Guy' Auger, and June 'The Scott' Dunn supposedly the finest orators of the clan on deck. The only recourse all of you have is to purchase a ticket on the next plane to Ireland and renew your ancestry at the Blarney Stone. I am deeply saddened by this course of events.....and to blame it on technology......'tis shameful. May you all have a dry whistle and may the wetting of your chin mind you well of your transgressions. I suspect this will even be reported in greater detail in the next Dunn Journal. This has to be shared amongst the clan.....oh, what a tragedy it is........"

I replied in kind (tongue in cheek):

"ROFL - Roll On Floor Laughing, to the uninitiated. You've outdone yourself this time, Tommy me boy-o, - - - and may the curse of the broken walking staff on a morn of blindness after a night of revelry befall you. (So you'll think you've grown into a giant and will surely bash your head on all doorways you enter if you don't duck lower than you crawled the night before.) 'The Lip', indeed! (I love it.)"

The other was after Tom saw my reference in "Ol' Sim" to my being named after my grandfather and great grandfather thus producing my initials, B.S. He quipped in writing:

"B.S. Dunn ...always wondered about that...up in Vermont we have another ciphering for that...ayah!"

I responded with the following story:

"Funny you should say that - - - my initials have always drawn that kind of fire. Fortunately I've always seen the humor in it as well as the next guy. I remember a time when I was a SSGT and newly assigned as an electronics instructor at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. To start, they sent us newbies to the Navy Recruit Depot for a particularly good course in Instructor Training. The first day the head instructor gave us an on the spot chore of getting up and giving an extemporary introduction to ourselves of approximatly one minute duration. Just so he could see what he had to work with, I suppose. Through the MC, I had come from a schoolboy who refused to speak in front of the class for the abject fear of it, to a person who had only enough anxiety about it to keep a needed good edge for public speaking. When it came my turn I had little trouble with the self intro and as I finished and started to leave the podium, I gestured towards what I had written on the chalkboard, SSGT B.S. Dunn, ' Oh, and by the way the initials do not stand for what you're thinking.' The instructor, a very personable Navy Chief well suited for the job, looked over the top of his clipboard and commented, 'Very good, Sgt Dunn.' He grinned and added, 'but we'll be the judge of that last part as the course progresses.' The class showed their appreciation of his humor and I had to face the fact that even when I tried to forestall the inevitable, my initials would still always be fair game"

Finally, these memories and thoughts Brought on by Rose and I looking in on a Cat Fanciers Association sanctioned cat show recently. Something we hadn't done for years. We used to be very active in the so called Cat Fancy, a collective term for federations, breeders, show-people, owners, etc. involved in the promotion and better understanding of both registered and pet cats. During the four years we were in Hawaii we were heavy into that world and loved every minute of it. We were privileged to see, know, and own some of the most beautiful cats imaginable, and it all stemmed from the purchase of a brother and sister team of fantastic Blue Point Siamese. I could write on and on about all our cats and their personalities and antics and may some day. However that is more then I want to get into in this item. Let it be enough to say we wound up breeding, raising, showing, loving, and yes, selling Siamese, Persians, Burmese, Rex (wavy hair with no guard hairs), and Domestic (or American, depending on the federation) Short Hair. We stayed in it a little after returning to the Mainland but soon found we couldn't afford to make it to the needed shows to stay competitive so dropped out in the early seventies. In Hawaii all the shows were in one place, Honolulu. We not only could make them all but I was Assistant Manager of a couple and Manager of one, which is a real education in frustration and accomplishment. I got so involved in it that I even wrote the proposed standards for a color class of Persians. It was the Cameo Tabby in most federations but all of the Cameos for one federation that hadn't recognized them at that time. Cameo is a beautiful white undercoat with almost a pink blush of color in certain patterns on the tips of the hair. The federations in question accepted most of those standards pretty much as I wrote them. Don't get me wrong, other breeders before us had done the developing of the Cameos (although we had done considerable on the Tabbies) but the writing and proposal of the standards was a job that needed doing. I tackled it and was very proud of the results, as they are now a part of the national standards in most federations. One other achievement of note was that two Siamese (a Blue Point and a Lilac or Violet Point) kittens we bred and sold became Grand Champions and were featured in a hardback book written in England. They of course carried our cattery name, X-TA-C (ecstasy) preceding their names. Now if all this seems like blowing my own horn, well I guess it is. Actually I just wanted to show how much a part of our life it had been so that I could cover how it made me feel when we went into that show the other day.

Strange and wonderful, heart lifting and heart-rending are descriptive words that come easily to mind. So much was the same as we remembered it and so much was different. White used to be the color of a top award ribbon in finals, now (at least in this show) black is top and white is second, just as a for instance that left me wondering what was up, or down. The good old "Blue Ribbon" of long standing fame in all competitions at least still seems to mean first in the color classes and types though. One thing that never changes and you will see many signs regarding it but it can not be stressed enough: Never, ever touch a cat at a cat show unless you ask the owner first, and nine times out of ten permission will not be granted. There are three real good reasons for that and a lot of lesser ones. Possible transfer of communicable disease between cats (though all are veterinarian screened upon entering the building), possible harm to the one doing the petting (and ensuing lawsuits), and probable upset or even trauma to a cat who may be going up before a judge shortly are the main three. Some of the owners are quite clever with the signs on their pet's cages. Like, "I don't bite but my owner does." Or, "Don't pet me - - even if I beg." They are deadly serious though. However they do want you to come see their cats. They are proud of them and when time permits most owner/breeders love to answer your questions and chat with you. After all every viewer/visitor is a prospective customer and even more important maybe a new "Fancier". Do visit a cat show if you ever get the chance, as I don't believe you'll regret it. Even if you're not crazy about cats....now. There are also always vendors of scads of cat-oriented goods and goodies to peruse and usually refreshments in case you stay longer then you thought you would.

Rose and I enjoyed it immensely. Mostly seeing the furry beauties but also all the flooding memories and reminiscing with some of the people who are, now, the people we used to be. Watching the special cats show off for the judges and the judges show off for the spectators; holding their top picks up high for the crowds appreciation. A good judge is a pleasure to behold and instructs as he/she judges, at some point or other - some wait for this until the finals. They are doing their fair share to reward the cats and the exhibitors and attract new blood to the game.

Two breeds were well represented at this show that were just trying to get a toehold in our day. They are striking creatures and it was worth going just to see so many of them up close. The Maine Coon cats are huge longhaired animals with Lynx-like ears and normally a docile nature and regal bearing about them. The Scottish Fold(s) are smaller, apple-headed pretties whose ears fold forward and down at the tips and are another generally good-natured breed. I was really impressed with their collective demeanor at that show.

There was one slightly awkward moment that, thankfully, passed. Without thinking I had grabbed a hat that would protect my head best from the windy day. It happened to be one of my camouflage models with a bucks head on it and of all things a banner above it that said "Trophy". As I wended my way past one middle aged lady who was feeding one of her cats on a table in front of her cages and holding court with some spectators as she should, she looked up (obviously at my hat) and stopped in mid-word. As she stared in open-mouthed disbelief at this old hunter in an animal lover's stronghold I said a quick, silent prayer for guidance. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation with a possible animal activist to mar this great day for Rose or me. I gave the lady what I hoped was a convincing little smile of reassurance and a slight negative shake of my head as I quickly moved on. Apparently either my maneuver or the prayer worked for I heard no shout or even a derogatory comment behind me and she resumed her discourse with her audience. Not a good idea to wear "camies" to cat shows. Maybe dog shows, perhaps horse shows but not cat shows. Even though hunters are involved in these pastimes and avocations it still isn't the best idea, and I know better. Not even good for our hunter's image. No one else had seemed to notice and perhaps that is why I forgot about it being on my head. Trust me, had that occurred going in, and not coming out, I would have tucked the hat inside my jacket while there. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valor.

So many great cats that we have owned, bred, sold, found good free placement homes for, and that have grown old with us and passed on (some while still young) played through my head and mind that day. It was a bittersweet experience and twice that familiar burning sensation came to these betraying eyes. Once while looking at an old lady's Blue Point Siamese that put me in mind of our two starters and once admiring a Sable Burmese who reminded me of our only one of those. My Beautiful Kam died young of cystitis, his sister Waio (Y-o) lived long and was one of our two lasts, along with an old Cameo named Sugar 'N Spice. The Burmese male was my pride and joy, Waha (emphasis on the last syllable for a reason - in Hawaiian it means loudmouth and must be said that way, Wah-hah!) who succumbed even younger then Kam to the same ailment. I never had the heart to try to replace him. Cystitis used to happen often to purebreed male cats and sometimes to females, especially it seemed in Hawaii. Perhaps it just seemed that way because it was a small community, relatively speaking, so we heard about every instance. They've made a great deal of headway in prevention and treatment of it now, I'm told.

