Gary Greene’s Memories from an Old Hunter.…#48
I would like to believe that most of us as hunters follow the hunting guidelines set forth by our state’s DNR. I also choose to think that when in the field, we try to honor the rights of other hunters while being as safe as possible.
First hand, during my 54 years of hunting, I have found some instances when hunters have gone rogue and made some really poor choices. This was one of those instances.
I was about twelve, which makes the year around 1963, when my father and I were squirrel hunting in Muskego in Waukesha County. We were in a small twenty acre woods that had some new homes going up around the property. We were given permission to hunt that land as my dad had known the property owner for years. I had shot a squirrel with my 22 rifle, but it was lodged high up in a fork of the tree. My dad used his shot gun to remove that squirrel from the tree. Both of our shots were aimed high as we were aware of the surrounding yet far away homes.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a large man came running toward me with a shotgun in his hand yelling that my shots hit him. Both my single 22 bullet and my dad’s single shotgun blast were almost vertical and the chances of him being shot were slim to none. Well, the hunter loudly threatened me with some real strong language as he only saw this young boy standing alone. I now believe his simple objective was to chase me off the land that he also hunted. Then my dad came out from behind a tree and suddenly there was an exchange of words between two angry men with guns. I will never forget that entire scenario.
My father grew up during the depression in a tough neighborhood in Milwaukee. He had to drop out of high school to help support his family laboring as a pin setter in a bowling alley. Most fathers relay stories to their sons regarding sports or hunting exploits. The stories I received from my father were about street fighting and how he never backed down from a conflict. During the early 1940’s, he worked at Rex Chain Belt making parts for tanks and eventually was in the army and fought in Europe during World War II.
Dad had a nasty temper and this time he was protecting his son. It was like a mother bear defending her cub. The qualities of the once Rex Chain Belt union negotiator again were aggressively displayed. The other hunter began to sense that he was losing this war of words as my father inched forward with each foul phrase from his mouth.
As the other hunter was losing ground and back pedaling, realizing, instead of scaring off a child, he now found that he had met his match plus his counterpart was more aggressive than he was. Being twelve, and witnessing this battle of spitting words, I was scared not only for myself but also for my father as I was quiet and motionless, but catching myself searching for a place to hide.
The other man began looking at the ground as he found himself standing on the opposite side of a small stream that probably only carried water after a heavy rain. The stream was about three feet wide and maybe, just maybe, six inches deep with a slightly noticeable, silent current.
The hunter attempted to interrupt my dad’s onslaught of profanity and the verbal attacking of his manhood. As he reevaluated the aggression level of my dad, he finally broke into the monolog and attempted to save face as I began to see fear in that face. He told my dad: “You sure are lucky that this stream is between you and me, otherwise I would come over there and this argument would take another step.” I recall him saying he didn’t have waterproof boots and that he was done here and heading home. As mad as my dad was, he just let him go without another word. By this time, my dad’s entire head was beet red and he had sweat pouring down his face with his T-shirt almost totally drenched.
When upset, no one had scarier facial expressions than my father. I now compare those contortions with those of an angry Charles Manson.
Darkness was approaching and I lost any interest I had in pursing more squirrels. The fun of the hunt took one ugly turn. My father and I were not ones to have deep conversations. Meaningful conversations were always between my mother and me. As we walked back to the car, I don’t believe we exchanged any words. In silence, we unloaded our guns as I threw the one squirrel in the trunk. Nothing was said during the car ride home until we arrived in our driveway. My dad said that he would clean the squirrel, which usually was in my job description, and he gave me one stern look and added: “Don’t say anything about today to your mother.”
I never did tell my mom, because I feared she wouldn’t let me go hunting with my dad again. During my early years of high school, I pheasant hunted with my dad numerous times, but I am fairly certain that we never squirrel hunted again. I truly believe we had a mutual understanding since our last hunt was still in our thoughts. Though I had plenty of previous success hunting in that twenty acre woods, I never returned.