by Bill Heavey
It could have, but it didn’t. A few days after I arrive back in the United States, I get an e-mail from Samuel. Las Tunas won the tournament with a two-day, 12-fish total of 78 pounds 8 ounces. Granma was just 5 ounces behind. The fifth-place team, he writes, from his home province of Villa Clara, should have finished in third place. “They had an 11-or 12-pound fish on a big Husky Jerk. But it made one last run by the boat and opened the treble hook and escaped.”
On my last evening in Bayamo, I am once again sitting on the end of a bed drinking beer with the guys while a bottle of rum slowly laps the room. I have brought an entire duffel bag of plastics, lures, and line cadged from Yamamoto, Berkley, and Rapala. I dump it out on the floor and it vanishes in the time it takes a school of piranhas to clean a cow carcass. The only problem is that most of the plastics are tiny, 6 inches or less. No matter. Some anglers are even now squeezing the packs to gauge how well they will melt down to be recast into larger baits.
One of the guys from Granma can’t even wait that long. He pulls a 4-inch Senko (green pumpkin) from its pack, studies it, hefts it experimentally. Then he cuts the first 3 inches off one of his 9-inch black worms with a knife, carefully heats both the cut tip of the worm and one end of the Senko with his lighter, and presses the two together until they cool. The result is a 10-inch, two-tone hybrid ribbon tail. He smiles, wiggles it seductively, lifts it for my inspection.
“Beel?” he asks. “What you think?” I give him a thumbs-up and a smile, already vowing never to throw away a chewed-up worm again.
“Oh, yeah. They’ll clobber that thing.”
IV
HUNTING WITHOUT PANTS: AND OTHER NECESSARY SKILLS
The Deer Next Door
It’s not that I was cocky at the start of last year’s deer season. It’s just that the only new equipment I expected to need was an Alum-i-Lite Game Cart from Cabela’s to help me get my trophies out of the woods and into the record books without hurting my back.
My confidence came from having lucked into the mother of all honey holes behind the house of my new best friend, Jay Wheeler. Jay has the good sense to live where most monster deer can be found these days: the ’burbs. His backyard is essentially a wooded funnel that connects a municipal park being denuded by protected deer to one of the last cornfields in the county. (Developers have long been eyeing that cornfield, reasoning that town houses are a better crop than corn, which does little to support the global market for Tyvek house wrap.)
I spent much of last summer behind my binoculars watching deer move between the park and the corn. There were big tour groups of does, gangs of unruly 1- and 2-year-old bucks, and, just as the light gave out, a few old monsters. A couple of these looked to be genetic freaks, deer with swing sets exploding out of their skulls, antlers so heavy they had to hurt to lug around.
Jay is a big dude who flew helicopters in Vietnam and usually has an unlit La Gloria Cubana cigar in his mouth. He runs a successful consulting company and has a lovely wife, Vicki. He is a guy with either a big heart or a small brain, because all he asked in return for hunting privileges was that I not park on the grass. In fact, I would happily have repainted his house, cleaned the gutters, and prepared his taxes in perpetuity. He can’t put his cars in the garage because both bays are crowded with racks from bucks he has taken from his backyard over the years. When I asked what time of year he starts hunting, he shrugged. “Oh, I usually just wait for the rut,” he said.
As bow season opened in mid-September, I parked my new folding deer carrier in Jay’s garage, half regretting that its shiny new finish would soon be marred by deer blood.
Hunting season is both a wonderful and a dangerous time to be a freelance outdoor writer. It’s wonderful because, as master of your own time, you don’t need anyone’s permission to blow off work and go hunting. On the other hand, it’s dangerous because, as master of your own time, you don’t need anyone’s permission to blow off work and go hunting.
