“Life is but a time for hunters to seek only and diligently, their true religion, themselves; and the changes we need and search out are but tangent roads which extend outwardly from the Great Circle, only to return and continue on the long, round robin journey-but after all needed challenge has been experienced…”
Circles of Life
I’ve always been an ardent believer in the philosophies of life, the spirituality, and the hallowed traditions of hunting practiced by our beloved Native Americans of yesteryear and have held tenaciously to a wish born in the depth of a paleface’s heart; that being, if indeed there is such a thing as reincarnation: “Lord, please bring me back as a Native American.”
In all my studies of the Native Americans of this country, the one belief that has seemed to me, most profound, has been the way they think about the power of circles. Another, of course, is the feeling of the great chief, Sitting Bull, when he said, “When the buffalo are gone, we will hunt mice, for we are hunters and we want our freedom… .”
Eskimos of the frigid north country felt much the same as those tribes of the lower forty-eight states but they were a bit too primitive for my tastes in that they ate much of their meat raw. In fact, Eskimo is derived from the Cree word, “askimowew” which translated means, “he eats it raw.” And I’ll have my venison loins medium rare thank you. Thus, I have stuck to being an admirer of Native American tribes of – what is currently – the lower fifty states. Don’t get me wrong, I love and greatly admire Eskimos, too, it’s just that if I befriended one, he or she may invite me over to dinner and should there not be a family dog under the table, I’d be in trouble…
Long ago, I spent a great deal of time with the Shoshone tribe of the Wind River Range in Wyoming. Oddly enough they were able to learn from me, but I learned far more from them and still today practice many of their sacred customs. In my hunting, in my everyday life. And I recall what one Shonshone friend told me about the long ago words of Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux Holy Man. He wrote: “Everything an Indian does is in a circle and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles and everything tries to be round. The sky is round and I have heard that the earth is like a ball and so are all the stars. The wind in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nests in a circle, for theirs is the same religion as ours. Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing and always come back to where they were. The life of man is a circle, from childhood to childhood and so it is in everything where Power moves…”
Those words of amazing, acute perception and observation seemingly rule the lives of all Mankind, even though many of us never come to realize it. It’s true, however, just as the rains of spring and the snows of winter. For certainly, this old man, a hunter now for better than four decades, has come close to closing “the circle.” Perhaps returning to what some may refer to as a second childhood? My wife of a quarter-century says I never grew up, just old. Maybe so, but she could have included that I’ve become more desirable of nearly impossible challenges, too. One of which was my decision to try hunting late-season grouse (sluicing them), rabbits and gray squirrels with a pistol of .22 caliber… .
In a sense, this is travel on the course of life’s circle. To the point where I found myself wanting to be like the cowboys of the big move west, who, with their sidearms, were at a great disadvantage with regard to hunting – and killing.
I needed change, challenge and variety in my hunting. All else I’d tried over the forty-two years as a hunter had become ho-hum, or second nature to me and the alleged “tough shots” became almost automatic with the old ’06. Not boasting, mind you, this is true of most oldtimers. We get so intimate with our guns that they ultimately become steel and walnut extensions of our arms and work in precise unison with the mind’s commands.
Oftentimes, the only thing in wild places that offers real enjoyment, then, is the wildlife itself, for the only thing consistent about deer, grouse or turkeys and the like, is their inconsistency. At least whereby one can accurately predict their every manner of play or mock sparring, their every choice of sustenance at a specific time of day or year, their every choice of cover, routes of escape or area of bedding… .
And so, older hunters look for change. We need something else to pacify the atavistic instinct that nags us way down and deeply. Much like an itch that cannot quite be reached, we look for a method of “scratching” it during those times when the need, the “itch,” becomes most persistent – or antsy, so to speak.
