Pennsylvania Game News - October 2017 - 3

I

T WAS A FINE DAY To be out. The
air was crisp and fragrant, the sky
a wide, blue expanse laced with airy
wisps of white.
I was walking beneath a heavy
canopy of brightly colored autumn
leaves. Here and there sunlight penetrated the branches, casting dozens
of illuminated spears into the waiting
shadows. Voracious flocks of small
birds invaded the treetops, causing
showers of seeds to pelt the earth.
I was hunting along an old logging
road when, unexpectedly, a shot was
fired from very close.
Within moments I encountered the
other hunter. He was a thin, nervouslooking young man of about 20.
He was strangely hatless; not only
illegal in this jurisdiction, but something virtually unknown in the hunting
world. His coat was dirty and ragged.
His pants were of the polyester variety,
and there were tennis shoes where boots
ought to have been.
Under his arm was a scarred and
battered single shot. The forend was
bound to the barrel with a careless mass
of silver duct tape.
I asked the standard question. "Did
you get him?"
"No, but he's still up there somewhere. I jest saw it."
I volunteered to circle the tree in
hopes of bringing the squirrel around
to his side for another shot. As I skirted
the tree, I looked upward and saw the
bushytail scurry to keep the safety of
the hickory trunk between us.
Immediately, the young man aimed
his tattered shotgun and fired. The
animal tumbled and fell directly at my
feet.
As I handed over the prize, I casually
asked, "Do you live around here?"
OCTOBER 2017	

He eagerly told me he was a neighbor of the landowner and explained
the location of his home. I knew the
place, having passed it many times on
the way to this very woodlot. It was a
tiny, ramshackle mobile home of faded
green, obliquely thrust into the edge of
the woods.
The once-yard was overcome with
briars and old junk. The curtains in the
windows were threadbare and tattered.
Along the road was a dented and rusty
mailbox with the name scrawled in
large, undisciplined characters, like
those of a small child.
I was about to say something else,
but he was already leaving. His face
was shining, and he made no effort to
conceal the enthusiasm of his success.
"I gotta git home now. We're gittin'
cump'ny an' my wife ken cook this fer
supper."
Without ceremony he shoved the
carcass headfirst into his front pants
pocket. The protruding tail lent the
impression of a ludicrous flag football
player. My eyes followed the poor guy
until all I could see was the bobbing
gray tail, ghost-like through the mottled
foliage.
I stood there thinking about what just
occurred, my fingers running over the
smooth-grained walnut of my custom
shop rifle.
For a moment I was no longer hunting for squirrels, but for answers to
age-old questions that I couldn't possibly hope to find.
An alarmed chipmunk scurried
through the leaves, calling me back to
the matter at hand.
I drew in a deep breath, turned to
the center of the October woods, and
lost myself in the warm reassurance of
sunlit yellow and orange.
3
Pennsylvania Game News - October 2017

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