This Happened To Us! Part II

Rick LaClaire

Article Category: Rick LaClaire

This Happened To Us! Part II

It is January as I write this. Presently, Florida is suffering the longest cold snap ever. Usually, a cold snap is just that: a quick chill. Not so, this winter of 2010. I have counted six mornings now with readings in the 20s and 30s, with more on the way. We’re actually having a winter in central Florida, something most of us came here to escape.

I’m not equipped for this. My old mackinaw has long ago been given to the moths. I used my winter gloves to hold live blue crabs while I halved them — they were no good after that. My wool watch cap sat on the dashboard of my truck for a week last winter and the sun disintegrated it. And long pants? I have one pair, not counting dress slacks, and they’re presently stained from a certain hunting experience I shall soon relate. Let’s face it, my wardrobe is Florida, not Maine.

Not so in my snowbound youth. Deep snow, freezing temperatures, and school and business closures were part of life in Upstate New York. We planned on it. But occasionally we received more than we planned. Occasionally, even for the most seasoned, you needed a little help. That was when we relied on the kindness of others; the loyalty of good friends and neighbors.

Like that winter in ‘62 when it snowed so deep the plows couldn’t get out. The milkman too, apparently. Three neighbors with a toboggan took grocery orders and trudged miles through deep snow, “so the babies could get their milk.” My mother says it’s just what neighbors did back then. I call it “The splendor of action.”

I’ve been helped by a lot of people over the years, many times by strangers. But after all the fear we’ve had pumped into us over the last ten years, it’s easy to become mistrustful. We figure everyone is working some kind of “angle” to steal our money, our job, our seat on a plane, or even our identity. Every once in a while we have to be reminded that there are a lot of good-hearted people out there. And so it happened to us…

We heard shots in the distance. Other hunters were up this road. We’d seen tire tracks on the way in. My truck was mired so completely that nothing could drive around us. We were blocking them. I left a sign on the windshield.

No shovel, no crowbar, not even a rope — but, lo and behold, I had a Sharpie, and a map on which to write. The Sharpie was a mite fine, so I doubled the lettering:

STUCK went for help

I pinned it beneath a windshield wiper. Thinking back, I suppose the note was a bit tautological.

Other than ammo, the only items of any value in the truck were the rifles, so we decided to carry them. It was a few miles to the ranger station and we had no idea how long it would take. I remembered seeing blasted-out cars and trucks in the forests and fields of my youth and wondered if that wasn’t how they got there: some pissed-off hunter. My heart was in my bowels when we took those first steps out. If and when we returned, would my vehicle be intact?

Any notion that this would be easy was dashed at the first bend in the road. This was a previous bog, one we’d had problems negotiating on the way in.

“Well, it looks like we broke in our boots,” I said as the black water lapped at our knees. “I’m no longer afraid to get these guys wet.” My son agreed.

Conditions worsened as we continued. How did we get back here? How stupid of me… We soon approached a pool that appeared too deep to wade. I remembered water on the hood. A wide circumvention of the hole was undertaken. This was through tussock-type vegetation in a foot or so of standing water. Beneath were rotten logs, unseen and slippery under the black sheen. This was the perfect environment in which to break an ankle. At one point my son said he saw something slither away. I told him it was his imagination and to keep going, but my eyes were all for cottonmouths after that. Eventually, we were back on the track and new pools appeared; forgotten pools I had laughed and splashed my way through previously. They were fun no more. What had I been thinking?

“At least it’s a nice day,” I said aloud. It was true. It was mid-afternoon. The sun was shining. No breeze and about 60 degrees — a great day to go hunting. But instead, we were slip-sliding on submerged timber with numb feet, sweating the fate of my abandoned vehicle.

After a half-hour of slogging we looked back. “I can still see the truck,” the boy said. Yes, there it was, a disappointing white speck in the mud. Even though our pace was brisk, we were literally treading water.

By the time the guns were becoming heavy, the terrain dried out. Soon we spotted swirling buzzards. Ordinarily that’s an ominous sign. We knew what it meant.

“There’s the gut pile,” I commented. We were getting close. Rutted sand gave way to a hard washboard road and finally, after a little more than an hour’s trudge, we approached the ranger’s station. We were thirsty, beat, and our feet were cold and wet.

The ranger took one look at us and said: “Looks like you got stuck.” He said it so nonchalantly that the next line didn’t sink in right away: “I can’t help you.” I suppose I expected to hear that, then he went on: “But somebody will. Give it a few minutes.”

We needed a few minutes. We sat on the edge of the porch and I opened a water bottle I brought. My son took off his boots. I guess I thought the ranger would make a phone call or something. Maybe he knew of some secret towing service out here. We sure couldn’t find one. A few minutes went by. Still no action on his part. He was shooting the breeze with some campers. I stood and milled a bit, hoping to get his attention. No response. Maybe I needed to say something.

Then, through the gate appeared a hulking red SUV. Dogs barked from within. The driver greeted the ranger like a old friend. The ranger nodded to me, then asked the driver: “Think you can help these boys out?” It was just that simple.

Their names were Tom and Tom, a father and son, and they were out for an afternoon of wingshooting with their dogs. As we four glided effortlessly over the sodden roads, I apologized profusely for intruding on their hunt. I offered money for their trouble and I think that slightly offended them. “This won’t take long,” the elder Tom said. Tom the younger added, “We’ve all been there.”

Then, far ahead, there it was, a little white speck in the mud. “That your truck?”

“Yes,” I replied. We were slipping and splashing; the road was worsening. “How’d you ever get that thing in here?” young Tom asked. I wanted to say something like “Good sense is finite; idiocy has unlimited mileage,” but only managed “I don’t know.”

The tow strap was applied three times that day. Once in the initial mire, twice more in pockets we had roiled up with our traffic. Their vehicle was made for this element, ours wasn’t. The dogs were silent and patient, as was my son. We emerged on the main loop road covered in mud. My thanks were profuse. It had only taken a half hour. I asked Tom and Tom their last name and they declined — perhaps they sensed I wanted to send them a gift of some kind. They wanted neither publicity nor remuneration. “Pay it forward,” was the elder’s wage, and when I see the chance, I shall.

Hunters are not fishermen. Yes, you can be both, but they are different mindsets. In fishing, you can release your catch and then knock back a beer. Hunting is serious; there’s no such thing as kill and release, and alcohol is strictly verboten. Fishermen gab and joke while they cast. Hunters observe strict silence and pride themselves on their lack of presence. Fishermen brag and lie. Hunters don’t bother; theirs is a sad satisfaction, the knowledge that death begets life, and that “This ain’t no party/This ain’t no disco/This ain’t no foolin’ around.”

The ranger summed it up on our mud-streaked way out: “Hunters do things like this for people. They’re always willing to help.” So do many fishermen, I might add, but then there’s the guy that sees you catch a fish and plows right up next to you. Or the guy who leaves his catfish to die on the beach (ouch!). Or the fish hog who catches twice as many blues as he wants or needs and leaves them to rot in the public garbage can at the end of your street. To this day, I have never met an inconsiderate hunter.

So I thank you, Tom and Tom, for proliferating my faith in good people. And thanks to another Tom, my son, for being so mature and uncomplaining, for helping with all his strength and sharing his technology.

Three Toms, demonstrating the splendor of action.

(To read Part One – click here: http://thebeachsideresident.com/2010/02/this-happened-to-us-part-i/)