Thus, after considerable conniving on my part, I was able to receive my wife’s “OK” when I asked whether I could “have another gun in the house.” No easy task for we both knew it would be tough economically even though I did mention to her that I hated electricity anyway! Too, she knew another “gun” would seriously deprive her of any substantial, or concentrative communication with me for heaven knew how long? She knew from the start of my pleading with her, an extravaganza extraordinaire, that should she submit, it would be an uninterrupted devotion of man to gun, of man to tuning gun, and of man to marathon-like practice sessions which, she also knew, would put me up to my knees in tiny brass shell casings, another expenditure – or so she thought.
Of course, she’s almost always right and this time, knowing of my pedestrian proficiency with a handgun, her intuition told her this effort of mine, to become expert with my new pistol, may take weeks. And, that she may go to Mother’s for say, nine months. Maybe even a year! “Write Sweetie, and I’ll let you know how my pistol shooting is shaping up… .”
I’d recently “acquired” an H.&R. Handi-Rifle. A single-shot in .223 Remington that is amazingly accurate. A good idea, then, to see what their catalog had to offer in the way of handguns? Lo and behold and eureka, I came up with a gun intimately reminiscent of those old times when Horace Greeley was giving Americans perilous advice. “Go west, young man… .”
Their Model 949 Western Revolver was just the “ticket.” It had it all – cosmetically, mechanically and economically. Perhaps we’d have electric afterall? This pistol is just what the Atavistic Nagger himself would have ordered.
It arrived on Friday the thirteenth, this time, as “good” luck would have it. Not being of a superstitious nature, unless of course it’s relatively convenient for avoiding ungodly chores, I went into Wellsboro to Davis’s Sporting Goods to fill out the seven-day-waiting-period paperwork, then returned home and began my impatient finger tapping. On tables, desk, walls, sinktops, washer, dryer, microwave oven, bathtub rail, sofa arms, chair arms and even caught myself tapping on my wife’s back if she was handy. Seven days is a long time and at my age, a body could be buried for four, before the gun is legally at a person’s disposal. What’s especially difficult, is seeing the gun, holding it at the store counter, then having to hand it back as I had to do with the gorgeous little Western 949 model. This waiting period thing, may very well, oneday, be the cause for emotional breakdowns in law-abiding Americans?
I must have phone Barry, who owns the store, about six times? Okay, twelve!
“Joe!,” Barry squealed, “didn’t you mark the day on your calendar as to when you filled out the papers and signed ‘em?”
“No,” I said sheepishly, “I forgot to. When did I fill them out, Barry?”
And Barry, bless his patient heart, came back with, “Yesterday.”
Finally, I go the H.&R. Western and went home to fondle it in the privacy of my office. The new “love” in my predacious life felt solid, fit my medium-sized hand perfectly and oddly, came up to shooting position with that famous, beloved, “Colt point” so common of the Peacemakers, the single-six Army, of days long gone. “She” was sweet, sleek and beautiful and I couldn’t wait to test my ability with this new glamour queen of the handgun world … .
The seven and one-half inch barrel would give me a much needed advantage, I felt, since the longer the sighting plane, the better one shoots with regard to accuracy. And not, as the myth goes, does a longer barrel make the “firearm” more accurate.
“Sweetheart,” I yelled, “where did you put my bricks of twenty-two rimfires when you cleaned out the basement?”
Linda yelled down the staircase, “In that old, triple dresser I was going to sell in the yardsale this spring!”
Not wanting to waste precious daylight or push my anxiety to the very brink, I yelled back, “Which drawer?”
Now my wife has this bizarre sense of humor which oftentimes comes tainted with a brushing of sarcasm.
“Which drawer?” she questioned sarcastically, “Which drawer! Open any one of the nine, Dear Heart, each one is full to the dustcovers with twenty two shells. All the nine of them! Which is why, by the way, I had to screw off the legs. They were breaking under the strain of the weight!”
Red faced, I whisper up to her, “They were a gift from me to me, Honey. Bought ‘em all on special … .” And no, 100,000 rounds of rimfire ammo is not too many for one sane man. Nagger likes not only to hunt, but to plink for hours on end and the acquisition of all those twenty-two rounds was merely a gesture of my unparalleled generosity. I never have been called “selfish!”
