If You Didn't Bring Jerky, What Did I Just Eat?

by Bill Heavey

  • Go to the brightest, hottest place you can find (a shopping-mall parking lot in Phoenix on an August afternoon works well). Wearing long sleeves and pants, stand crouched and motionless, holding an 8-weight fly rod at the ready. Note how the sweat from your brow washes a refreshing stream of sunblock into the eyes.

  • Every hour or so, select an arbitrary spot the size of a butter plate 70 feet upwind and allow yourself one false cast to hit it with a pink No. 6 Crazy Charlie.

  • When your cast fails to land smack on target, bang your head slowly and repeatedly against the nearest light pole. This is how you feel when your guide clucks his tongue in disappointment and says, “Nice try.” (Which is Bahamian for “God, please don’t tell me I have to spend all day with this guy.”)

  • Repeat for 8 hours daily until deranged.

  It goes without saying that I did not pay my own way on this trip. Along with a number of fly-fishing writers and editors, I was a guest of the Orvis Co. I mention this freely to demonstrate my integrity. On the other hand, Orvis does make the finest fishing tackle on earth, as well as superlative gift baskets (“Give the pesto lover in your life the ultimate collection!”); fine dog apparel, such as the World War II Mechanic’s Sweater with Zambezi Twill patches at the elbows; and a full line of window treatments.

  On the first day of fishing it was immediately clear that there were two skill levels in our group: (1) everybody else and (2) me. Upon receiving complementary 8-weight Zero Gravity fly rods and Vortex VO2 reels, the others were quickly casting all 105 feet of fly line as easily as tying their shoes. Rather than humiliate myself in public, I took the stuff to my room, stared at it, and began calculating its value on eBay if it remained unopened. As this was not an option, I assembled the four-piece rod and accidentally stuck the tip into the ceiling fan. Remarkably, it didn’t break, but the noise attracted my hosts. I explained that nothing so rigorously tests a rod as short roll casts in a room with 8-foot ceilings.

  Then it was time to go fishing. Fly-fisher folk love bones for the following reasons: You pursue them in places that cost a fortune to access; they are considered inedible; and they spook quicker than Iraqi traffic cops. Casts must be perfect. A foot too long and the fish won’t see it. A foot too short and the fish hauls fins for deeper water. Get it just right and … well, I have no idea what happens then. Anyway, you stand on the bow of a boat while your guide poles you along mangrove flats shimmering in the tropical heat, spots the fish, and then politely abuses you for failing to instantly cast where he indicated.

  The guide I remember best was named Glister, with whom I fished on a particularly infernal day. Glister was very laid back until he saw a bonefish, whereupon he started barking orders like Donald Trump on meth: “Long cast, 9 o’clock. Now!” It took me three false casts to get any line out at all, by which time the fish was gone. “Pah!” he spat, shaking his head. An hour later, given another opportunity, I rushed my back cast and the line balled up at my feet. “Whisha!” Glister grunted. (Whisha? I thought. Is that some voodoo word? Or the first part of “Whisha hadn’t gotten stuck with you”?) I dared not meet his gaze but continued to crouch at the ready.

  After another two hours, Glister spotted more fish, a pod of them. “Buncha big fish, 11 o’clock. Twenty yards. No, not eight! Eleven! Again! Let it lie … now strip, strip, strip! Stop! Cast again! Farther left. No! Left, left! Shoot that line! Shoot it! Long strip! Stop! Let it lie! Short strips! Strip, strip, strip!” The fish, seeing my line, went screaming away over the flats. “Pah!” spat Glister.

  Then he said something I will never forget. “You got to relax, man!”

  Disoriented from the heat, miserable, nearly blind from the sunblock in my eyes, I tried to respond. But my tongue had joined my fly casting in a land beyond my jurisdiction. The words that eventually came from my mouth were “I … spinfishing man … most time.”

  To which Glister observed, “Whisha!”

