by Galen Winter
“They protect hunters,” he explained. Then he looked at me in a fashion that can only be described as accusatory. “Attorneys are quite apt to cause trouble for hunters,” he said. “They prosecute them for trespass. They sue them just because they don’t pay their bills. They cause them to be fined for forgetting to buy licenses and create all sorts of mischief.
“Can you believe it? Some of them have dedicated themselves to drafting Spendthrift Trusts with the most offensive of terms. Lawyers are the ones who are responsible for making honest men sweat in Philadelphia in July rather than allowing them to enjoy a duck or dove hunt in the more pleasant climates.
“Sometimes the hunter gods visit retribution on such men in the form of headaches and gastric distress. Whenever I witness that retribution taking place, I remember there is justice on the universe and my spirits are revived.”
October Song
During the first month of the Ruffed Grouse season. Major Peabody and Doctor Carmichael rented a vehicle and left the Green Bay airport. After a brief stop for necessary provisions (a cooler, lots of ice for libations, single malt Scotch whisky, crackers and both Camembert and Brie soft cheeses), they headed north. Soon they were in a forested section of Oconto County. Both men silently watched the Wisconsin fall forest as they drove to Jeff’s cabin on the South Branch.
The roadside sumac were mostly bright red and the maple trees were showing off. Some of them preferred chrome yellow. Others adorned themselves with rusty brown-red foliage. A few selected a shiny, bright red autumn dress. The pople had begun to lose their crown leaves but most of them were still a kind of muted yellow from top to bottom. Sunlight found its way through the branches of the trees and revealed the earth tones of the forest floor. The darker greens of the pine and the spruce and the balsam accentuated all of the other colors.
In autumn, the northern deciduous woods are a sight to behold. Doc Carmichael appreciated the scenery. Peabody was not in the best of spirits and Carmichael tried to raise them by drawing attention to the beautiful autumn day. He broke the silence. “Just look at those leaves,” he said.
“Yes,” Peabody answered sullenly. “Just look at the damned things. When a bird flushes, it won’t take more than three seconds before it disappears behind them. I don’t know if I can shoot that fast.” He thought for a moment. Then he snorted. “When a bird flushes,” he repeated. “I should say: ‘If a bird flushes’. Jeff says the grouse are nearing the bottom of their cycle. We’ll be lucky if we see one.”
The Major was disappointed. He had looked forward to another of the great grouse hunts he usually enjoyed on his early October expeditions, but the prospects for this hunt were not particularly favorable. First, instead of spending an entire week with his Wisconsin friends, Doc Carmichael’s surgery schedule limited them to a short two day hunt. Second, it looked like there weren’t too many birds this year.
The only thing Doc Carmichael had accomplished was to draw Peabody’s attention to the thick foliage and further depress him. The men lapsed into a silence that ended only after they turned down the two rutted trail that ended at the cabin where Jason and Jeff were waiting for them.
The gear was quickly unloaded and carried inside the cabin - all except the cooler. It was left outside. The pot bellied wood stove had been fired up and any ice cubes left inside the cabin would melt. As Peabody and the Doc changed into their hunting clothes, Jason and Jeff began the friendly harassments that characterize hunting compadres.
“Where in hell have you been, Major? You’re late. I expected you six minutes ago. Did you stop to enjoy the scenery? “
“I might just as well have. No reason to hurry. I’m told there are only seven Ruffed Grouse in Oconto County.”
“You’re wrong again. There are eight. I dunno if it’s the cycle or the road hunters or if it’s the turkeys. There are lots of turkeys around here. I think, maybe, they compete with the grouse for food and territory. I only know there aren’t as many birds as there were last year”
“I see Doc Carmichael has been paroled. You don’t care who you associate with, do you, Major?”
Carmichael answered that one. “He brought me along to cure him from the dreadful diseases he’s sure to contract from one or both of you.”
