1999
Adventures With Uncle Wally (Hunting Season) by Uncle Wally
Seein' wildlife on your canoe trip is always an exciting event . . . except during hunting season. Then it might be almost more excitement than a fella can stand.
One fall I convinced some friends to paddle with me for a week on the Buffalo River. Common wisdom has it that fall colors in the Ozarks peak around the third week in October. Common sense tells you that an oak-hickory forest isn't likely to have stunning fall color. But we went anyway.
We even had the foresight to check with the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission about the timing of that year's legal hunting seasons. Now, this is one of those finer points of canoe trip planning about which a paddler COULD get positively paranoid. I mean, most any day of the year it's legal to hunt something and there's probably someone, somewhere out doin' it.
But let's face it: some varieties of hunters are more worthy of our general apprehension than others. Deer hunters and turkey hunters are at the top of my To Worry About list. There are a lot of them, they are all out at the same time, and they tend to be a lot more excitable than, say, the average squirrel hunter. Not to mention the fact that the average-sized paddler is unlikely to be mistaken for a squirrel by even the most myopic of hunters.
Anyway, the hunting season schedule showed us that we would be ending our trip on the opening day of black powder season for deer. Somehow, this didn't bother us nearly as much as it should have. We supposed black powder season would be something like bow season; just a few, solitary guys with archaic weapons quietly stalking through the woods. Not much to worry about there. Besides, we knew that hunting was not allowed within 100 feet of either bank of the river. We figured we'd be safe enough.
Everything went just fine to start with. The water was high, the weather mild, the colors mellow. As long as you like yellows and browns, it's possible to appreciate autumn in the Ozarks. We enjoyed the place, the season, and each other's company. We saw a fair amount of wildlife along the way, including two deer fawns, nicely grown to incautious adolescence, drinking at river's edge. As we floated past, they regarded us with a calm, detached indifference. This was not a healthy attitude for them to adopt, given what some of their human neighbors had on their Franklin planners for the coming weekend.
The next to the last day of the trip, we began to suspect that we, too, had misjudged the ardor of the local black powder hunters. Early in the afternoon we rounded a bend and encountered two armed men just disembarking from their boat. The first man out silently disappeared up the wooded slope at our approach. The man by the boat, in a rather hurried study of nonchalance, dropped the hand holding his gun back into the boat, out of sight below the gunwale.
As soon as he realized that we weren't conservation officers on patrol, he relaxed and got real friendly. "Didja see any deer?" he asked.
We allowed that we had. Then we gave an exaggerated account of how long ago and how far upstream it had been.
"Big ones?" he asked, the hopeful longing clear in his voice.
"Nope. Just little tykes," we answered as we paddled out of earshot and gunshot.
From there on downstream, hunting camps seemed to be everywhere. What with the water bein' so high, hunters had been able to motor upstream from the White to stake out their claims on the Buffalo. Most every large gravel bar along the river was now sporting white canvas wall tents tenanted by prospective hunters in blue jeans and cowboy boots.
Most of these new arrivals were deporting themselves in a seemly enough fashion. They were stayin' in camp, more or less patiently waiting for the season to actually open. Nonetheless, it got to be a little unsettling, paddling past those lanky, laconic figures slouched in their folding, aluminum lawn chairs at water's edge, hat brims pulled low over their eyes, guns across their knees, silently fondling their weapons. Maybe they WERE just idly polishing their gunstocks. They still lent the afternoon a mildly malevolent air.
What with the increased pressure on riverside real estate, we didn't score a five-star campsite for that night. But that was OK 'cause we were no longer plannin' on stayin' very long the next morning anyway.
Dawn was greeted with the sound of distant gunfire. Nobody seemed to be huntin' right in our immediate vicinity. Still, that walk into the woods to do the morning duty, glowingly white toilet paper tucked discreetly under one elbow, seemed unusually tense that morning. I mean, the latrine was up in a nice, open, cane brake, the prescribed 150 feet or so back from the water . . . well outside the probably-not-so-strictly-enforced, hundred-foot, no hunting corridor. And here were all these guys out swarming through the woods in hot pursuit of whitetails. To think I once scoffed at the very idea of camouflage T.P.
Well, we made short work of breakfast and breakin' camp. Heck, we were out to the car before noon! We didn't encounter another hunter all mornin'. They were all busy back in the woods. Every now and then we did hear a shot echoing off a bluff. But I guess we had been safe enough, after all.
So, if you can't resist the lure of those late-season paddling destinations, make sure you at least check out the local hunting regulations before you go. Try not to underestimate the effects of Buck Fever. And you may even want to dust off that old, old PFD for the trip. You know, that really ugly, uncomfortable, orange one. It may not be able to keep you afloat anymore. But even excitable deer hunters try to not shoot at folks wearin' orange. And that might be a lifesaver enough.
*****
Well, 'til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a note c/o Mickey McBride, 8191 Belden Blvd., Cottage Grove MN 55106 or mickeymcb @worldnet.att.net. Let me know if your favorite paddlesport has ever brought you to cross paths . . . or cross fire . . . with other sporting types. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even your friendly, neighborhood Conservation Agent.