  Dog Years

  My father’s mind is slipping away, cell by cell, and as the architecture fragments and falls he often speaks of dogs. “George didn’t come home last night,” he says when I come over for Sunday dinner. His hands, which once guided jet fighters to night landings on aircraft carriers, fumble distractedly at the drawstring of his pajama pants. I kiss him and sit at the foot of the bed he can no longer leave unaided. “We went for a walk last night and he got after a raccoon or something. Jerked the leash right out of my hand. And you know how he chases cars.” He lies back against the pillows, staring anxiously at the faint cracks in the ceiling plaster, as if he might find an answer there if only he could remember the question.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I lie. “George was at the front door when I showed up. He’s asleep in the basement right now.” George, the first dog our family had, died 35 years ago.

  “Well, that’s good,” he says. “We’ve got to take better care of that dog.”

  This, I’ve learned, is how the mind unravels. Events from long ago move into the foreground, while the present seems to vanish even as it unrolls. My father is 86, the last in a line of five generations of career military men. None hunted or fished seriously, but they all loved dogs. On my father’s dresser there is a photo of the beloved terrier he had as a boy. “Old Pat,” I remember him saying when I was growing up. “What a dog.” Early on I came to regard dogs as almost holy creatures: innocent, guileless, incorruptible. They earned their keep simply by existing. You walk into the kitchen and a tail thumps the linoleum with unconditional love. To Dad, this was a stronger case for redemption than any ever made from a pulpit.

  George, the first in a long series, was an unruly, stout-hearted brown mutt of middling size who must have had some border collie mutant gene, for he lived to chase cars, and he liked to work close. He would sprint along, inches from a front hubcap, then turn his head in front of the tire, barking as if trying to turn the lead sheep in a flock. My sister and I lived in terror that he would die that way. He did get hit once, limping home after two days and scratching feebly at the back door. But he made it to 15 and died in his sleep.

  Suddenly I’m remembering, too. I’m 9, and Dad and I are out fishing in a canoe on Lake Champlain when George chews through the screen door of the summer rental cottage. Panicked at being left behind, he leaps off a 6-foot cliff, paddles out to us, and nearly capsizes the boat as we hoist him aboard. Reunited with his masters, he smiles and shakes, drenching us. Then seven years later, my father and I are digging a hole out back under the forsythia bushes where George liked to lie in wait for cars and mailmen. I already know it is useless to try to stop the tears as I stand on the spade with both feet to slice through the roots.

  And so came an endless parade of brown and black pound dogs. There was Fred, the goofy basset who became sexually aroused by the presence of unfamiliar guests in the living room and would sometimes try to mount them. His short legs were deceptive. Fred was a big galoot and impressively endowed. A proper Southern lady, my mother had been taught to simply ignore crude behavior, and guests were left to follow suit according to their abilities.

  There was Tilley, who lifted an entire boneless turkey roast off the counter when my mother turned her back to answer the phone and was out the back door by the time Mom turned back. Dad had to take us to a restaurant that night. Emma, a black mutt, heartbreakingly sweet and soulful with 2-inch eyelashes, had a habit of leaning into you to maximize contact as you watched TV together. Hank, the latest, is a gruff longhaired terrier mix whom we believe was abandoned and lived wild for a time. He snarls and bites reflexively if startled while sleeping and shakes uncontrollably during thunderstorms. Otherwise, like all dogs, he is pure of heart. A surprise birthday present to Dad on his 75th, Hank lived with me for several days before the presentation. We bonded, and now he whines with delight when he sees me, then sounds his loud, hacking bark and turns circles until he calms down.

  My father’s world has shrunk to the rooms he has lived in for 40 years but no longer
recognizes, the immediate family and two vaguely familiar caregivers, and the dogs living and dead who still walk by his side. After dinner, I help Sam, the wonderful Ghanaian man who watches Dad at night, put him back in bed. As I leave, I kiss my father good night and tell him I love him, two things I did not do regularly until I was old enough to grasp that life is a short ride between worlds and that our highest calling along the way is to love one another. My father taught me these things. He learned them from our dogs.