After carefully reviewing my dwindling monetary resources, I did what any diehard hunter would do. I turned off the answering machine, changed my e-mail setting from available for hire to block anything that looks remotely business-related, and began hunting my brains out. I was there at dawn. I was there at dusk. And it wasn’t even October. I saw plenty of does and yearling bucks, but the big heads were scarce. Weeks later, in the honeyed light of a late-October afternoon, I finally drew on an 8-pointer standing broadside and oblivious as he fed on acorns 16 yards away. He was racked a tad wider than his ears, and anywhere else I’d have taken him in a heartbeat. But I wasn’t anywhere else. I was here. Tine Town. Antler Alley. The Funnel of Fun.
A week later, one of those great heads appeared out of thin air 36 yards out, stretching his thick neck to sniff a rub. I slowly stood, drew, and tried to settle my 30-yard pin just over his back. Personally, I was fine. But my legs picked that moment to audition for the Lord of the Dance. The buck busted me in a heartbeat, then did that trick that only old survivors know: He didn’t wheel, snort, or jump. He simply dissolved, like the Cheshire Cat—now-you-see-me-now-youdon’t—leaving the outlines of his rack hanging in the air momentarily. I wished for nothing so much at that instant as the ability to kick my own butt.
By November, I was in the full throes of my addiction, hitting the woods each morning and losing whatever tenuous mental edge I might have had. Big bucks don’t dawdle during the rut. More than one five-second window of opportunity opened and shut before I’d even realized what I was looking at.
On the morning of November 12, I showed up as usual, only to find Jay standing in my headlights with a grin. “Went out yesterday afternoon for the first time and got lucky. Arrowed a nice buck and gutted him, but I need a hand getting him out. You mind?” And then Jay and I went out and loaded one of those swing-set bucks on my cart. “Sure am glad you bought this thing,” Jay said.
Why Men Love Knives
There’s something about a good knife that speaks to you on a primal level. It’s been this way for about 2 ½ million years, ever since David E. Petzal was just a gleam in his papa’s eye and some nameless hunter-gatherer first began pounding rocks together. Anthropologists say we first made tools for two purposes: pounding and cutting. Your pounding tool is simplicity itself; pretty much any rock will serve to crush a mastodon bone to get at the marrow. But you need something very specific—a sharp edge—to butcher an animal or scrape a hide. Imagine that first hominid flaking a piece of rock into a shaped edge that fit his paw. Imagine the delight in his face as he hefted it and discovered its powers. I bet you anything he smiled, elbowed the nearest guy, and showed off his creation. And the message—verbal or not—has remained unchanged from that day to this: Got me a nice little cutting rock here. Check it out.
I understand this feeling in its totality. Not long ago, I picked up a very nice “rock” indeed. Mine was a serious folder, an Emerson CQC-7. It’s more knife than anybody but a Special Operations guy could justify. But it’s not more knife than I wanted. I liked the way it felt in my hand. The Teflon-coated blade is just over 3 inches long and partially serrated for cutting rope or other fibrous material. It has a Tanto point that can punch through steel. Its handle is an epoxy-fiberglass laminate known in the trade as G-10 that almost seems to adhere to your hand. The knife comes with a clip that positions it head-down in your pocket so that it’s in the right position when you draw it, and there’s a little round thumb plate affixed to the blade for one-handed opening. The click of the blade locking into position is authoritative. It’s a sound that says, I can handle this.
The knife is pure function with no concession to appearance. Because of that, it is all the more beautiful. Like the Parthenon, there’s not a truly straight line in it. It cost … let’s just say, enough that you might be tempted to pay cash so your wife doesn’t see the figure on the credit-card bill. You could easily field dress an elephant with this thing. Heck, you could probably build a house. It makes me feel more competent than I actua
lly am. A good knife will do this to you.
The only problem is that it’s sending me into a severe funk because there is nothing in my life that justifies a knife of this seriousness. I am not in the Special Forces. I am a middle-aged bald guy who lives in the suburbs with a wife and two kids, a big mortgage, and a 1991 Honda Civic. Last night, with my new knife in my pocket, my younger daughter and I fell asleep in her bed after reading The Poky Little Puppy. And not long ago, an attractive young woman held the door for me as I entered a store behind her. When I thanked her, she said, “You’re welcome, sir.” That “sir” said things that no man who still has his own teeth and knees should have to hear.
