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SQUIRREL SEASON OPENS…VOLUNTEER STATE TRADITION CONTINUES
By Steve McCadams
They started cutting on some scaly bark hickories near my home in early
August. The illusive gray squirrels had stepped up their attack on the
big green nuts, chomping away in a clumsy manner, dropping one quite
often to the forest floor.
Either the busy little bushy rascals have gotten smarter and faster or
I’ve gotten older and slower. Guess which one it is?
Both my hearing and sight have diminished. No doubt about the changes.
Nowadays I attempt to slip around beneath towering hickories hoping to
get a glimpse of a few limb jumpers. The feudal attempt confirms my
swift and silent days are behind me.
Before my canine companion---a loving and loyal Labrador retriever---
and I get into position the word has already gotten out about our
intrusion.
One gray darts away, jumping toward a planned route of escape while
another heeds his abrupt departure and scurries off like a shocked dog.
Seconds before a feeding frenzy was underway. From the high heavens came
big nuts bouncing through the thick green leafy limbs while little
fragments dropped from higher up, an indication another one was munching
away up there somewhere.
When the big nut fell just barely missing my head it sounded like
someone up there dropped a bowling ball. A quick survey of the ground
around me took on remnants of a logger’s chainsaw, having done battle
with a giant hardwood.
Piles of partially chewed acorns covered the ground, a clear indication
squirrels had parties here for several days.
Yet suddenly the treetops are silent and lifeless. Word has gotten out
we’re here.
Smart squirrels hide motionless. From their vantage point among the
limbs and leaves they watch and listen for anything unusual.
Just as season is about to open across the Volunteer State on Saturday
scouting hikes that reveal freshly cut hickories are the cat’s meow.
Finding such signs puts hunters in prime territory once daylight creeps
into the woods, putting darkness on the run.
Such scouting missions deep in the woods pay dividends but sometimes
reveal disappointment. Some years Mother Nature doesn’t produce a bounty
of mast across the ridges. Acorns are absent. Could be the result of
drought. Only she knows the real reasons.
Strange that some ridges that yielded productive acorn crops in times
past where squirrel numbers were plentiful just don’t have it this time
around. It can be, and is, somewhat of a mystery.
That’s why it’s a good idea to get out in the woods before opening
morning and scout potential hunting spots. Sometimes the squirrels are
chomping down on hickory nuts; other times oak acorns or some other food
source deep in the river bottoms or up on the hardwood ridges.
Regardless of where you plan to go consider adding a youngster to the
invitation list. Opening day of squirrel season was meant to introduce
youngsters to the outdoors.
Someone once took you on your first hunt so why not return the favor.
Lead by example. Expect to answer a lot of questions. Allow them to be a
bit noisy.
Teach them gun safety and other basics of the hunt but use kid gloves.
After all, it’s supposed to be fun so keep that in your sights at all
times.
Have them prepared for ticks, gnats and mosquitoes. Pack that repellant
and avoid the poison oak and ivy.
Introduce the newcomers to the sights and sounds of a deep and dark
woods waking up from a summer’s sleep. Hoot owls relaying messages;
blue-jays squawking off just because they can; crows doing their job as
woods watchmen.
They’re all ingredients in the recipe of that first squirrel hunt.
Cherish the youthful moments as that youngster holding on to your
hunting coat will be grown and gone before you know it.
If the squirrels bark and dance about the treetops, carelessly pausing
now and then within gunning range, then so be it.
Nothing quite like the feel of that bulge in the hunting coat from
life’s first bushy tail. Life’s journey may last many years and log a
thousand miles but there will only be one “first squirrel” hunt.
Make it memorable and while trodding down the old logging roads and sand
ditches of life pause and reflect. Stop and listen for the location of
the busy tail’s bark. The distant bawling of milk cows headed to the
barn.
Perhaps the machine gun hammering of a red headed woodpecker on a
breakfast run among the dead snags. Maybe a bobwhite’s whistle rallying
the covey as a feeding spree begins near the sedge and sumac santurary.
When youth has disappeared like a thief in the night it’s some of these
sights, sounds and faces that will forever remain etched in memory.
It is here, deep in the woods, where bonds are formed with friends and
family. Size and number of the bounty isn’t the yardstick of success.
Yet today the quest of the little feisty gray squirrel is what made it
all happen.
SQUIRREL OPENER WAS ONCE TENNESSEE TRADITION
Squirrels seem to be everywhere in town, darting across
streets wherever you go. Yet it’s just not the same as a quiet walk deep
in the dark confines of tall timber where the bushy tails bark and
fumble acorns like a freshman receiver on the football team.
Walking down the sand ditches of yesteryear I used to pride myself at
slipping up on illusive gray squirrels that were too busy cutting high
in the hickories to know I was even around. It was a bonus when a rusty
fox squirrel bounced into sight.
There’s a little bit of Lewis and Clark in all of us and I still have
dreams of finding the ridges where it looked like someone had been
running a chainsaw. The fresh chips of green acorns covering the ground
meant the scouting expedition had discovered the place to be when
daylight broke the next morning.
A morning after a heavy rain with no wind meant you could hear the bushy
brigade navigating their limber lanes to the breakfast buffet. Sometimes
you attempted to slip up on them; other times you just had to sit and
wait. Young legs yearned to roam but it was a good lesson in patience
and perseverance.
Old hunting coats pulled from hibernation deep in the garage closet with
a few forgotten shells left in pockets signaled another year had passed
quickly since the last outing. And, there was nothing like the roaring
first shot that pierced the silence and the smell of that blue Peters
paper shell from the 410-gauge double barrel.
The first shot officially opened season and told the blue jays you had
invaded their rural hideouts.
Smelling gun powder from the swollen paper shells was the Chanel Number
Five for outdoorsmen.
While I seldom ate squirrels growing up, I made sure I gave them to
someone who did and they often boasted of the delicacy when combined
with a few homemade biscuits.
The bulging game bag on my old sleeveless vest confirmed success on the
walk back out of the shaded bottoms and steep hardwood ridges. Back then
the daily limit was six and the first five weren’t nearly as challenging
as number six. Bagging the limit was a goal.
Funny how almost fifty years of memories return in vivid detail every
year about this time. I can’t remember yesterday but yesteryear is as
clear as a cold winter morning when a northeast wind slapped loose tin
on a barn’s roof.
Every few years I return to my Carroll County roots and stroll down the
path near Shiloh Church where a towering white oak yielded my first
encounter. I guess the analogy is like that first kiss; you never seemed
to forget where and when.
As the aging process hits high gear you yearn to return and, if only for
a moment in time, feel the rush of youth just once more. There aren’t
many things you can do the same way you did them 45 years ago but
squirrel hunting is one of them.
Sound nostalgic? I plead guilty.
Tomorrow morning I will be listening for distant shots across the
countryside and reminisce, wondering if a youngster is taking his Maiden
Voyage. Traveling down silent paths, avoiding dry sticks with carefully
planted steps while dodging spider webs whose presence has been revealed
by a heavy dew.
Set the alarm clock. Rise and shine. It’s squirrel hunting time in
Tennessee.
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