Joel Spring - The Ghosts of Autumn: A Season of Hunting Stories

Copyright 2016 by Joel Spring

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Tom Lau

Cover photo copyright Michael Ringer

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-0482-4

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0483-1

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE GHOSTS OF AUTUMN

IT HIT me as soon as I stepped out of the truck. The cold air gusting off Lake Ontario penetrated my lungs, causing an involuntary gasp before stinging my eyes and sending a chill not only through my body, but also into my soul. The warm September day, and the summer that had long since worn out its welcome in my world, suddenly melted away in the harsh and inviting arctic air. Turning into the wind, I faced the lake, welcoming the bracing cold as it washed over me. Summer slipped away as the gusts ushered in the first hints of autumn, if only for a little while.

Sitting on the tailgate with the old twenty-two rifle across my lap, I thought little of the squirrel hunting which I was allegedly here to do. I thought nothing of work. I thought nothing of stress. I was completely in the moment, something at which Ive never been skilled. This is why hunting season brings me back every year. Its the opportunity to focus and the chance to just be .

Whispering on the north wind, the ghosts of autumn are everywhere. Their voices mix with the music from the first waves of geese coming in over the lake. The past is never far. To the south, Dad and I are hunting squirrels in the oak stand on the peninsula. To my west lie the backwaters of Twelve-Mile Creek where John and I are laughing and nearly capsizing the canoe due to carelessness, adventurousness, and just plain silliness. Ted is swimming in the murky water, happily retrieving the handful of ducks we somehow manage to hit, his great jaws clogged with feathers and duckweed. The fields to the east are full of ghosts and memories and the small victories of my dogs (and those of my friends) flushing woodcock and rabbits and pheasants and the occasional unlucky squirrel and fox, coyote and woodchuck. Mike, Maggie, Ted, Minnie, Jake, Charlie, Cagney so many dogs that brightened our lives for such a short time. And now Max, my golden retriever, carries the weight of being endlessly compared to all the dogs that came before him. If you have the time, I can point you to a quiet stand of ash saplings where just two years ago Max flushed his first woodcock and made a proud stiff-legged retrieve. I could show you where he posed for a photo with a huge rooster pheasant in the shade of a red oak after a long chase across a grass field. It has become one of my favorite photos among the hundreds that grace the pages of a dozen old photo albums and several hard drives.

Its not only the ghosts that walk these fields, but also we, the living, that honor them. Perched on the tailgate, I try to remember all of the hunts over the years, but it is an impossible task. I struggle now to recall everyone Ive brought here in my time to share in the places that have meant so much to me. I cant. Occasionally the memories will surface throughout the coming season. Many are gone though, lost forever on the cold breeze of time. That is as it should be. Nature is, if nothing else, always moving toward the next season. Fall never mourns for summer.

The woodcock migration is underway, as much a mystery as anything else a hunter may or may not know. That is, in and of itself, a lesson. We dont need to know everything. Why? Because we cant. We shouldnt. Soon the north wind will carry their secretive flight down from Canada. Not long after, the deer will begin their breeding season, another enigma of the outdoor experience that might have something to do with moon phases or temperature changes. Maybe its just magic. In a few more weeks pheasant season will be here with its colorful birds and exciting chases through long-grass fields, brushy tangles, and thickets Ive hunted a hundred times before with old dogs and old friends for more years than I can count. More than one new dog and new friend has been welcomed here as well. Chasing dogs through the rutted fields will bring me back to my youth while callously reminding me how long ago it was. Its been a lifetime, perhaps an eternity, not to put too fine a point on it. The length of time doesnt matter. The continuity from then to now is all that does. Its all that ever matters. The circle. The wheel of life. Ka . The twenty-five-year-old ghost of my younger self also walks with me. We have some spirited discussions from time to time. Im older and wiser than he, but not nearly as much fun.

Before heading into the oaks to search for squirrels and look for other things I may not find, I meditate just a while longer. The fields and woods and old orchards here are sacred ground. I feel the presence of my old friends. I am humbled in the face of the beauty of this place, and experience the quiet only found in nature. The peace for which we all search envelops me. On my worst days Ive never failed to find it here.

This is my cathedral. These are my meditations. I was raised Methodist, but this is my religion.

THE GHOSTS OF LASCAUX

THE STORY starts with four French boys and their dog walking in the woods on a fall day in 1940. Most of my favorite childhood memories start with a boy walking his dog in the woods on a fall day. In fact, a large percentage of my all-grown-up stories start with a fall day, a dog, and the outdoors. So, to this story, I can most definitely relate. The boys were reportedly searching for a mysterious tunnel theyd heard other locals talking about. That sounds like the start of a great adventure to me, and it certainly turned into one for them. Their dog, curiously named Robot, discovered the hole first, sniffing around the entrance to the hidden underground chamber. The boys, convinced theyd discovered the legendary tunnel and were mere inches from untold treasure and riches, did as most boys would do and slid down the small, steep tunnel into the uncertain darkness. Fortunately, their descent didnt end with a hundred-foot plummet or death at the bottom of a well, or an avalanche of suffocating soil or any of a hundred other horrible fates that may have awaited them below the earths surface. Lucky for them, indeed. It soon became evident that it was very lucky for all of us.

The boys first found themselves in what would soon be called the Hall of Bulls. Googling the photos as I have many times during the writing of this segment, it is impossible to fully appreciate what the boys and their Robot saw. Some of the nine hundred animals painstakingly recreated on the walls of the Lascaux Cave are massive, life-size and then some. One particular bull in the Hall of Bulls is over fifteen feet long. That doesnt translate well to a twenty-inch computer monitor. Of the nine hundred animals, over six hundred have been positively identified as being species that shared the landscape with the ancient artists seventeen thousand years ago. These paintings were thousands of years old when the Egyptian architects had their first planning meeting in Giza to discuss the new blueprints for that little pyramid project.