* * * * *
The afternoon was unproductive. Jeff got a grouse. So did the Major. The next morning’s hunt was worse. They saw a few birds, but didn’t get much shooting. The noon meal was not punctuated by enthusiastic recollections of the morning activity. There was no bragging about long or tricky shots. No one was subjected to verbal keelhauling because of displays of miserable shooting. Few shots had been fired.
It was a group of subdued hunters who took to the field after lunch. Jeff and Jason followed what was once a logging trail. It ran more or less parallel to a small creek. Tag Alder grew on one side. On the other, there was enough sunlight to support grasses and occasional patches of clover.
The Major and Doc Carmichael elected to follow a narrow gauge railroad right-of-way that had been ripped up and abandoned after the cedar was logged off in the 1920s. It ran through a forty that had been clear cut four or five years ago. Young pople were growing there. They providing what would normally be excellent habitat for Ruffed Grouse.
Later in the afternoon, Carmichael grumbled his way back to the cabin. Jeff and Jason, equally unsuccessful, were already there.
“What did you get?” Jeff asked,
“What did I get? I’ll tell you what I got. I got tired. I got back. I got bramble scratches. I got bitten by some kind of bug. I shot at a Woodcock and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I heard five or six shots coming from your direction. Did you and the Major have any luck?”
“I had luck,” Doc Carmichael admitted. “It was all bad. I don’t know about Peabody. We split up. He followed the South Branch and I looped around on the right-of-way. There must be a road up there somewhere. I think I heard a car. I suspect the shooting was from some damned road hunter. He probably got the only bird left in northern Wisconsin. No. There aren’t any birds left in this county. He probably was shooting at tin cans.”
“I think the Major got something,” Jeff said. “I heard a couple of shots coming from his direction.”
“Even if there were a few birds around, the trees are still full of leaves and Peabody would be lucky to get a shot off. I don’t think there are any birds,” Doc Carmichael repeated.
Jake disagreed. “I don’t think that was a road hunter and I don’t think it was target practice. The shots were too far apart. I’ll bet Peabody got something,” he said.
“I’ll bet he comes back empty,” Carmichael persisted. “The grouse are too spooky. They get nervous whenever it gets windy. They flush out of range. There are too many leaves to see them.”
Jeff agreed with Jake. “The Major won’t come back empty handed. I wouldn’t be surprise if he got a limit.”
Carmichael made no attempt to back away from his prediction and Jeff and Jake bullied him into making a wager. The terms of the bet were clear. If Peabody zeroed out, each of them would have to give the Doc fifty dollars, but for each grouse the Major brought back, Carmichael would have to give each of them fifty dollars.
To make sure he understood it, Jason said: “In other words, if Peabody comes in with only one bird, Jeff and I start making money and if he brings in five you owe each of us two hundred and fifty dollars. Right?”
“Well, yes, I guess,” Carmichael slowly answered, clearly showing he may have been a bit hasty when he made the bet.
Ten minutes later, Peabody appeared at the cabin door. When Doc Carmichael asked him if he had any luck, he replied in the affirmative. Jeff and Jason smiled. Carmichael frowned. Then Peabody emptied the contents of his hat on the table. “I found these honey mushrooms. They’ll make a fine sauce. I hope you guys got some birds. I didn’t see a thing.” That was when Doc Carmichael smiled and Jeff and Jason frowned.
* * * * *
>
The next morning, Doc Carmichael and Major Peabody were in a jovial mood as they drove back to Green Bay. “We won a hundred bucks,” Carmichael said. “Not bad. It’ll pay for the gas and the car rental. What did you do with the grouse, Major?”
“I field dressed them and hid them under the ice in the cooler.” Then the Major added: “Isn’t it a beautiful day. Just look at that color. The woods are marvelous this time of year.”
Impressions
Major Peabody waited until I had rung the bell to his apartment three times. I knew he was there. It was nearly eleven o’clock in the evening. I was preparing to perform my obligation to deliver his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance. Peabody would be no place in the entire universe except in his apartment, waiting for me.
