Memoirs

The Blind Leading the Blind

The Blind Leading the Blind

Somewhere along in 1985 Jim and I got the bright idea that we needed a place in the country to hunt. He used to do that when he was younger and living in Delaware. We even had venison a couple of times. Now, we were in our forties with lives too busy for a lot of extracurricular activities. I guess when you think back about the past, sometimes it seems better than it really was. This was to be the case with our hunting idea.

We started going for rides on Sundays, looking for a good spot. After deciding on an area near Fanning Springs, we contacted a real estate agent and found what we thought to be the perfect ten acres in the woods. It abutted a private wildlife preserve. It was completely wooded, thick with underbrush, and at the end of a very long dirt lane which turned off from a limerock road (old U.S. 19). The nearest next door neighbor lived so far back on his property, his house was not visible from our dirt road. The realtor informed us he was a widower, retired from the Internal Revenue Service. We decided to leave him to his seclusion.

We were not disturbed by how remote the acreage was. That was what we wanted. Jim already had a tractor so we started looking around for a bushhog to clear a path into our property. This was not a problem either. We quickly found a used one and got both tractor and bushhog to the site. Then we discovered the real world of jungle clearing, not quite as much fun as we anticipated. And, in the meantime, we had seen some small deer running about and decided there was no way we would be killing those cute little things. Maybe I mostly decided that. Anyway, we agreed.

The woods were quiet, they smelled great, and they were away from it all. We decided to go ahead, cut a path, and build a tree blind where we could sit and relax while watching the wildlife roam freely below. At least one day each weekend, we devoted our energies preparing our shangri la.

One problem we ran into while trying to clear our little roadway was tree roots. There is a metal pin that connects the bushhog hitch to the tractor, and since tree roots are slightly immovable, when the “hog” got stuck on one, the pin snapped, disconnecting the bushhog from the tractor. Very soon, we were on a first-name basis with the tractor supply dealer in Trenton.

My job during all this was to walk behind the bushhog at a little distance and clear the path of large sticks that were sometimes thrown out by the rotating blades. I thought this was a pretty easy and safe job as long as I stayed far enough behind the tractor. The first problem is the noise. A diesel tractor is very loud, and it drowns out all other noises. Soon, I discovered the second problem. City slickers that we were, I did not know yellow jackets nested in holes in the ground. Apparently, they do not enjoy being ridden over by a noisy tractor and bushhog. I never heard one buzz. They were all over me before my brain made the connection between sting and ouch. Of course, I ran, which turned out to be the best thing I could have done. I jumped into the truck and slammed the door. A few got inside, but I became a vicious shoe killer in no time. Jim didn’t even miss me. He kept right on going, hearing nothing. Finally, he turned around to look, and I was nowhere in sight. We quit early that day. The ride back to Gainesville was torture. When I got home and counted, I had about thirty stings. Everyone said I was lucky.

Fully recuperated and armed with superior knowledge after surviving a yellow jacket attack, we went back a few days later to continue our clearing. I decided to make some grapevine wreaths. After all, millions of vines were hanging from the trees, free for the taking. I had my pruners handy and began yanking them down. It was fun. I had two huge, beautiful wreaths intertwined with lovely Spanish moss when my arms started itching, just a little. I did not pay too much attention. After all, we were in the woods. When we got back home, I laid down for a nap. I was pooped. I woke up scratching like a maniac. I called Jim's sister-in-law, who was somewhat more familiar with country living, and she made the diagnosis. Chiggers. Take it from me, the medicine does not work. Showers and time, almost a week in my case, is the only cure.

We did not give up, though. We wanted to watch those wild animals. I’ll bet they were watching us and laughing their butts off.

Our next misadventure involved a squirrel hunter. I am just assuming he, or she, was a squirrel hunter. We never saw the person. But we did hear the whiz of the buckshot as it traveled just above our heads while we sat on a log enjoying our lunch. We both ran for the truck that time. I guess somebody else thought it was good for hunting, too. A trip to Home Depot for "no trespass" signs was the most important stop on the way home.

Our neighbor from the I.R.S. appeared out of nowhere on our next visit to Morrison's Misfortune, as I secretly named the ten acres from hell. With him was his hound dog, no surprise, but his bare feet were shockers. No shoes, no shirt, and wearing cutoff jeans. How could anyone roam around in this wild place with no shoes? He looked wiry and tough, a small short man with weathered skin. He was not exactly neighborly, only wanting to know if we were the ones who had put up the "no trespass" signs. Satisfied we were the owners, he left as quickly as he had appeared. About three weeks later, on another workday to M.M., when we exited the truck, we smelled woodsmoke, not fresh, but old. Carefully, we made our way though the woods to where we could see his house. It had burned to the ground, faulty wiring we found out later. He had gotten out safely and was living with his son-in-law. The memory of buckshot flitted through my brain. They rebuilt.

That evening at home I had another surprise. Chiggers not only live in Spanish moss, they live in wood ash as well, the stuff we had traipsed through to check out the burned-down house. No need to call my sister-in-law this time. I knew what I had, and I knew what to do. Jim escaped my misfortunes by wearing boots, thick socks, and long pants. Not me. I had to wear tennis shoes, footies, and shorts. I learned my lesson with the second round of chiggers and dressed accordingly on future trips to M.M. I even did some research and found out flowers of sulphur dusted inside socks would keep the chiggers away. It worked.

We continued on, clearing our path, cutting down trees when there was no other alternative, and stacking firewood. We built a barbecue grill with old cement blocks and a grate, and roasted hotdogs and marshmallows with our firewood. Jim's brother brought us a picnic table, and we enjoyed several family get-togethers at M.M.

After seeing snakes, turtles, a huge hornets’ nest on the side of a hickory, and almost running the tractor into a natural sink, we finally got our path cut far enough into the property to build our tree blind. We used it a few times, but the only wildlife we saw was a wild mama sow and her little piglets. They took their darn sweet time passing below our tree and finally getting far enough away for both us to descend down our tree-ladder steps and run for the truck. We remembered seeing a stuffed wild boar's head on the wall over our realtor's desk. It had razor-sharp tusks. We thought Daddy was probably not far behind. Oh, and I forgot to mention, never eat in a tree blind. Ants can find a dropped bread crumb from miles away.

Of course, we ended up selling the property. Family get-togethers are a lot more fun in the backyard at home, convenient to the refrigerator and the range. Once in awhile we would ride past the acreage, and Jim would mention all the fun we had there. I would nod my head and ask if he thought that nice seafood restaurant up the road was still open.