So maybe my acquiring this knife is a reminder to myself that beneath this veneer of normalcy there still lives a hunter-gatherer whose every day is a struggle against a world filled with sudden and unforeseen dangers. True, saber-toothed cats no longer tread in the night, waiting to pounce, but there are challenges nonetheless. Just last week, for example, I was setting out the garbage cans at the end of the driveway when I ran into my neighbor Dave, who was doing the same. Dave is about my age and is suffering from the effects of having recently traded in a sweet little pocket-rocket convertible for a green minivan. There we were, two housebroken hominids with lawns full of dandelions, wrangling our garbage cans. Then Dave began stomping the cardboard box from a new baby gate, as the trash guys won’t pick up any container that hasn’t been flattened to under 6 inches. He was kicking it harder and harder, to little effect, when I said, “Let me give you a hand.” I slid my knife out of my pants pocket, and the blade clicked into place. With four quick strokes, I slit the cardboard seams. The box collapsed.
“Whoa,” said Dave. “That is one serious little blade.”
“Yeah,” I said proudly, offering it handle-first. “Check it out.”
Pity the Fool
I never expected to say this, but here goes: I’m glad the season is almost over. I say this for the following reasons.
If, like me, you are fool enough to dream of killing a monstrous whitetail buck with a pointy stick, the state where I hunt guarantees your right to have at it from mid-September to the bitter end of January. And until the season runs out and hunters still afield are subject to prosecution, this is exactly what I intend to do, even though on a cold January afternoon I am about as likely to see Jesus wandering around during daylight hours as a deer.
During a lunch meeting with my boss (me) back in August, we drafted a memorandum of understanding stating that the company would adopt a liberal leave policy during hunting season for all staff (me). It turns out that revenue can take a substantial hit when the corporate goal is “earn enough for gas money for the next three months.” Especially in this global economy.
I seem to be aging rapidly. The circles under my eyes are developing circles of their own. I am experiencing frequent bouts of blurred vision, forgetfulness, and confusion as to my whereabouts at any given moment. So this is how it feels to be David E. Petzal on a good day.
Failing to get a reaction from me with standard by-mail death threats, the Book-of-the-Month Club has hired a bounty hunter to find me.
The guy who holds down the midnight shift at my local 7-Eleven rings me up for a 32-ounce coffee and an Artery Buster Biscuit even before I place the cellophane bag of death in the microwave. He may do this simply to be helpful; he may do it to minimize the time the wild-eyed guy wearing camo pants and an untucked pajama shirt spends in the store.
The 1-ounce amber bottles currently rolling around under the seats in my car are making such loud clinking sounds that the entire family now refuses to ride in it. They have also made complaints about the perfume, which I would describe as a bracing blend of single-doe estrous, Trail’s End #307, and intruder-buck scent.
After two hours on stand without seeing any deer, I start to think I’d be warmer if I could just take a glass of ice water and pour it down my pants.
Last week, after sitting quietly in a cafe for 10 minutes, I tried to rattle up a waiter using two spoons.
When I happen to cross paths with my wife, Jane, from time to time, she reminds me that insanity is continuing to do the same thing but expecting different results.
Now that the season is nearly over, I am almost looking forward to the traditional promises to family and collection agencies to do better. I pledge to be a better husband, father, and provider to Jane and … I believe our baby’s name is Emma.
Oh, right. And Jane says she’s not a baby any more, she’s almost 5. In fact, my wife is holding up a calendar at this very moment and indicating that Emma’s birthday is in six days. And what she wants more than anything else is a 1997 Pink Splendor Barbie that retails for $900. Right now, I’m not in a position to haggle. Pink Splendor Barbie it is. (Note to self: Have bow appraised for cash value immediately.)
What should a man think about at such trying moments? Me, I go for deer every time. I find it soothing to meditate on the bucks that have survived the season and are even now walking around out there in the dark. Bucks whose antlers have already begun to loosen ever so slightly. In just four or five months, performing a trick whose power is undiminished by the millennia, those deer will start to grow new, larger ones. Almost before you know it, hunting season will be upon us again. And the corporate goal of Bill Heavey Freelance Enterprises Ltd. will once again be reduced to two words: gas money.
