Gary Greene’s Memories from an Old Hunter……#24
I have been an outdoorsman for nearly all 65 years of my life, but I also was an athlete in high school (1969) and college (1973). Then my career started as a physical education teacher and coach and that continued until my retirement in 2006. So I believe I am safe to say I have/had that jock mentality. Now that is not necessarily a good trait. Being the old, dumb jock that I am, sometimes I just disregard pain and as we used to say……“Just walk it off!”
In the Scuppernong prairie portion of Kettle Moraine South State Forest, I was alone, pheasant hunting with one of my black labs Elsie. Elsie picked up a scent…..
Nyjer with a limit of Bong public hunting grounds' roosters. (2014)
A year earlier at Bong Recreational Area, Elsie’s brother, Nyjer and I were catching up to a running rooster. The ground just north of an old air strip is very uneven and I was having some difficulty maintaining good footing as we are zig-zagging around after that fleeing pheasant. I was 63 at the time and I was breathing fairly hard. Suddenly, my chest had a tightness that caused me to put on the breaks. It was directly in the middle of my chest, it was sharp and specific. Nyjer flushed the rooster as I made no attempt to shoot. The tightness only lasted for less than a minute and being the old, dumb jock that I am, I blew it off. I continued hunting with no side effects.
………Elsie is red hot on that bird trail at Scuppernong. She picks up the pace as the switchgrass cover in late October is still quite thick. I catch myself hurdling over some brush as I attempt to keep speed with dog and bird. In an instant, that pain in my chest that hit me a year earlier came back, but this time it brought me to my knees, then to the ground. As I lay there, I heard the rooster cackle as it took flight. Moments later Elsie was at my side. I was a mile from my truck with no one in sight. I was contemplating what my next steps were going to be. Elsie knew I was in discomfort and she was doing what she could do to help, but I really didn’t appreciate her licking my face. As quickly as the pain came, it subsided, so I stood up and was going to slowly return to my truck, but I felt good. Besides my perspiration soaked clothes, I was in pretty decent shape. On the way back to the truck, Elsie flushed a couple of birds and I went home with my limit.
Being the dumb jock, I tried to analyze my pain and come up with answers that didn’t direct me back to my heart. As the cause of my pain, I diagnosed myself with torn scar tissue from a previous lung surgery.
The next day, I hunted Bong with Paul Smith, the Outdoor Editor of the Milwaukee Journal/Sentinel. Over three of my dogs, we shot our limit of pheasants and I never felt any side effects from the previous day. Weeks later, he said he never suspected that I had any problems, but neither did I.
At Paradise Valley public hunting grounds, Greene with then four month old Schmiddy and a couple of ducks in hand. (2014)
Two days later at Paradise Valley public hunting grounds, my son Nate and I hauled a kayak and duck hunting equipment nearly a mile into the wetland. I didn’t have any chest pain, but my energy level was poor and I was having difficulty breathing. Periodically, I had to take a knee and let him go ahead.
Being the dumb jock, I still continued to hunt or guide every day, pushing pheasants or waiting on ducks. Then the tightness in my chest returned. I used some over the counter pain meds and they temporarily worked and the pain subsided. Then the pain came back so I used more pain meds, until finally the meds didn’t ease the discomfort.
Ten days had passed since my initial chest episode at Scuppernong, when in quite a bit of discomfort I woke up in the fetal position. Immediately, my wife Chris wanted me to go to the emergency room. At that point, this dumb jock finally began to realize that the pain was my heart. Nate and I had a scheduled duck hunt on our lake that morning. As many thoughts rushed through my head, the one thought that became the most important to me was that if I were to possibly die from this condition, I wanted get in a last hunt with my son. As a dumb jock, that was my logic. My wife said I was not smart (I cleaned that up) and my son said more of the same. (I really cleaned that up) I had him help me down to our lake and he did all the work. I just sat there watching, as he set the dekes and hid the boat. We actually shot a couple of Goldeneyes and Nate helped me back up the long steep hill to our house. I showered and Chris took me to the ER and within the hour, I had stent surgery with 99% and 85% blocked arteries.
I was back in the duck blind the following weekend and pheasant hunting (at a slower pace) in ten days. My doctor told me not to carry anything heavier than a gallon of milk, which just happens to be the weight of my shotgun. You probably are summing up this column as ……yes, he really is a dumb jock. I don’t deny that I am, but…….please also take into consideration that nearly 45 months ago, I was diagnosed with a rare form of terminal Leukemia (CMML) with an average life expectancy being 34 months and I have attempted to live life on my terms.
A couple of weeks ago, Paul Smith and I reunited for another pheasant hunt together. He was gracious, as I needed to rest at times and due to my fatigue, we cut our hunt short. I told him I almost made it through this hunting season using: “Magic, Mirrors and Superglue.”
Next week’s column: My war with Leukemia and my memorable 2016 fall hunting season.