M. D. Johnson - Successful Small Game Hunting: Rediscovering Our Hunting Heritage

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Copyright 2003 by M.D. and Julie Johnson

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a critical article or review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper, or electronically transmitted on radio or television.

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Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2003108895
ISBN: 0-87349-524-1
Printed in the United States of America

eISBN: 978-1-44022-481-2

Dedication

For my father, who knew exactly what he was starting
underneath that shagbark hickory some 30 years ago.
I cant think of anything more fitting than
Thank you, Sir except, perhaps, I love you.

To my Mother, who realized how important it was that I sit
underneath that treeand always encouraged me to do so.

And to Julie, through whose eyes Ive discovered an outdoors
I never knew existed, and a world I never thought Id find.
Love you.

Introduction

I could take you right there today. Right now. And Im not talking about the woodlot. Or even the acre in which it happened. No, Im talking about the very tree where it all started. If, that is, the tree and the woods still stand. Howard Klingeman, former owner of the timber, has been gone for more than 25 years now, so it would come as no surprise if the land has fallen victim to development.

It was a hickory; a shagbark hickory. I was 8, and still torn between excitement and fear. I was also on my own, a hunter, for the first time. Or so I thought. Klingemans was a big woods a huge woods. It was full of strange sounds, weird shakings and unseen rustlings. Yes, it was a huge place. Or so I thought.

I didnt hear him walk up. Never did; still, it would be several years before I understood his silence. Softly, he tapped me on the shoulder and signaled quickly for me to be quiet.

Come on, was all he said. Slowly, in a half crouch, he led me though the whip-thin oak switches and the May apple to the base of a hickory. Twenty feet from the foot of the tree, he stopped and without turning, motioned for me to do the same. And as theyd done a thousand times before my eyes followed his outstretched hand. Beyond his fingers, somewhere among the saw-toothed leaves, sat a door. His door. My door. Our door. The entrance to another world. The first step up to a higher level.

Let me help, he said softly. Little did he know how much he would help. Suddenly, I could see. Just a spot of rust among the green. Then a tail. An ear. I felt more than heard the click of the hammer. A tiny ball danced silver against the sky. I pulled. The gun pushed. The squirrel fell with a thump. It was an end and a beginning.

Even today I can feel his fingers as he painted the fox squirrels blood on my cheek, the stock of the tiny single-shot already wet-slick with a matching streak of red. I stood, eyes still wide with a thousand questions about what had just happened, and what was happening.

Its the way, he said, his voice low. I realize now he was afraid his words might burst the moment the way an errant breeze explodes the milky mist of a swollen dandelion. Youre a hunter now, he said. And he quickly turned away, perhaps so I couldnt see? Today, some 30 years and several shagbark hickories later, I understand why.

What I didnt realize until some 20 years later was that I was never alone that day in Howard Klingemans woods. He was right there. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Maybe even praying for me to do well. And for him to teach well. I have no regrets; I hope he has none. And I hope that Ive made him proud.

On a Journey

Take a walk with me through the past, present, and future. Well go back to Howard Klingemans woods, circa 1972, and to Eunice Pecks swamp in 1979. Share with me the marvel and wonder of the Washington Cascades in 1993, and crouch in a snowy Iowa fence line in 1997. Trudge the Nebraska sandhills during the opening days of November 2001, and be amazed come the spring of 2011.

See what youve been missing through the wide-eyed stare of a captivated 10-year-old, and silently weep at the faltering steps of a graying houndsman. Come with me on a journey that will take us from the logging roads of western Washington to the alder thickets of northern Maine. From the crags and stone thickets of the Texas Hill Country to the virtual infinity that is Alaskas Richardson Highway.

Come, join this rag-tag collection of traditionalists, dandies, and heritage-seekers, all of whom live for little more than the windstorm flush of a covey of bobwhites, the bawling of a pack of beagles, the rattle of a trap-chain in the pre-dawn blackness, or that give-away flash of a rusty-red tail high in the canopy of a century-old oak.

Make the memories. Share the smiles. With these words and images as both your vehicle and guide, enter the world of the squirrel hunter, the trapper, and the uplander. Walk 1,000 miles in my boots, and always wonder just what is over that next rise or around the next bend in the creek. I hope youll have no regrets.

M.D. Johnson
July 2003

Table of Contents

Foreword

I t is an honor for me to write this foreword. The authors are expert hunters and my long-time friends.

Small game hunting is many things: The challenging shooting of a September dove field, the quiet brilliance of an October squirrel woods, the somber light of a November grouse covert, the excited baying of rabbit hounds on a snow-covered December afternoonand more. Take the time, and a young person along, to enjoy it. The memories will last a lifetime.

The following is a short story, not a typical book foreword. Its a tribute to my fathernow gonewho taught me how to hunt small game. Ive since taught my two sons to hunt and, hopefully, they will do the same with their children some day.

I dont believe that my father purposely set out to pass on a hunting tradition to me. Hunting was just something he did. But, just the same, hunting has since become a passion of mine like no other. Thanks, Dad

The Gift

In that fleeting nether world between sleep and consciousness, a sound registered that I had not heard for months. Water was running in the rain gutters of our house. Ice was already melting on that mid-winter day when I awoke. It was a January thaw that I knew wouldnt last. On my way to school the sun was rising in a cloudless, blue, windless sky. By late morning I could take it no longer; between high school classes I called my father at work.