Most all of our cats back then had Hawaiian names. I had a Hawaiian dictionary and studied it quite a bit to make sure I got it right. It is a beautiful and very different language and I'd like to pass on this little gem about it while the subject is at hand. I wish I could recall exactly (the memory goes first) but there are very few letters in the language. No more then fourteen and I'm not sure but what less. Of course a good portion of those are our vowels. Therefore (here's the gem - of semi-useless wisdom) each vowel must be pronounced if you want to speak Hawaiian correctly, although some are rather swallowed at times. Most of them sound soft also. There also are a couple or so little accent marks that have sounds of their own - neat. Yes that means that in reality the state's name has an extra little i sound on the end, but swallowed. That is why the plant and lotion, Aloe that we call al-o, in Hawaii is known as ah-lo-ee, and why the Like Like Highway that crosses Oahu through a tunnel is not pronounced the way it looks but Leek- ee Leek-ee instead. Strange but nice sounding when you get used to it. One last example, just to tie this all in. The Blue Point Kitten that became a Grand Champion (at a very young age) we had named Momi Polu. It is pronounced pretty much the way it looks, Mo-me Po-lu but it has the beautiful and appropriate meaning of Blue Pearl or literally Pearl, Blue. Hawaiian Language 01 is now dismissed for the day, or the duration, whichever comes first.

It may be a song title but think about it: "Love's The Only House Big Enough For All The Pain In The World"

(Thank you, Martina McBride.)
 
 

Entry, June 19, 2000

Pop

Note: This is another of my family recollections that I posted to the Dunn Family web site at the request for Favorite Father Stories by Tom Dunn. I think I should also include it here. By the way I finally met Tom (and what a pleasure that was) on a recent trip to New England - more on that later.

I have so many stories/memories of my Pop, Vernard E. Dunn. Like his cutting a sapling to make a serviceable fish pole and teaching me how to catch his favorite fish, the venerable Brook Trout. Or in much later years when I would be home on leave and we would make a run to Boston to "watch the ponies run", and make a wee wager or two. He also took my new wife, Rose down a couple times while I was overseas and she visited them. He was not a "ladies man" like his Dad, "Smiley" but he always dearly loved all the girls in his family - no matter how they came to be there - and treated them that way too. He expected us boys to do the same. However there is one particular memory (and the reason I respond to Tom's plea) that I have always and will always carry with me. It seemed to epitomize the warmth and strength he always blanketed his family with. It took place when I was very young, pre-school in fact. We were living on The Avenue in Lakeport, NH and Pop was working at Scott & Williams factory there, machining parts for the war effort. He would come home each night very tired. Somehow, one cold winter (or for a part of it at least) we three kids took to walking to the corner to meet him. It is rather hazy and fuzzed over with time and falling snow but I still remember it like it was yesterday. He was always glad to see us no matter how tired he was and he would pull me, and sometimes Vivian too. home on her little steel-runner-ed sled, while Durwood walked beside him holding his hand. Who knows, those six or so blocks home, however many times it occcurred, may have had more to do with shaping my life, and theirs too, than any of us ever realized at the time. We loved you, Pop and we never even wondered if you loved us.

Entry, July 14, 2000

Reporting In

Well, I gotta tell you the life of this ol' hoss has been a tad on the hectic side this spring and early summer. Funny part is there hasn't been a whole bunch very constructive accomplished either, looking back. I did figure I needed to "report in" though with a little of what has been going on.

I let turkey-hunting get right on by me this year. Didn't have much of a good place lined up to go anyhoo. Besides, my brother, Dag convinced me I should ride shotgun with him up to New England for sister's, Viv and her husband's 50th anniversary celebration. It was a surprise party put on by their two daughters, Deb & Wendy. It was a humdinger of a shindig and one of the few "surprise" parties I've ever seen pulled off with success. Friends and family from all over the states showed up to poke fun at - oops - I mean celebrate with the subject couple. On top of that, Dag and I had a great trip up and back with time aplenty to talk over old memories and even a short stop at one of our favorite cousin's (who couldn't make it) on our way back. All in all a fantastic couple or so weeks that I wouldn't trade for any thing - including a good turkey hunt. Thank you, Dag and thank you, Deb and Wendy. Also thanks to all the family members who provided us with places to stay (and hide prior to the actual party) and more pleasant memories to add to our already bulging seabags. What great family members and friends we are blessed with. I also got to meet (finally) our newfound relative and family historian, Tom Dunn. No disappointment there, I'm here to tell anyone who'll listen. Well, with the exception perhaps that I didn't get to spend more time with him and see his beautiful (I have pictures) horses. We had intended to but an unexpected illness in his family, complicated by scheduling conflicts on our part precluded it. With any luck, we'll get it done one day yet, Tom. Before leaving this subject let me say that many pictures and words have been placed on a couple of family web sites that Tom and Raymond have going on a wonderful site known simply as MyFamily.com. Go there for a FREE, easier than falling off a log, already formatted place for anyone (you included) to start and maintain a family oriented web site with plenty of space. I turned Kim, Jabo & Kat's youngest daughter on to it and an hour later she sent me a thank you msg. and said she had posted one for her family. Try it, you'll like it.

When I returned I had quite a few hours of payback time to catch up on at work to repay those who were kind enough to cover for me while I was gone. Now I'm back to my normal one or two days a week. At the same time some family upsets caused me to be making quite a few trips to Carolina Beach for long overdue visits and support of my daughter, Lois and her daughters. The upshot of this is they are now back in this area and brightening our home with their presence until they can get reestablished on their own. Sure is good to have them close again. It is interesting to note that they have a female dog, Chloe who is actually a daughter of Boppy Bear. She is a sweetheart too and has been theirs for a couple years now - same age as our Kissie. They are all getting along well except Chloe likes to pester Scamp, the cat. He in turn puts up with it to a point and then lets the dog know what most cats let most dogs know, "Here, hold this for awhile, furry-face." As Jabo often says, "Once they (a cat) break out those razor blades, dogs back off in a hurry." You may also note (and feel jealousy and/or compassion) that Scamp and I are surrounded by a grand total of seven, count them, seven girl-types. Oh well, bring on the dancing girls (as "they" say) and the devil take the hindmost. Still love ya, girls, each and every one of you.

I've also been blessed this year with various aches and pains in this well used (or not so well used) body. The most notable of which has been in the lower back from an over exertion while helping my daughter. This has hampered some of my plans and is why I even mention it. In other words, "The Monster" still lies fallen in the back yard, my archery practice has suffered a complete breakdown and is screaming for attention, and a planned larger pond for my Koi fish is still only in my mind. In addition, due to unusual incessant winds in Coastal NC this whole year our burn piles are still standing unlit. Oh, and the fields of my Journal Page has been left pretty well unplowed the last couple of months. Now let me hasten to say none of this is serious, I'm quite sure, and there may even be the tiniest modicum of laziness figuring in there somewhere. However, just as I am now furrowing this piece of literary (?) landscape, I will also get back on track with all else - it says here in fine print. In keeping with this sudden burst of do-somethingness I have also posted some more new (and old) pictures on the Gallery, Pg3 for your pleasure. I trust you will treat your eyeballs to it. Once again I encourage you one and all to go to my Guestbook and leave a comment or two. Ah will 'preciate it! My original site, the one that got too big for it's (free) britches and the now more complete and ongoing one at "bowhunting.net" each have separate and different Guestbooks. An entry made on one does not appear on the other. Oh, by the way I had an entry left at the original site Guestbook by a gent from England. Would you believe his name is Bernard Dunn! Neat, huh?

Entry, July 25, 2000

Unusual/Good

Things have been happening lately that I feel the need to talk about. As you can finger out from the entry title, they are good things in general but not exactly the norm. Most of them tend to make a person pause and think (Have mercy!) so I'd like to pass 'em around for what it's worth.