Out to the field across the road I went. Skipping like a child returning home from his last day of school. Wobbling a bit, however, from the weight of 500 rounds of cartridges and realizing immediately, I should have put 500 more into the other pocket. For proper ballast.
The new Model 949 had everything a hunting pistol should; for accuracy, stability and looks. A side loading port similar to the older Colt Army guns, a center drift pin through the cylinder which enhances rigidity, thus better accuracy and, again, the long barrel for improved sighting plane. This, then, was a no-nonsense handgun and lacked the unnecessary gadgetry of some of the higher-tech pieces which designers feel must have everything but a lunch bucket and a stainless-steel thermos.
It wasn’t long before targets took on the appearance of being shot by the sheriff Pat Garret. At 35 stretched paces, the 9-shot groups were clustered tightly; remarkable, especially for an avid rifleman who for years shunned using a pistol for fear of embarrassing himself. Not to mention the likely empty freezer, devoid of wild tablefare like squirrels, grouse and cottontails, which now, I felt, the little, nostalgic Western 949 would surely provide?
Waiting until late smallgame season meant more of the compulsive, incessant finger tapping which, however innocently, drives other family members to the respective rooms – wife, son, Justin and daughter, Erika. My wife’s sentiments not sounding all that threatening: “Between you and a half-dozen dripping faucets in the same house, I’m about ready to take the children and head for Mother’s!” Of course there was little time for all those plumbing repairs what with the precious little time I had left of smallgame season. Other, more idle moments would be consumed with fondling the 949 and that, I felt would maintain my sanity through the dispiriting remnants of winter… .
When the season finally did arrive, my fingers were sore. My wife had chosen to endure the stress of my finger tapping but, the children? They were all begging to be given up for adoption.
As I left the house, my wife asked, “Do you have your nitroglycerin tablets, just in case?” In case what, I thought, in case she gets lucky? Nevertheless, I checked the nitro bottle and discovered my daughter, Erika, had slipped in a selection of M&M’s. Little round chocolates, just in case I got hungry before I died? Now, I don’t mean to imply that heart attacks or their victims are a humorous matter, but I did laugh to myself as I thought, “This is a neat idea! M&M chocolates mixed in with nitroglycerin tablets. Toss in a few coated aspirins and you’d have a sort of pharmaceutical trail mix?”
Erika may oneday make a good wife for some fortuitous young man or, better, a registered nurse who is willing to stray from the spiritless, uncaring medical procedures and opt thoughtfully for satisfying her patients’ sweet cravings – just before losing them forever? And yes, both the M&M’s and the nitro melt in one’s mouth rather than on one’s fingers. Of course, I didn’t relish the thought of being in yonder wood with pounding chest pains, reaching into my breast pocket for a nitro tab, popping it into my mouth and awaiting it to perform its vein-opening action when ultimately, they’d find me with a spot of melted chocolate on my deceased tongue. I’m certain she meant no harm and it did make me smile… .
I thought as I walked to the woods, that they, in a responsible sense, belong to the hunter; a landlord of sorts, in that the welfare of the wildlife demands that this be so. This then, is their ultimate reward for providing the hunter his natural wealth; a priceless bounty for sustenance. And I wondered, too, if a man ever loses this childish anxiety and aloud, I answered myself. “I doubt it and pray not … .”
I’ve never shot at squirrels in trees unless the tree itself offered a backstop, such as the trunk. And I shudder when I read other outdoor writers advocating the hunting of squirrels with scoped .22’s and never once mentioning the hazardous aspect of shooting at a gray on a limb which provides nothing but air beyond; whereby the miss could allow the bullet to fly, helter-skelter for over a mile and land God knows where! I reminded myself of my personal methods; shoot at squirrels only on the ground when there’s a slight incline beyond or on logs, and stumps with the same backdrop… .