  Hunting Hurts

  The problem with safety-rigging that first cup of coffee in the death-camp glow of a 7-Eleven when you’re racing daylight to the deer woods is that you have not yet had any coffee. Which means you are unfit to supervise the operation. So it is only after a first sip, as I’m peeling out of the parking lot with a 24-ounce Styrofoam cup of scalding liquid between my legs, that I have the nagging sense that all is not well. I am aware only of the following impressions:

  (1) Something seriously bad is about to happen.

  (2) It’s too late to do anything about it.

  (3) I’ve been in this situation before.

  (4) I’m in it again.

  Then I recall that the click consummating the marriage of plastic lid and foam cup was a little off, a little hollow. Further, I remember that the pairing of cup and lid is an unforgiving system. Which is to say that the lid seals either perfectly or not at all. Which would seem to indicate that a large amount of hot liquid is likely to slosh backward onto my Sensitive Area in the near—

  Suddenly I feel a blinding pain and the car grows loud with the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth. I guide the vehicle onto the shoulder and commence extreme-pain avoidance measures that consist of pounding my head against the headrest, a welcome distraction from the more central affliction. Say what you will about the male reproductive machinery, it cannot be faulted for a lack of nerve endings.

  It is several minutes before I regain my natural poise. I know that burns are best treated with a topical antibiotic and a loose, sterile bandage—neither of which I have. But a few drops of doe urine should discourage any germs from taking up residence in the affected area. And a brand-new scent wick loosely duct-taped over the wound will serve as a bandage. Back on the road and still suffering, I am nonetheless pleased. Mistakes are unavoidable in life. The great affair is to not let them distract you from your goal. I’m doing quite well in this respect. How many commercial wound treatments on the market also serve as deer attractants? I rest my case.

  As I arrive at the woods, things are looking up on other fronts, too. I had been worried, for example, about finding my stand in the dark because I ran out of reflective trail markers the day before yesterday. (I meant to hang stands weeks ago. But my daughter Emma is bringing home first-grader homework now. Some nights it can take me a full hour to finish it. By then it’s dark.) Sunlight has solved that problem. Approaching the streambed I’ll follow to my stand, I startle five deer standing right out in the open not 40 yards away. They were doing that motionless brown trick of theirs that makes them invisible. Again, everything is going well. I had found abundant deer sign here two days ago. And my prediction that the animals would not seek new living quarters in the interim was right on the money.

  Four hours later my patience on stand is rewarded. It’s a party of four, all does. Unusually for midday, they are coming up the trail briskly. Stranger still, I see that they are following a smaller animal, a red fox, which trots along a few feet ahead as if leading them. It’s the damnedest sight. They are 70 yards out when I have the presence of mind to rise and prepare to draw, forgetting the tuna sandwich in my lap, which tumbles 22 feet to the ground. Again, strangely, they do not take alarm but continue on.

  Perhaps they are all fleeing the same threat, a dog. But they aren’t looking back, and I heard no dog. Could it be that deer and the lower carnivores have put aside their ancient enmity as a first step in their plan to overthrow the common enemy, humans? I finally remember to draw, unsure whether my initial goal of putting a deer in the freezer has not been superseded by the need to stop a planetwide insurrection. This possibility is made moot, however, when at full draw my arrow amiably bounces off the drop-away rest and lodges between it and the bow.

  Meanwhile, the deer, now aware of my efforts, have stopped right under my stand and are looking up at me. So is the fox. Using the forefinger of my bow hand, I try to flick the arrow up and back onto the fork. Since I have cut my arrows to a precise length, my finger’s point of contact is the Bacon Skinner blade of a Rocket Ultimate Steel 100-grain broadhead. Aptly named, the blade is sharp enough that its cutting action doesn’t even hurt. I try twice to flick my arrow back onto the rest, sustaining two wounds in the same place. By now, the fox has had enough. He skedaddles. The deer snort and follow. I let down the bow and the arrow clatters through the tree branches and plants itself in the leaves below. My finger bleeds copiously, my blood thinned by the single baby aspirin recommended for most middle-aged men.

