My husband was a West Virginian and hunting was a popular sport especially in the fall during deer season. He always said he liked to hunt, but he enjoyed being in the woods and out in nature more than the act of hunting. After we married, we lived in
Jim had several buddies who hunted with him but the one time
he shot a deer, our young son was along for the adventure. After field
stripping the animal, it had to be tagged and registered at the nearest
wildlife office. After dark on the way there, they were in a minor traffic
accident, luckily sustaining no injuries or damages except to the deer tag
which was held in the deer’s ear by a huge safety pin. It was completely torn
out. Since it was Jim’s first, he had the head saved for immortality by a
taxidermist. The ripped ear always led to a re-telling of all the circumstances
leading up to it.
When we moved to Florida
in 1978, we were busy building our house and had few thoughts of hunting or
fishing. Fishing was my favorite pastime. The Gainesville
area boasts many streams and lakes, but alligators shone a red light on these
possibilities so when our thoughts did turn to fishing, the towns of Cedar Key,
Crystal River
or Suwannee were our destinations. Because of
the distance, we determined to be satisfied with reservations on guided boats,
and this worked well.
But during the first fall after we were settled in our new
home, Jim’s thoughts turned again to hunting. We knew nothing about how to hunt
in Florida ,
but our Bronson relatives touted it to be the best. Jim went hunting with them
one time. He never saw a deer, but he did see two rattlers which really
dampened his spirit for tramping through the pine forests of Levy County
Joel gave us directions and soon we were bumping down old Old Fanning Road , a
limerock base at that time. On the left it paralleled railroad tracks, an
electric line, and several old upright concrete survey markers. On the right
side of the road, lanes, trails, and wooden signs indicated residences
somewhere behind the jungle of trees and vines that crept up to the scraped
edge of sand. Large and small potholes slowed our forward motion to 20 M.P.H.
Finally, we saw the sign, NW 166th
Place . The entrance and exit were separated by a
huge pine tree, and unlike what we expected from the nice green highway street
sign, the road in was little more than two sandy ruts with a grass-covered
centerline. We were to drive all the way to the end of the “street” until we
saw a Jim King Realty sign on the right. Our forward motion slowed to 5 M.P.H.
We had plenty of time to look around but not a whole lot to
look at. On the right we noticed a hand-painted wooden sign nailed to a tree,
Wheele’s Hideaway with a trail leading somewhere but no sign of human
habitation. Encouraged by the electric line snaking through the trees on our
right, we crept on. Sometimes the path became two, one going right, one going
left, in order to miss gigantic trees. This was a road of convenience to
wildlife and man. At the end we saw a barbed wire fence, the realtor’s sign on
the right and a pile of oyster shells on the left, remnants of a possible
picnic we thought. From numerous turn-arounds, an actual cul-de-sac had been
formed. On the other side of the fence line we spotted some black and white cows
and remembered the map showing a farm with the wildlife preserve running along
the back edge of the property.
We parked near the sign hesitating to pull into any part of
the overgrown trail. We could see oaks, hickories, magnolias, and of course
pines plastered against the bluest of blue skies. Jim rolled down his window
and the air smelled of heat. It was late August. Some of the trees were unknown
to us, dwarfed and bent, not thriving due to the amount of undergrowth. We
spotted mockingbirds, hawks and vultures. The screeching sounds of the hawks
and the sight before us made us feel like we were in the Amazon Jungle.
But we were not daunted by how remote it was. That was what
we wanted, and we bought the property. Jim already had a tractor so we started looking around for a bushhog
to clear a path. This was not a problem either. We quickly
found a used one and got both tractor and bushhog to the site. Then we
discovered the real world of jungle clearing, not quite as much fun as we
anticipated. And, in the meantime, we had seen some small deer running about
and decided there was no way we would be killing those cute little things.
But the woods were quiet, they smelled great, and they were
away from it all. We decided to go ahead, cut a path, and build a tree blind
where we would sit and relax while watching the wildlife below.
The first problem was tree roots. There is a metal pin that
connects the bushhog hitch to the tractor, and since tree roots are slightly
immovable, when the “hog” got stuck on one, the pin snapped. Very soon, we were
on a first-name basis with the tractor supply dealer in Trenton .
My job was to walk behind the bushhog at a little distance
and clear the path of large sticks. You would think this was a pretty easy and
safe job. The first problem is the noise and I soon found out the second
problem. City slickers that we were, I did not know yellow jackets nested in
holes in the ground. I never heard a buzz. Those stinging monsters were all
over me before I knew what was happening. Of course, I ran which turned out to
be the best thing I could have done. I jumped into the truck and slammed the
door. Jim didn’t even miss me – for awhile – until he turned around and looked.
We quit early that day. When I got home and counted, I had about thirty stings.
When we went back to continue our clearing, I decided to
make some grapevine wreaths. After all, millions were hanging from the trees, free
for the taking. I had my pruners handy and began yanking them down. What fun. I
had two huge, beautiful wreaths intertwined with Spanish moss when my arms
started itching a little, but I didn’t pay too much attention. After we got
back home, I laid down for a nap. I was pooped. I woke up scratching. Chiggers.
The medicine does not work. Showers and time is the only cure.
We didn’t give up though. We wanted to watch those wild
animals. I’ll bet they were watching us and laughing their butts off.
Our next misadventure involved a squirrel hunter. I am just
assuming he, or she, was a squirrel hunter, we never saw the person. But we did
hear the whiz of the buckshot as it traveled just above our heads while we sat
enjoying our lunch. We both ran for the truck that time. I guess somebody else
thought it was good for hunting too.