Everything seemed right on this day. Grays were active and the little Western Model 949 performed flawlessly on three of them, one being an honest 35 yards distance. So, “Enough!” I thought aloud. “Skinning a cold squirrel is skin to peeling the porcelain enamel from a kitchen sink!” And later on, I was able to add a tunneled cottontail to the gamebag. The skinning went fast and well so I sat there watching two grays chasing one another around in a circle in a little chasm below me. Thinking and wishing that I could see all that takes place out there at all times. But then that would take the mystery, the magic and the daydreaming away and the forest would become less alluring, less beckoning?
I saw another hunter coming and as he walked he’d make ever-widening circles and study the ground. “Certainly, this guy isn’t hunting” I thought. And as it turned out, it was my friend, the landowner, Francis. I whistled, waved and walked toward him.
“Looking for something, Francis? Lose a contact lens or something?” I questioned with a laugh.
“Naw,” he said, “lost my daggone nitroglycerine bottle! Figger it fell out when I reached in for my chew.”
“Francis, you have a heart problem?” I questioned again. “I hope you’re not having chest pains?”
“Yes on both counts,” he said, “but nothin’ serious, just all-fired uncomfortable. Figgered I’d take one just to be on the safe side.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be happy to give you a couple of mine?” I said. “I know the feeling you’re having all too well.”
“Didn’t know you had a bad heart, Joe. Yeah, I’ll have one if you don’t mind?”
I pulled the little 35mm film canister, in which I carry my medication, from my breast pocket, opened the lid and extended the canister toward the calloused palm of Francis. “Here ya go, Partner, help yourself.”
As I tapped on the container to coax out the near-microscopical tablets, I watched as a bright, red M&M chocolate rolled onto his palm. Embarrassed to where my cheeks’ temperature rose to probably double. As I looked into the eyes of Francis for the dreaded reaction, he looked into mine and, smiling, said, “What is this?”
“How’s about a little piece of candy before you take the nitro?” I said, redfaced. “You can’t eat anything for a bit after taking one, you know?”
Before he left me, I gave him the dressed squirrels and rabbit. Afterall, he allowed me hunting privileges and what goes around, they say, should come around. And the little “saviour” of a pill? Who knows. Perhaps the power of life was contained in that little, white, circular tab? Certainly, the M&M chocolate, too a circle of sorts, provided some sustenance, however small the food value, the nourishment? At best, it made each of us smile and that in itself is good for the heart… .
Leaving the woods, I remembered there was to be a full moon on this night. A silvery disk upon which flies the American flag. A magical, circular satellite that allegedly causes coyotes to yip, wolves to howl from mountain tops and humans to fall in love? I recall that it was a night of the circular moon on which I proposed to my wife of 25 years… .
On the morrow, I will hunt again. To complete the circle I began today. There are grouse on this magical mountain, round at its very base, and there’s precious little doubt, tonight I will dream. Of being a cowboy? Maybe riding point for a vulnerable wagon train? And perhaps, after a long day of pounding the plains of sage and sand the wagons will pull up to form the traditional circle, a measure of defense against the dreaded Apaches? I may even, during half-sleep, reach beneath my saddle blanket and loving rub the circular cylinder of my six-gun for reassurance of its power for protection. Power in circles? Indeed… .
Only the hunter, the seeker of challenges, the person who tries to return to where “it” all began, comes full circle. One of the reasons I chose to acquire the nostalgic pistol from H.&R…
As a person grows old, life begins to take on things familiar. A “road” perhaps that will take him back to where his days began, thus completing the most magical, miraculous circle of all: Life itself. And were he a hunter, he’d be remiss if he didn’t say, “The trip was wonderful and I thank God for the ticket … .”
Certainly, the Circle of Life for a hunter is never too long, but as they say, all good things must end – if indeed they are to be complete – at least this Circle of Life, the value of which should not be determined by its size, or the circumference of The Circle, but instead, by how a person completes it, what he or she does along the way. Between point “A” and point “A.”
Me? I’m happy to have chosen to be a hunter. A hunter of God’s wild bounty, a hunter of dreams … the magic of which is much like the wind beneath the wings of eagles … .