First of all on my last trip to Carolina Beach to retrieve my daughter's worldly possessions, friends Sonny & Connie were kind enough to lend me one of their (larger) pick up trucks so we could complete the job in one last haul. They had also offered to go with us and help (with two trucks and multiple trips) but it turned out not to be needed. Just the beginning of a parade of kind gestures and Good Samaritans headed our way, Sports Fans. As Lois (still sporting an eye patch from her recent incident), Onesty, and I neared the little town of Hampstead the borrowed truck became dead quiet and began coasting down to a standstill. With a little difficulty and a lot of luck I was able to guide it across two lanes and off the road to rest on a grass plot in front of a closed (for Sunday) place of business. Now the last thing in the world I am is mechanically minded but I dutifully lifted the hood and peered in at the offending beast while scratching my head, or was it my butt. At that moment I had no idea about the problem, what I was going to do about it, nor which end I was scratching. Dead in the water didn't even begin to cover the uneasy feeling creeping over me. I was just going through the motions and making unintelligent, guttural male sounds in response to daughter and granddaughter's hopefully helpful, offered suggestions. After only about five or so minutes of this time-honored dance, an attractive lady and a slight (no protection there) young teenage boy pulled off the road, around the grass island, and stopped beside the truck. She leaned around the boy and asked in a kind and obviously concerned voice if there was anything she could do to help us. Well at that point I had no idea even what kind of help I might need and I was completely flabbergasted at a lady stopping - in this day and age. After exchanging non-sensibles (mostly on my part) for awhile and rejecting offers to take me to locate a mechanic (on Sunday? and leave the girls?, my mind was questioning), she offered a helpful backup. It seemed the tire business across the highway was run by a friend of hers who helped her with car problems sometimes. She could see by his car being there that he must be in working on his books in spite of his Sunday off. She assured me he was a good person who would be glad to help anyone in a pinch. I regained some of my normal functions, thanked her profusely, and then commented on how unusual and deeply appreciated it was for a woman to stop to help a stranger these days. It probably had a bit of a chiding if not scolding tone about it. She laughed and opined I was probably right but that in the heat and with the two young ladies I didn't look much like a desperate character to her. I thanked her again and cautioned her that one never knows before she left. While the girls and I discussed our predicament interspersed with wonder about the lady's kindness, I'll be darned if another car driven by a lone, equally attractive lady didn't arrive in the same manner. As it turns out, Hampstead is a little town where mostly everyone knows everyone and the majority is all friendly, helpful folk. The funny part is it's a tourist (mostly sportfishing) town. Believe me it seems like a place to go to as far as I saw, if you're in the market. The second lady was even more helpful, as you'll see. At first everything went pretty much the same as with the first lady but this one wasn't taking no for an answer. She wanted to know how about at least taking one of us to get some drinks in this heat. I felt we could all use one so Onesty went with her. Now who's taking a chance? Well we had talked longer and found out more. I had mentioned the first Samaritan and again wondered aloud at ladies stopping to offer help to some baldheaded old geek with two young ladies and one sporting a patch on her eye. How did they know it wasn't some kind of abusive situation or something? I guess that was fresh on my mind. Her response was hearty laughter and a complete rejection, again due to my looks. Later when I brought all this up to her husband he told me she had come from an abusive situation and then he said, "and I gotta tell you, you just don't look like any kind of a rough character." I told him I had to admit I always had enjoyed a reputation of being a friendly and decent type of person, thank God. Later yet, when we were on our way again and discussing it Lois said simply, warming my heart, "It's those smiling eyes, Daddy; those Irish eyes." Anyway when the lady returned with Onesty and the cold drinks, I had called Rose on my cell phone to get up with Sonny and see if he knew any thing that might be wrong. The brain was beginning to kick back in again a little bit but alas he was not available. When the lady heard that, she told me she was going after her husband who was a mechanic and was now retired and running an outboard motor repair shop, where he also was working on his Sunday off. Anyhoo It turned out these wonderful folks (the son of a retired military man) took care of us in grand fashion and would accept nothing in return. Tom, the husband took me on in to Wilmington to get the part he determined had gone bad (some little electronic control thingy) while his wife, Darcey took my girls to her house to rest, enjoy AC and TV, and then further cooled Onesty with cold watermelon slices. Tom had retired from the State Ports and runs his little outboard shop and guides charter fishing trips. Look him up, he is instantly likeable, trust inspiring, capable, and friendly. He also has a great, compassionate wife and knows it. The only bad thing is I was still so flustered I never even got their last name. That town can't be that big though and he did say his address started out "idofish". However I don't know if he meant e-mail, business logo, or what. I do know everything was such a blur I would never be able to find his place again in a million tries. Good people do abound - Sonny insisted on paying me back for the part also. Said it would have gone out had he been driving and he felt just terrible it had occurred while I had the truck. He and Connie were equally as thankful as us that we'd run into people of that type.

I've also had two unusual contacts in the last week. One from the recent past and one from waayyy back there. An unexpected knock came on our back door last Sunday and there stood Boo in all his glory. Just a visit to renew contact We spent all afternoon talking, laughing, playing games and visiting this web site on the computer, and making plans for the local hunting season. He is now working for the government at the nearby Marine air station. A good career move for him. Rose, Lois and I all enjoyed his visit very much and I hope we remain in contact this time. I might insert here that Randy and I are beginning to compile our plans and schedules for the upcoming season also. Some generalities but also some specifics and there will be posting on some of that soon. Seasons are not that far off now!

The other contact I mentioned came from my Marine past. Ah reckon 'bout forty yar ago, or the like. He was a young, married trooper in my Radio Relay Section of the 7th Marine Regiment at Camp Las Pulgas (translates into "The Flea"), Camp Pendleton, CA. Ron Osborne and two others, Neilsen and DeVaney, were particularly outstanding young Marines in an overall good unit of mine. They applied and were selected for a very competitive program called NESEP. It was quite a feather in their individual caps. It was three feathers in my cap. To have THREE of my key men picked out of one small section in the whole Marine Corps. Ron saw my listing on the web site, thefew.com and sent a message, "Is this the real Bernie Dunn?" I answered with a key line of a rather risqué anecdote from our joint past so that he knew it was indeed "the real" me. As it happened those were also the days of my close friendship with my old hunting buddy, Andy so all my troops knew him and some of them (the three included) knew him well. He, an infantry Platoon Sgt., was also impressed with their achievement. It came to pass (as they say) that I got orders to San Diego to instruct Radio Relay in the electronics school of the Marine recruit depot. At about the same time, the three were sent to the Navy recruit depot there for a crash course in college prep subjects. NESEP was a Naval Enlisted Scientific Education Program in which the selectees would get 4 years free college in return for accepting a commission upon completion. After which they would serve at least two years as an officer in the MC or the Navy. Therefore the military wanted to refresh their knowledge and study habits before they started college. Because of that, the three, Andy, and I got to spend some quality time together and with each other's families without regard to rank while they were going through the prep courses. Ron became a helicopter pilot and as a Captain ran into Andy in Viet Nam and spent a day with him. I found that out through our recent contact. Unfortunately he also has not been able to get up with Andy since then. Ron is now in the process of writing a catch up letter to send me and we'll stay in touch now. See? Be circumspect in what you say and how you treat people that pass in and out of your life. You just never know when they might come riding back in to say, "Howdy." It's nice if they happen to be packing good memories in their saddlebags.

One final note for this entry. A few days ago the counter on this site increased overnight by 800 + hits. Ah have no ah-deah whut thet is all about! Don't know if it is actual hits (visits) or some glitch that occurred. Perhaps someone with a big readership mentioned it in their site, or all of the Dunn clan went there at one time, or some other fantasy. I didn't get any comments left on the Guestbook but that doesn't prove anything because precious few do that anyway. Whatever! It looks good there anyhoo.

Entry, Aug 19, 2000

Velvet Report

I filed the following report with Susie Q for possible inclusion on her South Carolina hunting web site:

Report, 08/19/2000

My good hunting buddy, Randy, moved to South Carolina just after the start of our bow season in NC last year. As reported on my web site, we hunt SC quite a bit also but it took Randy awhile to get organized in his new job and home. He has started this year off with a resounding "thump" though, heard all the way to my home in NC. SC's bow/gun season(s) (different for various areas) for Whitetail starts (Aug.) almost a full month ahead of NC's - maximum heat and bugs. Due to job requirements in his newly adopted Sumter home area, Randy didn't get out the first two days of the season. He did finally get out on the third afternoon/evening and made up for lost time. He had done his homework and scouting/stands-preparation in spite of the afore-mentioned heat, as is Randy's habitual way of doing things. He had chosen a couple of sites for that first eve but there was more fresh sign at his second choice (and it was more of a bow site) so he initially set up there. Reports from other friends/hunters in that area for the first days of the season had mentioned plenty of antlerless deer but not one buck had been seen. After sitting about two hours at his second choice site, he just got the feeling, "things weren't right." How many times have we all felt that and then fought it down? Randy didn't ignore it this time. He "unclimbed" that tree and, after swapping his bow for his 270 Remington, proceeded to his site of first choice at a clear-cut. The buck must have been bedded in that clear-cut as when he made his sudden appearance, he was already in it. Randy is not one to miss a deer's approach. He has uncommonly good hearing and rapt attention (when he doesn't choose to take a nap - sorry, buddy) and he was using both that day. It was close to the end of shooting hours and was the first deer he'd seen that day. He could easily make out the nice little basket rack as the young buck carefully picked his way towards his stand. Randy's homework and patience paid off when the buck turned away just enough to provide the needed quartering away shot. One shot from his trusty rifle dropped the deer in his tracks. A short, respectful wait for assurance of the job well-done, and then Randy stood beside his first ever deer taken on the first day out of any year or season. More yet, the nice little seven pointer was another first - his first ever "buck in velvet". Randy says, "Thank you, South Carolina." I say, "Thank you, good buddy, for the night call to let me share in one more hunt with you, if only by phone."

Reported by Bernie Dunn
 
 

Entry, Aug. 29, 2000

Allen Too

Hunting buddy, Allen, sent me the following report from his home in Sumter, SC. It seems he also scored on a seven pointer in velvet early in their season, pictures at Ten - - - er, I mean on Gallery, Pg3. I decided to just use his story pretty much as is, using my prerogative of some minor editing, of course. Congrats , bud, and thanks for the nice tale.

"Let me tell you this story. The mighty Oneida Eagle has scored again." (He refers to the make of his trusty bow.)