  Back in the car, bleeding, burned, and deerless, I tend to my wounds: a little more doe urine, another scent wick duct-taped to the affected area. And I’ll be back tomorrow for sure. Success is just a matter of time for a determined guy with a positive outlook.

  Morons Among Us

  Ever wonder why so many folks have a less-than-flattering image of hunters? Let me explain it to you: There be morons among us. What’s worse, the rest of us generally tolerate them. So if the antis ever succeed in banning hunting, it will be thanks to our generous support. We don’t send them money, of course. But make no mistake: We contribute to their cause.

  Imagine yourself a newly minted strategist working for an anti-hunting group. Within half an hour of starting your job, you’d be rubbing your hands with glee and telling your superiors, “These guys are a dream come true. We don’t even have to think up ways to portray them as Neanderthals who are just after the thrill of the kill. They’re already doing that for us!”

  Visit enough hunting chat rooms and you’ll see how. I found one in which a hunter was complaining that the buck he’d shot had died before he could taunt it with a dance he’d choreographed specially for the occasion. “I’m really into sports,” the guy wrote. “I based my dance on some of Terrell Owens’s moves after he scores a touchdown. It’s this really in-your-face, I-own-you sort of deal. I worked pretty hard on all the moves, and I thought it would be cool for it to be the last thing some deer saw, knowing that I’d beaten it. I’ve done it for my friends at a bar, and they all thought it was hilarious. I’m hoping next year I get to do it for real.” As sportsmen, I’m sure we can all share his frustration at a game animal that has the nerve to expire before a guy gets his chance to humiliate it. And it sure would be nice to meet his buddies.

  On another site, a bowhunter wrote that he had always wanted to take a deer with a brain shot through the ear and that he had been waiting for just the right opportunity. His patience paid off, and everyone in the chat room was treated to a photo of what looked to be a yearling doe with a shaft angling out of the right side of her head. Forget that such a tiny target makes this an ethically indefensible shot. Forget that it shows no respect for the life of the animal. Forget—if you can—the grisly image itself, which brings to mind Saddam’s torture-loving sons. No, the important thing here is that this hunter’s wish to kill in a novel and satisfying (for him, at least) way was fulfilled.

  There are unethical slobs in any sport, of course. And it’s unfair to tar a whole group because of a few bad apples. But in both cases, these posts were met by a resounding absence of anger or censure. In fact, some who responded were admiring, even sympathetic.

  Am I missing something? Are we hunters now convinced that the only thing that matters in the debate over our sport is numbers—so much so that we welcome anybody who hunts, no matter how twisted, into our ranks?

  I hesitate to saddle up my high horse here, yet this stuff both scares and sickens me. We would do well to remember a few facts:
Hunters are a minority in this country. There are a lot of people who want to abolish hunting. There are probably even more who are still forming opinions on the matter. The future of hunting depends on the actions of hunters and nonhunters alike. If we don’t police the morons and slobs ourselves, we invite outsiders to step in and do it. I’m guilty myself. I was so distressed by what I saw online that I just walked away from my computer at the time.

  Politics aside, there is something about crude behavior in a hunter that is not just offensive; it also eats at the soul of any true outdoorsman. These guys are cheapening something we love, something sacred. The longer I hunt, the more humbling I find the experience. Each time I walk into the woods with my bow, I rediscover how infinite nature is and how transitory and small I am. My carefully maintained suburban identity falls away like a dry husk. I become more alert. My consciousness opens up. I am focused, aware, alive. I am hunting.

  Everything around me comes alive, too: the earth beneath my feet, the water in a brook, every leaf on every tree. The slightest tremor in the air is like the blast of a trumpet; the squawk of a distant woodpecker, a siren. Each step cracks open a new world. I am seeking an animal whose knowledge of this place is greater than mine will ever be. I come in humility precisely because no one is watching me, because I alone must live with the consequences of my actions here. Should I be granted a killing shot on a buck, I will kill. This is a confirmation of the hunt, the thing that makes being here so elemental and important. What I love beyond all reckoning, beyond my ability to explain even to myself, is this feeling of being more intensely alive than I’ve ever been.