On the last day of the month, without fail, the Major invites me to dinner at some Philadelphia restaurant. The phrase “the Major invites me to dinner” is a euphemism meaning: Since I must deliver his check as soon as possible after midnight, I might as well spend the evening enjoying a leisurely meal with him at my expense. After dinner we usually retire to his apartment for conversation until the clock strikes twelve. After delivering his remittance, I am free to leave.
On the evening in question, that pattern had been broken. I was absent from Philadelphia while attending a two day seminar dedicated to tax reduction through intricate trust arrangements. I returned to town well after sundown. This meant I was unable to receive the Major’s end-of-the-month telephone call inviting me to dinner. By keeping me waiting outside of his apartment door, Peabody was indicating his displeasure.
Finally, the door opened. Peabody’s greeting was subdued. “Oh, it’s you, counselor,” he said. “You are tardy. I was concerned. I thought, perhaps, you had been arrested for committing some sadistic crime, disbarred and sentenced to a long term in prison, or, perhaps, one of you dissatisfied clients had, justifiably, murdered you.”
I got the impression the Major was mildly displeased. Feeling somewhat guilty, I immediately explained my absence from the office and apologized for not advising him in a timely manner and for not rushing from the seminar before its conclusion in order to get back to Philadelphia in time to dine with him. The Major seemed mollified only after I made amends by inviting him to dinner on the following evening. Then, too late, it occurred to me that I had done nothing to require an apology.
Major Peabody has an almost uncanny ability to put me on the defensive. Whenever I point out one of his various derelictions of duty or violations of social grace, it always seems to end up with me apologizing to him. He’s been getting away with it for years. I thought it was about time for me to strike back. Yes, it was time for me to turn the tables on him.
“Major,” I said, “when you greeted me at the doorway, I received the distinct impression you thought I purposely avoided the dubious pleasure of taking you to dinner. Frankly, your conduct surprised me. Can it be that my impression was accurate?”
There, I thought. For a change I’ve put him on the defensive. I said no more. I waited for his explanation and for his apology. I was disappointed on both counts. I should have expected his response.
“And I, my young friend, am also surprised,” he answered. “Surely you can’t interpret my sincere concern for your safety and welfare to be an indication of displeasure. Surely my interest in your well-being should give you no cause to attack me.”
He had done it again. I was back on the defensive. Before I could think of an appropriate cutting response, the Major waved his hand as if to dismiss the mitigation I would certainly be expected to tender. He lit a cigar, sipped at a Scotch and water, leaned back in his chair and began a soliloquy.
“Don’t apologize, young man,” he said. “Impressions are often wrong. I remember a fellow who had been invited into our grouse camp a few years ago. He behaved well during the first day of our hunt and I was left with a favorable initial impression of him. I thought he deserved to be invited to join us in future hunts. Later in the evening, however, I was forced to change my opinion.
“After dinner, when the sun went down and the temperature dropped, the cabin began to cool and the wood box began to empty. That fellow actually moved his chair closer to the fire! Can you believe it?” Peabody slowly moved his head from side to side and said no more. I sat there, somewhat perplexed.
“And?” I questioned.
“And nothing,” was the Major’s answer. “The man should have gone outside to the wood pile and brought back an armful of wood to replenish the fire. By his inaction, he proved to me that he was, at best, of dubious character. My suspicions were later positively confirmed when I was told he was a Congressman.
“Impressions that have been built over a long period of time can be equally inaccurate. Jeffery Schultz is a case in point. Many believed Jeff was an insensitive, sarcastic, cynical, mean spirited son of a gun.” (The Major did not say “gun”.) “At least,” the Major continued, “that was what his long time associates and closest friends called him. His enemies did not hold him in such high regard.
“I, on the other hand, had an entirely different impression of him. I had formed a favorable opinion of him and there was a good reason for my opinion. Jeff had a cabin and eighty wooded acres in northern Minnesota. When the Ruffed Grouse season opened, he always invited me to hunt with him. That, of course, is the mark of a true gentleman.