"I'm hunting on a new piece of property a farmer was nice enough to let my father-in-law and I hunt on. I'm sitting in a stand on the edge of a soybean field hoping something will venture by, of course nothing ever does. I did get to watch a small cowhorn and a little yearling graze in the beans for about a half hour, just enough to keep me from getting too bored. Anyway, I don't see anymore deer while I'm in the stand, it's getting dark and I decide to get down and head for the truck. My truck is parked in an old house spot in another field about five or six hundred yards from where I was hunting. I had to walk through a small block of woods to get to the truck. As I was coming out of the woods into the field my truck was parked in, I noticed there were five deer grazing in the fresh-cut corn field. I froze in my tracks, eased my binoculars out of my pocket, and what do I see but five bucks that don't see me."

(How lucky can one stiff get? Go ahead, Al keep rubbing it in!)

"I stood there a second and one of the bigger ones came a little closer - approx. 30 yards. With his head down not paying me any attention, I nocked an arrow, drew back my bow, aimed and fired. The bow sounded and (then) there was dead silence, until the arrow pierced his shoulder. The deer went charging towards the woods, only to come up a few yards short. He only ran 50 yards. (vital statistics:) 7 points, 15' spread, and weighing about 160 to 170 pounds."

As reported by Allen Harris to Bernie Dunn
 
 

Entry, Sept. 24, 2000

Sevens Abound

Not only did Allen take a second 7 pointer (as seen in the latest Gallery entry) but now follows a report from Randy (with editorial comment by yours truly) regarding another friend of his and another 7 pointer. So far I've not even seen a deer up here (did hear one the other night while returning to the truck) - I've got to go to SC, or get new friends - these are killin' me. Just kidding - lighten up! Congratulations all around. My time will come, it says here in fine print. Randy comes up in one more week for our annual trip to the Mattamuskeet area and I'll have a report on that soon. Here's Randy's report:

[Well, a friend and I went to the river where Lugnut (Randy's pet name for his 2 1/2 year old son) and I saw the does. The river banks are similar to the canal banks at Mattamuskeet and I let him out 300 yards from where I parked the boat and we walked towards each other. He walked 14 turkey to me! What a sight, hens, poults, jakes, you name it. After we walked the 300 yards and met up with each other we both walked to the boat and I told him, "Sit tight for 10 minutes while I move the boat another 3-400 yards and we'll do the drive again."

I pushed the boat away from shore and cranked the big motor up (as opposed to the trolling motor) and idled about 80 yards away and ....BOOM....BOOM! (After the sudden shotgun blasts,) he screams, "Randy, I gotta big buck!"

I thought he was just kidding or shooting at snakes. I turned the boat around and sure enough; as he was sitting and watching me motor around the bend, this buck came down the canal banks loping and grunting along. He never heard him coming until he was 20 yards away (big motor noise) and grunting was the only sound he was making. He (the buck) never even stopped to see what was on the trail in front of him. He was acting like he was on a rope to my friend. He (the friend) dropped him about 10 yards away! And WHATTA BUCK !!!! 7 big points with one brow tine broken, 18" outside spread and about 190 lb!!!

Needless to say, I called him a few choice words...then I congratulated him. We drove the river bank another 500 yards and he kicked a deer that he described (as having) a larger body than his (buck had)! But, it never came towards me, I never even heard it jump. He didn't see the head or have a clear sight to even take a shot. He was pretty certain it was a buck just because of the shear body size. We decided to leave and on the way back to the ramp we saw two does standing on the bank down the river a bit. We started to get the shotguns out and try for one (of) them but we decided they were too small.

I don't (know) what it is but 7 points seems to be the norm for SC! Not that I am complaining but it sure would be nice to see an 8 pointer or better. Who knows, maybe you'll (to me) be the one to break the chain at Mattamuskeet!!! let's hope.]

As reported by Randy Donely to Bernie Dunn

Oh, go right on with your bad self, Randy. Just complain all you want but be watchful when you cross the NC/SC state line next week. I gotta get some damn target practice in somewhere! A picked stick for your stocky butt, you bet! Things better pick up around here soon --- miserable ex-friends --- dirty brick-a-bracks --- ***@##$%~$$&@**+#~! >>> --- grumble, grumble --- mumble, mumble --- (editor drifts off into silence --- "fade to black").

Entry, Sept. 27, 2000

Ol' Sneaky Snake

As a favorite performer of mine, The Old Story Teller, Tom T. Hall says in one of his famous songs, "I don't like Ol' Sneaky Snake." In fact that is putting it mildly for me. Of course my brother, Dag gets a head-shaking amusement out of that as he remembers me hunting them and bringing them home in cardboard boxes as a youngster. Guilty! A couple friends who were brothers and I used to do that a whole bunch. Those were days when I didn't know there even were poisonous snakes around our part of NH though. We would go after big old Black snakes who loved to hole up in the gas tanks of old abandoned vehicles, and anywhere else we could find them. Later I ran afoul of a rattlesnake in my mother's asparagus patch while fetching her some tender shoots for dinner. That was when I found out that Rattlesnake Island, in Lake Winnipissaukee was named that for a real good reason. It had been infested with them, so the story went, until the locals put some hogs out there to do the rascals in. It worked for the most part but the stray one occassionaly would show up on the mainland. This according to our neighbor across the street, that came to my rescue. Of Course Dag was in the Navy by then and never knew of the incident until years later. Not knowing of my transitional adventure, he would have been some shocked to have seen me and my old hunting buddy, Andy one evening some years latter. Andy and I had already agreed one time, when a bunch of reservist Marines on training told us they were going rattle snake hunting, that the only hunting going to be done between a rattle snake and us was the damned rattler hunting for us. Because we sure as hell weren't gonna be hunting them. The time I said would have shocked my brother, we were on a firebreak at Camp Pendleton returning to the car from an evening deer stand when we heard the ominous rattle that froze us in our tracks. After we located the source we took immediate defensive positions and began assault maneuvers. Dag, and anyone else would have laughed to see two grown Marine Staff NCOs launching boulders (virtually) so large we could hardly lob them to our target. At least not from as far as we were away from what turned out to be a baby "rat-ler" about four inches long. Even we got a good (though nervous) laugh at it afterwards and even more so later when we retold the story. Many times, probably, as I recall. I'll bet Ron Osborne and some of our other troopers remember hearing it. Of course we justified our actions by the old adage that the little ones are just as deadly as the big ones. We still felt a little foolish in retrospect though.

Well, all this was brought to mind by the fact that my beloved Beagle, Sloopy got snake bit the other day. Let me hasten to say she is OK now and also to thank God for that. She was, as usual, trailing a rabbit out back for her own benefit and joy. Ol' Sneaky Snake got her in the face, on the side of the muzzle. Luckily he only got her with one fang (she's fast) and the vet said that probably saved her 'cause she only got half a dose of venom. Man, did she swell up though. One side of her face and her whole neck and throat looked like a bunch of balloons tied to a clowns dog, with no circus to go to. I gotta admit, it scared me worse than the rattler on the firebreak. Jabo and I, and the Vet figured it was probably a copperhead. It seems they do pretty much the same treatment regardless of type of snake, or bees/wasps, etc. for that matter. Antihistamine and or Benadryl for the swelling (and so they can breath easier), a diuretic (spelling) for throwing off liquids, and antibiotics because as the Vet said, "...snakes' mouth is always filthy because they eat rodents and the like." All of that administered in three shots and then oral antibiotics for ten days. Rose and I watch the Animal Planet TV channel quite often (when the Olympics aren't on) and we had seen one episode of Emergency Vets (or something like that) which dealt with a couple of snake bit dogs. So we already knew that while they have anti-venom shots for animals they seldom use them. It seems that for one thing, like with a person, you need to know the type of snake (one seldom does - especially with trailing dogs), then you have to really get them there quick, and also the shot runs about a thousand bucks. One poor owner on that show wanted to have it done but just could not afford it - fortunately it turned out OK. Sloopy, in her inimitable way was ready to "run" the next day but I kept her in through all the antibiotics and then a couple more days, until her sad hound dog looks and stares got the best of me. Damned Ol' Sneaky Snake(s) anyhoo! She's not worried about them anyway. She does normally give them a wide berth, as witnessed in her encounters with harmless ones in the yard. Actually I don't think any of them are harmless. I'm like Richard Prior in that I believe all snakes are dangerous - they'll make you run into trees - at the very least.

We do have our fair share of them around here, of all types. Between Sonny, Jabo, and I, quite a few have gone on to their just desserts - from a safe distance of course. One day this past summer I had a relatively small Red Bellied Water Snake take up around our fishponds. He was busying himself scaring the fish, Rose, and worrying me. I had him located but couldn't use the shotgun or other tool on him as he was too close to the shell of one of the ponds. About that time Scott ("Turtle") came walking down the road and into the fray. He informed me he had a trick his late father, a retired Marine, had taught him. He proceeded to find and cut a small sapling about four feet long. I thought he was going to tie a slip noose in the end and try to catch the snake as one of my young troopers at Camp Pendleton used to do with a piece of grass and small lizards. He said that wasn't it and I should just watch. He then waited until Young Sneaky Snake stuck his head out near the lip of the poly shell and whapped him a good one behind the head with the tip, in a fast whipping motion. He said he has seen his Dad break the neck/back of very large snakes in that manner. As soon as that whippy tip did that snake in, I remembered old timers back home talking about killing snakes with buggy whips. I had never seen it done so I wasn't sure how it worked or even how much truth there was to it. At that moment it all became clear though. A trick worth remembering!