The Psycho Season
March is that magical month when Nature, rolling over in response to the sportsman’s gentle nudge, glares back with a party girl’s bloodshot eyes and tells you to stick it in your ear. Rebuffed, you stare out onto a soggy landscape in which it is impossible to tell where the earth stops and the sky begins. That’s when it hits you. It’s nuclear winter, that part of the year when all life seems to pause, and darkness and extreme cold envelop the earth. You’d see more activity inside the brain of a fundamentalist preacher.
The ducks and geese are south of the border, sucking on a cold cerveza and stubbing their webbed feet into the warm sand. Surviving deer are thicketed up, still hearing the whistle of rounds that grazed their briskets. More than one grizzled 8-pointer is even now shaking his head in disbelief. “Chasing does during daylight in a beanfield? Why not just stand in the middle of an Izaak Walton shooting range and get it over with?” He murmurs thanks to the trinity that has been saving his kind since 1963: (1) the .300 Winchester Magnum rifle; (2) the got-me-more-gun-than-you hunters from New York to Texas who choose this firearm because you never know when a seriously lost bull elk or marauding grizzly could pop up three farms over; and (3) the shooter’s flinch that happens when you combine (1) and (2). Without them, that buck would be swimming in tomato sauce and pinto beans right now.
So what are your choices? Spring gobbler season is 30 days—one eternity—from now. Pattern your gun. Practice your purrs, cutts, and yelps. Lather, rinse, repeat until insane. Psych wards are full of superb turkey callers.
Fishing? Absolutely. Let me offer some tips. Jig a 1-ounce spoon vertically in deep water and use a Carolina-rigged finesse worm for shallow presentations. Because a bass only needs to eat about once every two weeks when the water is below 50 degrees, your odds of getting a bite are about equal to those of having Donald Trump become your apprentice. But these are still the lures to use: the jig because you won’t wear yourself out casting the damn thing, and the worm because it’s a good “indicator” lure. Any subtle tick in your line could, theoretically, be a bass. More likely, you have lost control of your hand muscles, indicating the onset of hypothermia. As always, you owe it to your loved ones to wear a PFD while on the water—but not because it will save your life. Fall in and the shock of the cold water will instantly render you incapable of movement. By having the foresight to freeze upright, bobbing next to your boat, you spare search-and-rescue crews untold hours with the grappling hook. And the minnows will not have a chance to nibble your face into hamburger, giving the mortician something to work with should your
heirs opt for an open casket.
My advice for this time of year, if you are gainfully employed, is to bank some serious overtime pay against future outings. As an outdoor writer, I don’t have this option. When there’s nothing going on outside, there’s not much going on upstairs. What do I do with such freedom? Mostly I sit in my basement, stewing in frustration and the long underwear I haven’t changed in two days and a beard I haven’t shaved in three, drinking coffee until I start speaking in tongues.
Last year, after several days of this, I couldn’t take it anymore. I put on my new Filson Wetlands Hunting Hat (purchased during a particularly severe bout of cabin fever), buckled it under my chin, and ran into my yard. Using only a pocketknife and a shoelace, I tried to fashion a bow drill, a friction-based fire starter I’d made exactly once in a survival course. I started by attacking a dead cedar tree. Soon I had fashioned the bow, spindle, socket, and fireboard. I spent the next three hours on one knee, bent over a wet piece of wood, trying to start a fire. In the process I cut my hand deeply and thoroughly muddied my long johns. But the experience brought home two important lessons. One is to never go into the woods without NATO-rated waterproof matches, a flint and steel, and a good lighter. The other is that it takes one heck of a long time for winter to turn into spring, and there’s not a lot you can do about it.
So if you happen to see an unshaven guy outside in his underwear, talking to himself and wearing a camouflage hat, just smile and wave as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which, in a way, it is.