“On the morning of my first visit to Jeff’s camp, I flushed a grouse twice - once on my way to the outhouse when I was unarmed and a few minutes later on my way back to the cabin. When I enthusiastically mentioned it to Jeff, he told me the hunting of that particular bird was strictly off limits.
“The grouse was Jeff’s pet. It lived in a spruce thicket not more than thirty yards from the cabin door. Jeff asked me never to divulge the bird’s existence, let alone its location. Of course, I honored his request. Many times, during our return to the cabin from subsequent hunts, we would flush that grouse, but even when game was scare, we never entered that thicket to look for it.
“Jeff and the grouse had an extraordinary relationship. He kept the bird supplied with corn and mushrooms, beetles, when he could find them, and an occasional apple. Jeff had become attached to the bird and the bird apparently liked him. It would often perch and spend the night on the balsam pole that served as a railing around the cabin’s porch. For two years I watched that exceptional relationship of confidence and trust between man and bird.
“Last Spring I visited Minnesota and spent an evening reminiscing with Jeff. When I inquired of his pet grouse, he became somber. He explained what had happened. Toward the end of the previous year’s bird season, Jeff was told the word of his pet grouse had somehow spread throughout the county. A group of hunters intended to invade Jeff’s property when he was absent and shoot the bird.
“Jeff immediately tried everything he knew to chase his pet from the grove near his cabin. He yelled at it. He swore at it. He fired his shotgun in its general direction. Nothing worked. The bond of friendship the grouse had established with Jeff could not be broken. The bird would not leave that small adjacent-to-the-cabin stand of spruce. Jeff faced the certain prospect of some grouse hunter killing his friend.
“My impression of Jeff’s sensitive nature was then proven.
“Jeff frustrated the hunters’ attempt to kill his pet. He, himself, shot and ate the bird.”
Equality
I asked Major Nathaniel Peabody to accompany me to a Bucks County afternoon Garden Party. He begged off claiming he knew nothing about gardening and had no interest in learning about it. I told him the affair had nothing to do with gardening, that it was merely an outdoor social event.
I should have expected Peabody’s reaction. He brought his eyebrows together, frowned ever so slightly, turned his head and stared at me for a few seconds. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His looks reminded me how uncomfortable he was in posh parties of the kind usually frequented by people who automatically dislike
d hunters. Unfortunately, I must admit, my circle of friends contains a goodly number of such folk.
I told him the lovely Stephanie wanted him to attend and in order to provide a special inducement, she had convinced the host to lay in a supply of ancient Macallan single malt Scotch. The Major had a soft spot in his heart for the lovely Stephanie. He seldom refused her invitations and reluctantly agreed to attend the event. He also liked 25 year old Macallan.
At the party I stayed close to the lovely Stephanie, but kept my eye on the Major as he circulated through the multitude. Though he solemnly promised to behave himself, I wanted to be able to get to him in a hurry if I saw any signs forecasting that he was about to commit some social outrage. I was surprised how well Peabody held up under the strain.
He complimented the host on the quality of the Macallan, testing it from time to time. He was charming when introduced to ladies but, in each case, he quickly excused himself and carefully sought out the company of men with tanned, lined faces – the kind of men who looked like they might own shotguns and dogs.
He would often bump into a golfer or a tennis player by mistake. As in the case of the ladies, he would quickly move on, trying to find more satisfactory companionship. Peabody was in dangerous territory, but he successfully avoided skirmishes with anti-gun advocates and pseudo-environ-mentalists.
Later in the afternoon, the Major found two Scotch-drinking hunting-type compadres. With neckties removed or savagely loosened, they sat at a table shaded by a large multi-stripped umbrella. I noticed three women purposefully approach the Major and his friends. The trio was led by a tall, skinny woman, wearing sensible flat shoes and with carelessly attended, un-dyed hair, severely pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. I think she was trying to make some kind of statement. Later, I was told what then transpired.