One last thing, my *other boss, Teri, who just gave birth to a little baby girl a couple weeks ago or less, was working with me the morning of the incident. She caught, from my end of the phone conversation with Rose, that one of my dogs had got snake bit. She said simply and basically, "GO! ... do not worry about it ..." Thank you, Teri. I was back in an hour and a half and by a good stroke of luck no one came to get gas bottles filled until just after I returned. She called it, "Good timing." I call it the return of "bread cast on the waters" for her good deed, understanding, and attitude. Sloopy thanks her too, as she was glad of my presence.

* See my one year anniversary gift from my other boss, Bill (Teri's husband) on the Gallery Pg3.

Entry, Nov 03, 2000

Mattamuskeet 2Thou

I'm a little behind (of course there are some schools of thought that would say I'm a big one) but I have some good events to speak of and am going to try to catch up as the seasons progress. As I had pretty well laid out in this journal, my practice during the off-season got left to shift for itself. In view of that, it was perhaps all for the best that I had not even seen the first deer during bow season. So I was really looking forward to my annual trip with Randy to the Mattamuskeet area. Much to my letdown, things did not start out too well as to improving that situation any. It did prove interesting in other ways and Randy was doing well at least - a relief after he had traveled to NC and spent the bucks for non-resident licenses. Sometimes you (I, in this case) just don't see the critters you are looking for, even when those around you are seeing them. That's why they call it "hunting"! Nature however, in it's own sense of fair play, will quite often make up for those lack of sightings with other neat and interesting encounters with beast, fowl, and man. Read on and you too will be exposed to those gifts. Quite often they are more precious and lasting than the actual harvest of what we hunt for.

We arrived on the afternoon before our planned hunt and used the time to do some last minute scouting for our morning stand locations. After that we found we also had time to make a run up to Pungo and make the evening hunt. Pungo River Game Land, a state public area was about forty five minutes away and noted for its deer. Randy, Jabo, and I had hunted it once a couple years back in the same manner and seen good number of the elusive rascals but not while we were on stand. However, the year before that, Randy had taken a nice little buck there with his bow while hunting with another chap. Anyway Randy knew an "easy" place to get to so we wouldn't wear ourselves out too much after our busy day and before our planned hunt on the morrow. Haw! The best laid plans of man and beast, etc. When we got there we found the recent rains had made some of the Game Land roads "mooshy" enough that the powers to be (Rangers) had posted signs restricting car travel to more of a degree than The Ranman had planned on. OK, so we walked 1000 yds. or so packing our stands, bows, etc. No biggie for a couple of hardy, anxious hunters like us, right? Well, if you say so. We finally huffed close to the ditch that we intended to cross prior to penetrating the wooded area we wished to take our stand in. I have to admit Randy was some ahead of my little dragging red wagon and I could see (through the screen of sweat in my eyes) that he was casting back and forth along the edge of the ditch as if looking for something. He was. When I caught up I found the ditch was swollen with water and it took us a little doing to find a place we could cross. That finally accomplished, we worked into a wooded, brush-choked area with little clearings here and there. We located a pair of the clearings separated by heavy brush but connected by a well-used game trail. Once we realized it got denser beyond, Randy settled on the second one and I worked my way back to the first. We'd noted a good tree for a stand back there. He opted for a ground blind on the far side of his clearing. I have the habit of once I get my stand on the tree and climb into it preparatory to climbing; I look the area over one last time before proceeding and then every other stop or so up the tree. As I started to look behind me I caught movement over my left shoulder. There to my surprise and pleasure were two rather large red foxes not twenty yards away. One was lying down on his belly with feet extended straight in front of him and towards me, the other was just lowering itself into a similar position a little closer. His/hers was the movement I'd glimpsed. They were real healthy looking specimens and beautiful to my eyes. They just laid there, and cocking their heads back and forth like dogs, watched as I proceeded up the tree. At each stop I looked around to find them still in place, heads first to one side then the other. Quite interesting, this man-creature moving in a strange manner up the side of one of their trees. When I reached my chosen height and stood to secure my safety belt they rose and trotted off, in no particular hurry but still as if they had other things to tend to now. "Good-bye, guys," I silently mouthed, "and thanks for the company." Somehow that set the theme for the evening. It was like I was in an enchanted little glen. Neither Randy or I saw any deer that evening but I was to have more visitors and so was he.

Pungo is also known for it's rather large population of bears that are protected there at all times. You hear many stories of hunters shooting deer but not being able to recover them unless they do so quickly. At least not unless they want to argue rights of possession with a bear standing over the unexpected (perhaps not always so unexpected) gift he has found. Since you can't harm them and bears are not usually prone to be influenced by persuasion to give up food, most wise hunters usually defer to the bears. The bears of Pungo have probably developed a respectful if cautious liking for their strange hunting partners, who sit in trees and leave gifts of venison on the ground for them. In fact some folks are convinced they seek out the sounds and smells of hunters, associating them with the gifts. This night certainly would not contradict those convictions. I had hunted bears quite a bit in Maine with the bow and Randy had bagged one with his the year before we met. No stranger to the thrill, and rising of the hair on the back of the neck, that comes with ones early encounters with bear (and never quite goes away) we were OK with it. However I was relatively safe in my tree stand while, unbeknown to me at the time, Randy was on the ground. Not thinking about any of this, when I heard noises in the bush over Randy's way and headed towards me about mid evening, I was sure a deer was approaching on the trail between our sites. After all, I had been using my trusted and favorite Lohman K'meer Deer bleat call at appropriate intervals hadn't I? It was only to be expected. I stood up, bow in hand and faced the trail in the brush to my left. As soon as the dark form began to emerge from the bushes, even though I had neglected to even give bears a thought in the endeavor to get there and set up in time, I swear my immediate realization was, "Bear!" I was disappointed and delighted at the same time. It had been so long since I'd seen one up close and this one was only about thirty five yards away. He was a good-sized one too. At least 250 lbs, probably 300 and working right towards me. Of course the angle was all-wrong but it didn't matter, as I couldn't take him anyway. I was reveling in the wonder of him and I swear I hadn't even got nervous. Suddenly he stopped at about 30 yds distant and started swaying his head back and forth, as they will when perplexed and/or agitated. Then true realization set in for me, and normal anxiety followed closely. It didn't get very far though as the big bruin turned slowly to reenter the bushes forming the archway over the game trail and retrace his steps. As he silently soft-padded away I eased back down into my sitting position and reached for a drink of water to relieve the cotton-mouth feeling I now realized I was experiencing. I thanked God for the sighting and the uneventful withdrawal of the big fellow. Then I began to wonder if Randy had been treated to the sight also. I didn't have too long to think about it because soon I heard more game noises out in front of me.

In the meantime, Randy had spent longer and more anxious moments then I. He, after hearing noise in the brush beyond him for quite awhile after nestling in to the shorter bushes at the edge of his clearing, was already recalling Pungo's Rep for bears.

He had watched silently and carefully as the bear emerged at one corner of the bushy field and slowly crossed the opening towards the path to my site. He could tell that the bruin was listening to my calling and testing the air for scent as he tried to locate it's source. He also kept his eyes glued to the opening after the beast disappeared. He could only wonder, as I had, if his hunting partner was seeing the big black fellow. We both had realized how fat and sleek he appeared, very impressive. Randy heard the brush move slightly at the opening and caught movement as the bear returned to his side of the opening. He's Ba-aack! Again he kept a wary eye on him as he re-crossed the field and reentered the bushes and trees where he had first appeared. Then he had to listen to what he presumed was the same bear circling around behind him. By now sundown is fast coming on. Now Randy is normally one to stay in his stand well after shooting time ends just to see what he can see - he loves it. I on the other hand could hit him in the head sometimes for keeping me waiting. This evening, after watching the bear and hearing more noise from different locations all the time, he was beginning to think perhaps a ground blind was not the best place to be as darkness enveloped the clearing.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch - er I mean back at my tree, the noises in front of me had turned into a second bear. This one was bigger then the first, an easy 300 probably closer to 350 pounder. He also looked like a million bucks as far as health and gloss went, with just as beautiful a brown muzzle as the first one. He came out quicker then the first (I had resumed my calling - determined to call in a deer, I was) to my right front. He was closer to start with and proceeded in fast, silent strides to 20 feet away in the same area the foxes had been. Again I was fascinated though I remained sitting this time. Two things were beginning to seep into my almost bemused mind in this strange, event filled little clearing. First it was getting dark fast; second this bear was staring straight up at me. "It knows I'm here," I thought. He moved even closer, straight towards my tree. I thought, "Oh no, this is going to be one of those bear climbs up the tree to check out the thing in the tree stand kind of deals," (I've read and heard about a lot of those happenings) "and me without my pistol." Just as quickly as he had come, this taller, fatter bear turned on his heel in mid-stride and seemed to melt into the brush behind him. It was then I caught the glimmer of Randy's flashlight swinging down the trail with much more accompanying noise than he would ever make under normal conditions. I was more then relieved to see and hear his earlier and louder than normal approach, as I knew the bear had, and wasted no time getting down the tree to join him. We compared tales as I packed up my stand and gear. For once we were not concerned with being quiet while talking and exiting the woods to the more open field-side road we had entered on; quite the contrary, believe me. What's that old song that goes, "Whenever I'm scared, I whistle a happy tune"? Well we weren't just a-whistlin' Dixie, nor were we wasting any time traversing that road back to the truck.

