I made the trip to Strouds this weekend more for the fellowship than any other reason. As I was loading the truck I got to remembering how " polluted" the oak ridges are with "tree rats". So I decided to bring my Grandads Eastern Arms .410 along to see if I could put a little dent in the population. I can remember my Grandad carrying this gun when I was just " knee high to a grasshopper" as he would always say. He had shot endless game pouches full of rabbits and squirrels and I thought that would be a great tribute to him to get it back in the woods and see if we could give Grandad something to be proud of.
Beener asked if I was going to slip out of camp and try to bust a couple squirrels and I thought that was a great idea. It was a little windy but warm and I figured the squirrels would be on the ground. Beener and Jay were going to head up the hollow and off to the left. Beener had his Ruger 10-22 and Jay was walking along with his Muzzy to deer hunt once they got up the hollow a ways. I headed up the same hollow and split off to the right. I had been up there the evening before and had laid the smack down on one squirrel and knew they were everywhere on the oak ridge but had the hunt cut short due to the incoming rain. So as I topped the ridge and got into the heart of the red oak and white oak trees I pulled up a limb and reminisced of the days spent with Grandad on his Noble county farm and times he would hand me the very same gun and a handful of shells and say to me "why don't ya ventilate a varmint or two up on the hill?" Just as I was doing today. And as if on cue a big ole red squirrel comes bouncing along into range of my .410 and hops onto the side of a white oak tree. I place the bb on him and squeeze and my first one of the hunt lands at the base of the oak tree. I still hunted my way out the ridge, just taking my time and I am flooded with memories of my Grandad, memories of much more than hunting but mostly hunting. As I spy another squirrel, this time a grey, I remember my Grandad telling me " I have to open up the ends of all my shells and add rock salt because this gun can shoot them so far away that they have to be salted down so the meat won't spoil by the time I get there to pick them up". This squirrel was a stretch for the ole .410 but he just wouldn't get any closer so I squeezed one off at him and watched as he ran across the green forest floor and disappeared into a knot hole. Dang it! But this too brought a memory of what Grandad would have said being" he was probably so tough we couldn't have gotten a fork in the gravy!" I continued my walk on out the ridge and busted a couple more greys and turned back toward camp to hunt my way back. All the time enjoying Gods gift of the beautiful day and the feeling that Grandad was walking right there with me and smiling with pride at the mess of squirrels we had managed to outsmart and the one we "left for seed".
I miss ya Grandad.
Beener asked if I was going to slip out of camp and try to bust a couple squirrels and I thought that was a great idea. It was a little windy but warm and I figured the squirrels would be on the ground. Beener and Jay were going to head up the hollow and off to the left. Beener had his Ruger 10-22 and Jay was walking along with his Muzzy to deer hunt once they got up the hollow a ways. I headed up the same hollow and split off to the right. I had been up there the evening before and had laid the smack down on one squirrel and knew they were everywhere on the oak ridge but had the hunt cut short due to the incoming rain. So as I topped the ridge and got into the heart of the red oak and white oak trees I pulled up a limb and reminisced of the days spent with Grandad on his Noble county farm and times he would hand me the very same gun and a handful of shells and say to me "why don't ya ventilate a varmint or two up on the hill?" Just as I was doing today. And as if on cue a big ole red squirrel comes bouncing along into range of my .410 and hops onto the side of a white oak tree. I place the bb on him and squeeze and my first one of the hunt lands at the base of the oak tree. I still hunted my way out the ridge, just taking my time and I am flooded with memories of my Grandad, memories of much more than hunting but mostly hunting. As I spy another squirrel, this time a grey, I remember my Grandad telling me " I have to open up the ends of all my shells and add rock salt because this gun can shoot them so far away that they have to be salted down so the meat won't spoil by the time I get there to pick them up". This squirrel was a stretch for the ole .410 but he just wouldn't get any closer so I squeezed one off at him and watched as he ran across the green forest floor and disappeared into a knot hole. Dang it! But this too brought a memory of what Grandad would have said being" he was probably so tough we couldn't have gotten a fork in the gravy!" I continued my walk on out the ridge and busted a couple more greys and turned back toward camp to hunt my way back. All the time enjoying Gods gift of the beautiful day and the feeling that Grandad was walking right there with me and smiling with pride at the mess of squirrels we had managed to outsmart and the one we "left for seed".
I miss ya Grandad.