The things we were lucky enough to eyeball at Pungo were a sampling of the whole two and a half day hunt/trip. We saw deer too numerous to count in the mornings and evenings traveling to and from the motel, beginning with the drive back from Pungo. I also saw/watched foxes in singles and pairs numerous times on stand(s), raccoons, a muskrat, an otter, and all sorts of birds including a hawk. It made a kill on the ground not far from my tree after zooming by my ear about five feet out. That has happened to me three times this season in different areas. One afternoon while Randy and I were lolling in the boat, eating a little lunch and waiting to move to our evening hunt positions, a huge owl flew up into a tree close by. The big pine tree was across the narrow creek and right next to a tree I had sat in and taken a deer out of the year before. He sat there watching us watching him, with his big eyes blinking occasionally, for quite a while before he settled down for a short snooze. When we got ready to leave, he did also.

Now, on to the Whitetail portion of our two day hunt. You may recall this is an area where they are trying to control and improve the condition of the deer herd. In view of this they encourage the harvesting of does. In the three years we've been going there we've seen some noticeable improvement in the appearance of the deer we've seen on the hoof and at the check-in station, so it is beginning to work. They (the Rangers) still have trouble with some hunters wanting only to take bucks. The rule is you can take two deer a day but only one can be a buck. A lot of guys just let the doe' walk, waiting for a buck and only take one deer or none if a buck doesn't come along. While it is within the rules it is not in keeping with the purpose of the hunt. Although we look forward to taking bucks as well as the next guy, Randy and I (also Jabo the two years he went with us) make it a point to do our best to take whatever comes along that offers an ethical shot. Just so long as it is in keeping with what our legal limit still is. We use bows some of the time and shotguns the rest of the time, sometimes carrying both into the stand with us at the same time. I say that so you'll know we were not about letting deer pass just waiting for a buck.

On the morn of the first hunt, having picked two trees for our stands the afternoon before, Randy was still waiting for me to make my choice. One site was closer to where other hunters might push deer to us and the other was further out but close to a good possible bedding area and where I had taken two deer, two years ago. Randy wanted me to choose since he already had a (SC) deer under his belt and I hadn't even seen any yet. He is like that - always giving me the best shot he can, considering we never know for sure what is going to transpire. I hate to make the choices, as it doesn't seem like that's being fair to him. So I was still laboring over it as we skimmed over the water nearing our chosen area and he was reminding me he needed to know which tree to go to first to let me off. "Your choice?" he impatiently prompted. At the last minute, what I perceived as an escape ploy came to my feeble mind. "I've made my choice," I spoke close to his ear over the drone of the outboard. "And it is?" he asked. Taking great pleasure in my newfound freedom and brainstorm, I replied smugly and emphatically, " You make the choice - that's my choice!" Randy fairly gasped with exasperation, fumed a little and whipped the wheel over to put me off at the site closer to the probable approach of deer. He is still pinging at me about that smart-assed move. He of coarse boated on to my old site and according to him was still fussing about me turning the tables on him when he got to top of his tree. Then he had to turn his attention to settling in with his bow and shotgun within proper reach.

I perched in my tree priding myself on the clever avoidance of making the choice and thinking that at least in this tree I was looking at new area. Right! I saw noth-ing! Well, I did see a fox just before Randy came to pick me up later in the AM for a drive we'd set up. During my uneventful sit, I had time to reflect on the former Marine, now Army man and his teen age step son we'd met at the take off point briefly the day before and again that morning while waiting for the Ranger to start the hunt. Seemed nice enough, but who the hell gets out of the Marine Corps and joins the Army to make a career out of it? A pretty damned good man, I found out later. Most who leave the Marines for another branch of the service are looking for something easier or once in the while more technical. Not Chad! I found out later he was looking for tougher and went into Special Forces. All right-y then! Man did he turn out to be in good shape, intelligent and personable to boot. Anyway Randy had asked him and his son, Patrick to join us on a drive later in the AM, which he informed me of as we prepared to leave the dock. "Hope you don't mind," he said, "they seem like nice guys." Randy has a habit of gathering a flock. I love people but I'm not so quick to bring them close. I wondered what he'd gotten us into this time. Well, he had talked to them more then I, while I was stuck talking to other guys, some of whom I was not so impressed with. Randy had said Chad indicated it would be Patrick's first chance at a deer and he would do about anything we thought might work to put a deer towards him. He couldn't be all-bad, with an attitude like that. We were familiar with a couple of places where it could happen and Randy would be trying to push one to me anyway. Well, it was done and I would abide by Randy's impetuous invite - so be it. It turned out to be a great move on his part and I hope we don't lose contact with them. I heard a small boat go by heading to a place we had decided we wouldn't go to for the morning but would save for the mid-day push. Well, that was out now - and it was where Randy took his buck last year. Shoot! Shortly after that I heard a shot gun blast that could have come from Randy's site but it also sounded like further and across the creek so I couldn't be sure. Maybe the small boat hadn't gone to the island after all. It was a little after nine and close to time we'd set up for radio contact. So far I was twiddling my thumbs and the only other shots I'd heard had come from close to the dock and in the area where Chad and Patrick had hoofed to, not having brought a boat. I was beginning to feel like perhaps my brainstorm hadn't worked out so well after all but I didn't really think that shot had been Randy's. He would opt for the bow anytime he could anyway. So it probably didn't matter much.

When we made contact, Randy immediately asked if I'd seen anything. When I replied in the negative, he had the effrontery to call me an asshole, in no uncertain terms. A disgusted holdover from his having been kind of forced into changing his mind about which tree he thought I should be in. He had voiced that opinion the afternoon before, when we scouted, I had to admit. He went on over the radio to inform me he had a small buck down and had seen a doe. Phffft! So much for my "great evasive maneuver".

It turned out the 86 1/2 lb button buck had come out and had to be his. He had drawn on him with his bow but when he released he heard a strange noise and sensed something flying off his bow. The arrow went under the buck and he went into the marsh grass he had come out of. Randy reached for his shotgun and grunt tube at once, with no time to resolve the bow problem. He was able to entice the buck to stay in the area and when he stepped out the other side of the reeds, harvested him with one well placed shot. When he had time he figured out that his bowstring had hit his bubble compass that he apparently had pinned on in the wrong place and that was what went flying. Nothing was wrong with the bow and he even recovered the compass later, I think. A half-hour or so later a nice doe came from my direction and was working right towards Randy and the bedding area beyond. He was about to take her when she caught wind or sight of the buck and went to check out the carcass, which took her beyond and behind the reeds. After a cursory sniff (they never seem to place much, if any, significance in a dead animal) of the buck she proceeded on from that point to where she was headed in the first place. Randy still could have taken her but not as cleanly and he decided to let her go on out to the peninsula, figuring I could sit that tree that evening and catch her (and any others already out there) when she came back to feed. Believe it or not, he really thinks like that. Sometimes I suspect he thinks each hunt may be "the old fart's" last so he wants to make it a good one for me. Quit pushing, Randy! No, just kidding, I really appreciate it. It was a good plan but as it turned out the wind came up like crazy that evening and all I did was get seasick from the tree swaying while all the deer stayed tight to cover as they tend to do when the wind makes it noisy. All I saw was a big fat, funny otter that came out of the creek and crossed the dike/levee close to my tree and on into the marsh near where Randy's buck had lain. Randy fared no better that evening and all he saw was a big ol' sneaky snake at the base of his tree. Shortly after we made radio contact and our plans, it was time for Randy to go by boat with his deer and pick up Chad and Patrick. The deer would go in our large ice chest at the truck and they would come back to join me. Meantime I would "unclimb" my tree, get my gear ready for the boat and then walk to Randy's site and back. My thought being, if there were any more deer between our two vantage points I would either kick them up and get a shot at them or drive them on out to the bedding area with the doe he'd seen. Again, best laid plans, etc. I saw the fox on my return to my tree, nothing more.

We did no good with our drives but Chad had taken a bigger prong horn buck then Randy's that morn, had seen a couple others he couldn't shoot at and Patrick had seen one with no shot available. I got to harass Chad about shooting a deer out from under his poor son's nose while professing to want to help him get one and Randy for "tricking me" out of my site and rightful deer. I did all this to check Chad's sense of humor and both his and Pat's temperament. They both passed with flying colors. Why did I also harass Randy if I was checking their attributes you ask? Well, because I think humor is good for everyone, I wanted them to know I wasn't just singling them out - - - - and because I LIKE TO! Sorry about that, Guys. No, we all had a great time and even made arrangements to hunt with them at their chosen site the following morning and leave the boat behind. Chad warned us it was no short hike and it sounded as watery as the Sav River area. We were used to that and it sounded good to us for a change of pace. He also warned us his path in was not by any means straight as he was scouting when he found the place but used the same weaving route out and back in; but if we didn't mind that we were welcome to join them. Little did we know! God, that guy was in good shape - and his skinny appearing son was no slouch either. He said also it was about a fifteen minute trudge. Yeah, right, maybe for him alone! Chad opined it might not be the best place for bows, so we would carry our shotguns. It might have been a good place for bows when we saw it but I, for one, was glad later that no one had decided to carry both bows and shotguns.

The next morning we were raring to go and all four of us took off to find the slightly higher "ridge" that was their site. They hadn't done any good the night before either. We walked (sloshed) forever, and only then did we start, "Getting close," as Chad said. He was carrying my backpack 'til we got to his tree. Thank you, Chad. Randy does that for me sometimes down at Sav River and I know he was thanking Chad that morning too. We had left Patrick off at his tree a little further back. It was no damn 15 minutes just to his tree either, Chad! Randy and I went on along the "ridge" and spaced ourselves at about 100 foot intervals from them, me first though we were both more than ready to stop. We rolled our tongues back up into our mouths and climbed our trees with what little energy we had left. I do exaggerate - - - but not by much. I think it was the most leisurely walk Chad had taken during his hunt, as he kept pausing to wait for us to catch up. Anyway, the upshot of the morning was that Randy shot another buck, prong horn as I recall, 106 lbs. (see pictures on Gallery Page) Randy felt the young buck had been coming to my calling but veered of towards his tree before getting in my view. He said he waited as long as he dared, watching the young male check out his scent canister and hoping he would move towards me. He finally had to take him when he started to leave in the other direction. I wouldn't believe that sort of story of everyone but I do of my companions that morning. Chad and Patrick also had radios so we were all in touch as things transpired. Shortly after that and not long before our prearranged end of hunt time, Chad saw a doe and two yearlings headed from him towards me. He didn't have a great shot and since he had one deer already and I had none, he figured, "Let em' go to those guys." They never made it to me because about as they passed out of Chad's sight and not yet into mine we heard another shot. The sound (or something else) probably made them change direction for some reason known only to them. At first Chad thought, "Good, one of those guys got a shot at them." Then it dawned on him it had come from the other side of him. He and I both called Patrick on our radios about the same time. He responded that he had one down but it was kicking. His Dad calmly told him to take careful aim and shoot again. He did and that was the end of it. Later it turned out the young hunter had done the job with his first shot (they were using slugs) and the movement was only reflexes. Pat had just climbed down from his tree and was packing up when he heard a noise and looked up to see two deer in the edge of a thick near him The one he could shoot at was headed towards him with it's head down. He aimed at the head and that's where he hit it. A clean brain shot, thus the nerve reflexes. Experience would have saved him the concern and second shot probably but he did a great job for his first deer, on his first hunt. It was a small yearling doe but that is all to the good also and in keeping with the Ranger's and Biologist's plans. The rest of us climbed down and Randy and I dragged his deer and our gear to Patrick's site where Chad had already joined him. The forests floor in that whole area was littered completely with fallen trees, hummocks, and scads of cypress knees. In the daylight it was easy to see why we had such a fun time walking out there and now we were trying to drag a deer also. When we reached them, after exchanging congratulations and some condolences about "poor ol' Bernie" still not seeing any (in hushed tones, of course), Chad politely yet sincerely asked if he could help us. Patrick was already hooked up to haul his deer out, as a first time hunter/harvester must do. I told Chad I had kind of thought if he could help Randy with his then I cold help Patrick with his - cause I sure wasn't doing too good helping with Randy's larger one. He agreed and grabbed the towrope saying he would take it awhile since we had got it there. Randy took my pack and I took Patrick's shotgun. Off we went. I want you to know we never saw Chad again until he came back with Randy, who had been trying to catch up with him in vain. He video taped Patrick a little and then told me with a crooked smile that he was my relief. He would take Patrick's deer from me and I would get to carry the small video camera back. I was flabbergasted. I had only relieved Patrick a short ways back and that game youngster was having all he could do to carry our shotguns now. I asked Randy where he'd left his deer as Chad left with Patrick's little one, still not turning a hair. After Randy first told me he'd "dumped it", he then informed me the deer was at the truck and he'd met Chad already returning to us. Randy and I could not believe it. I noticed Patrick was standing with his head down and I asked if he was all right - the least I could do was watch out for his son while "Superman" hauled deer all over hell and half an acre. Patrick asked me would I consider changing places, which went over my head at first. Then I realized what he meant and swapped the video camera for the two shotguns. Soon we were at the truck enjoying the aftermath of a good hunt with good friends and the added pleasure of the after-glow from a young hunter's first harvest. We all vowed to be in touch over the Internet and through this web site. We would also try to get together next year. Chad and Patrick had to go break down their camping site and head back Chad needed to get packed at home for a pending deployment, and check on his unit's readiness. We had to go check out at the motel before deciding how to spend the afternoon and evening or if just to go on and leave for home. After we'd done that Randy still wanted to try to push a deer my way and I hated to leave skunked, so we decided to run a drive or two. We went to our newfound friend's tent site to see if they wanted to change their minds and join us for a little while longer. We found that when they had called home to share their good news, the impending deployment had been moved up and Chad was on a short string to get there and get gone. Of course under those conditions he couldn't tell us more about it but we were aware of what was going on in the world about then. I hope everything worked out all right and we will meet again; if not, we are all still the richer for our encounter. Chad has a young man there who could come right up behind him too. Let me tell you bad guys over there, don't get in Chad's way - he'll run over you and keep right on truckin' and smilin'. It must be the good Marine training he got early on, ahem.

Randy and I didn't do much but to tire ourselves out further that afternoon. We did see a couple doe' which convinced us we had the right idea but just no chances to score. Randy still wanted me to have a chance at one. I, on the other hand, was pretty well out of hope (and willpower) and was all for getting an early start home. He finally asked me what I'd do if I went home other then set there and watch TV - you wait all year for a given hunt, now you should hunt it to the end - also he wanted to get a deer with his Mathews bow - I had, but all he'd got so far was a pig, his spiel went on. It began to creep into my tired mind that it was not my place, after he had paid for those non-resident tags, to cut his hunt short just because I was a little tired and a whole lot discouraged. About this time he asked if there was anything that would make me want to stay for the evening hunt. Because of my recent thought, I told him that yes, I guessed the right situation, not too hard a hunt, perhaps would. He mentioned the last deer we'd seen, and not disturbed ("just in case"), then asked could that maybe be the "right situation." I avowed (though not with true conviction) that it was about as good a situation as I could ask for. We were back in the game. The pleased look on my valued partner's face brought back pleasure and anticipation to my weary, but now once again game, attitude.

We cut the motor and drifted into our selected spot very quietly. However when Randy bent to tie up the bow and I stood in the stern to start handing him our gear a large doe rose to my left ant ran across the clearing and into bushes on the far side. "There she goes," I hissed. He hadn't seen her so I had to tell him what had occurred - unusual for me to see one he doesn't when we're together. Now in this one afternoon I'd seen the first three deer of my entire season, although this one could have been the same one we saw earlier and backed away from. Things were definitely looking up and I was feeling much better. It is always amazing to me how much better I feel just seeing deer. We decided to be as quite as possible and perhaps she would come back since she just loped out easily. After all, she didn't bust out of there, or snort at us. The clearing was small with water and bushes on both sides, and bushes at each end. I would carry my shotgun to the front end on the near side and take no chances with a bow at this stage of the hunt, while Randy would sit behind me at the back end on the far side. The last thing he told me was he'd pick his shots but for me to take the first shot I had a chance at and not to consider him. I nodded and we parted towards our respective trees. While I climbed, and when I first turned around, I was pretty much keeping my eyes on my end of the clearing. I still hadn't pulled my shotgun up and had just finished taking my evening medicine when I heard the noise behind me, back Randy's way but directly behind me. It turned out there was a blowdown behind him but on my side of the clearing. He had got up and settled in just as a doe rose from behind the blowdown and jumped over it. He had heard her rise (damn, he has good ears) but I didn't hear her until she hit my side of the blowdown and kind of stumbled to a stop. I turned my head, seeing her, and him trying to catch my attention out of the corner of my eye, at the same time. I nodded to let him know I was on it. She was close enough to him but not giving him the right angle for a shot. I decided I'd done it before (twice) and so would again try to raise my weapon from the ground with a deer in full sight. I did, and it worked once more. I can move deathly slow and quiet when the chips are down, if I do say so myself. Once I got the gun up to me I started to untie the pull rope and it dawned on me this was a shotgun not a bow - the damn string didn't matter. Leaving it tied, I swung around and fired in one smooth motion and the deer dropped straight down. A thirty five yard shot on a 76 1/2 lb doe. We had landed about 4 o'clock and it wasn't long after that then. After my customary and heartfelt, "Thank you, Lord," some arm/fist pumping in both stands and a small amount of radio whispers I settled back down and started pulling on my gloves and facemask. Meanwhile Randy was having a hissy-fit in his stand. A doe was approaching his stand down a lane-like area in the bushes in front of him. He couldn't see from his angle that there was only one break in those bushes where she and I were in view of each other so there wasn't as much of a problem as he feared. Sure enough though, when she hit that opening she stared straight my way. He looked too and saw my face still flashing in the slanting sunlight. He said later that she went on full alert and he was afraid she would bolt out of there. To his surprise the very moment I pulled that camo material down over my face, she completely relaxed and started browsing towards him again. The movement hadn't bothered her as much as my bare face had. No smart comments! More valuable lessons: always be conscious of your movements and use a facemask, unless your face is quite dark. I knew nothing of this at the time but suddenly I heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow finding its mark. I turned fast enough to see the 84 1/2 lb doe bound back into that lane, after which I could see her no more. He was making signals and I mistakenly thought he wanted me to watch her progress but I knew he couldn't tell the bushes blocked my vision. A quick radio contact confirmed his signals were actually were intended to say she was down and out, after only about three bounds. Perfect pass-through shot and his limit was filled for the day. More congratulations and then off with the radios. Plenty of time left for an evening hunt and things to settle down. He had his bow harvest of a deer with his Mathews and I still had a tag. We were basking in a beautiful evening end of a great hunt all around. For once when we were in the same area, Randy wasn't keeping an eye on me. He was coasting - so glad he had been able to convince me to stay, for both of us. Basking in his glory, he was. Suddenly my shotgun blast almost made him jump out of his tree. I had been coasting too, with the same thoughts as he but I had seen the big doe coming. He wouldn't have been able to until she got close to me but he hadn't even then. She had seemed to just squirt under a fallen tree out in front of me and then proceed down the side of it and around it's large root ball. As soon as she cleared that, I again raised my faithful Mossberg 500 and shot in almost one motion. The 95 lb doe never knew what happened, as with the first one. I thanked The Lord again, snatched off my facemask and shouted, "It's five O'clock and our hunt is over!" I could hear a bunch of gibberish coming from Randy's tree. Actually we were both so excited we were not even using the radios and I only have faint notions of what all we were saying. Wotta hunt, all around. Randy would return to SC with three deer (one a bow harvest) and I would go home with two. Both of us with a hatful of memories and some new friends made, not to forget all the great visuals we were treated too as well. After some quick pictures and the required duties, we hastened to go check our deer in and get on the road. The Rangers loved us that evening for sure. Three mature does in one evening and not one of them showed signs of nursing young. We'd certainly done our part in the harvesting program.

Note: I know this is a long entry/story but sometimes ya just gotta do what ya gotta do - whatever that means - B

Entry, Nov. 07, 2000

Blackpowder Mid-day Blast

As much as I love bowhunting, so also do I favor black powder hunting. This I also took up late in life (after the bow even) and my old buddies, Bob and Eddie in Maine had the major hands in getting me to. They kept enticing me in every way they could think of. I scored one deer (a big, 176 pound cowhorn buck) with my "smokepole" up there the last season before I left. It was extra special in many ways. My first black powder season (It is two weeks, after regular gun season, Dec, colder then a well digger's butt in winter, up there in Maine), I got my first black powder deer, and it was the wildest cowhorn you can imagine. I swear (the horns are on my wall) it looks just like a Texas Longhorn Steer except skinnier beams. The best part was I picked my own place, time, and went by myself (thank God, I had help hauling that bugger out though). This year I scored my second Black powder buck pretty much the same way and it also becomes extra special because of that. I love hunting with good friends. It is safer and generates more memories when it's shared. Every now and then though, a lone hunt just clicks as these two did. This time I picked my own place, scoped out from another tree a couple days before. I picked my own time, a mid day hunt on full moon (as planned and yet not done for years now). Also I went by myself and this time even hauled my prize out by myself. It was indeed a very special hunt and harvest that I will treasure the rest of my life, as you will see/read. His special rack is now on the wall beside the cowhorn from Maine and both have a mushroomed black powder projectile (T/C Maxi-hunter) affixed to their mounting boards.

I left the area where I'd parked my truck in high spirits and anticipation. It was a beautiful day in early Oct. The last day of our weeklong black powder season. I had three days of bow season left when I returned from Mattamuskeet. By it's end on Sat. I still hadn't seen any deer. Nor had I fared any better during Mon. through Fri. of the following week with my smokepole, on the times I got out. I felt good about this plan for this last day just the same, after all I had the Mattamuskeet hunt fresh under my belt. It was 10 AM and I had finally made myself break the mold and do what I'd been hearing and reading for years. Take a mid-day sit during times of the full moon, everyone was advising. I always wanted and intended to but somehow it was hard for me to make myself go out in mid-morning. By then I was always into something else, and I can't sit long enough to go out early and then just stay through mid-day. I really grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck and forced the issue for this one. My luck (or lack of it) so far in my home area called for something completely different and drastic from me. So here I was walking towards a pre-chosen area, enjoying the rather warm sunshine and keeping my eye out for a suitable tree to climb. Gee, it was kind of nice to be able to see strange trees (and foot snags) without a flashlight. Of course it is that way for evening hunts but this was morning. When I eyeballed "the tree", I put out my scent canisters and then hooked my Ol' Man (tree stand that is) to the tree. This is my third season with that climber and I love it. It is so easy and quiet to affix, use, and pack up afterwards that it's a real pleasure to use. Also I feel so secure and comfortable in it I can stay on stand longer, which I really had needed improvement on. I noted the tree was skinnier then I usually used to climb. I had been improving on that also, and the heights I climbed to. I put the clips to the soft cables in the very first hole. New for me but OK because I'm thin so the sides don't pinch me. Besides, everything was OK today. I was up the tree and settled in by 10:30, trying a few calls and scanning the large but bush filled area. I could really see a lot of landscape and some big "thicks" from my perch and was loving every minute of it. Surely I would at least see a deer of some kind this perfect day, even if not one for a shot. There is a lot to be said for positive attitudes, even though they are not always easy to muster up.

At ten minutes before eleven (so soon?) I caught movement out of the corner of my eye behind my right shoulder. I shifted slowly and spotted a deer moving from bush to bush, out an easy 150 to 200 yards. "Thank you, Lord, for at least letting me see one," I thought. The deer was angling towards me and would, if he kept on, move up the edge of a large thick to my right. Of course he could bail out into that thick anywhere along the way, as they love to do. This one was no exception. It must have gone into that thick five or six times along the way. Each time it did, I would grunt or bleat softly (shakily at first too) and it would come back out looking around. I've had deer respond to calls before but never so obviously or so many times. The deer was still too far away the first time I put my scope on it but for the first time I saw the flash of an antler. "He's a buck," was my immediate and actual thought. Amazing deduction, Dunn! Now I have always been taught not to stare at antlers and I don't. I really don't! Old Eddie always used to say, "They get tuh starin' at them antlers and the next thing ya know, Bingo, they shoot right between them. Then they wonder why they miss. Ayuh!" Once I see even a glimpse of antler that I'm sure of, I never look at that part of the deer again until the fat lady sings. By this time I had eased myself into a crouching position in the bottom part of my climber, sideways, in order to get a good shot to my right. Once the buck got in range he was never out of the bushes long enough at a time for a sure black powder shot. In and out he weaved, slow while in the bushes, fast when out. The buck moved into bushes once more and was now angling away to my front right, headed into the thickest of the thick. I was afraid he was lost to me. Then I saw his tail flicking in the brush but that was all I could see. He was just standing in the bushes, headed away but clearly undecided. I tried calling again - once, twice, three times. What did I have to loose at this point? Finally I saw movement. He was turning back! He was headed towards me again but still in thick bushes - no good for black powder slugs in my estimation. Then I lost track of him. Suddenly he re-appeared, partially, behind a small Loblolly Pine, straight out to my right side again. He had moved so fast behind those buses and out on the far side of that tree, it actually made me wonder if it were the same deer or another for a moment there. I called once more, a soft bleat, and he responded by moving his front quarters out from behind the tree. I felt it was he again now. I had caught the glint of antler again just before I realized he was looking my way. I was already watching him in the scope and I knew it was now or never. "Squeeeeze the trigger, Dunn. Hold and squeeze" He dropped straight down out of the scope. I knew before the puff of smoke cleared, that the fat lady had sung. It was ten after eleven. Twenty minutes of excruciatingly sweet drama that had seemed to be both an hour and at the same time, just about three minutes. "Thank you, Lord," I breathed and then I hollered it out loud. I was alone and needed t