The Water is Rising

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Remember this: The water is rising. When a woman says, “Don’t go in there.” Don’t go in there.

 

I decided yesterday that I was going to go turkey hunting in the WMA on Friday. I scouted the area for the water table. The water was rising and spreading. I blamed this situation on the fact the moon is going into its dark nighs then growing. The moon doesn't change shape but affects the water table and tides. Just through the woods to the river you can see the salt water and the fresh water meeting. I knew the Gobbler King told me to call him on Sunday but that would give me three days left to turkey season. Rain killed the first part of the month for me. I didn’t want to count on him because I figured he was going to back out of this anyway then where would I be; empty-handed and not even trying.

The day before I drove the golf cart around for about an hour and a half at a different place; calling for anything. I got no response. That is when I schemed my plan with the help of Nena-Two-Feathers. I decided I would get my mountain bike, assorted hunting necessities and beat back the rising tide of river water. Mountain bike with a metal basket; extreme and hardcore, I know. Wait til you see pictures of me looking like a bag lady pushing a shopping cart in the woods with a buck in it when I am fifty years old. By then I will be a nutter and it won't matter what the game warden is telling me because I will be tone deaf.

I checked my bike for flat tires and loaded her up into the truck. I got all the stuff I needed and drove down to the WMA. I looked down the road and the water had now pooled well onto the road in front of the sign-in box. I pulled in onto the gravel park, got out, walked over and signed the notebook inside. A truck drove up with a Mr. Wilder from Tabor City, NC. He was driving a Z71 but his four-wheel drive was compromised. He asked me did I think he could get in. I told him no. I did ask him did he want to walk  with me up the road but he seemed disgusted at the idea of getting wet.  I offered. He had never been in the area and did not know it. I explained the terrain to him. He relayed stories of other hunters submerging vehicles in the next county near Punch Bowl because they couldn’t see what was before them. Mr. Wilder decided to turn -tail and go back home.

I had sat at the sign-in box the day before talking to the propane driver from the next county. He didn’t think he would be able to go down the road either. He said he stopped going hunting when he got married, took up horses, got divorced, then stopped with the horses. I guess marriage and divorce is a buzz-kill.  

I waved good-bye to him then walked up the middle of the road in my snake boots watching the turtles drift by. I finally got to the second parking area and walked up on a turkey that flew into the woods over the briar bushes. I meandered through the thicket, after hiding my bike in the briars, to see if the water was there too. It was. I passed on this area.  I pushed on through the earthy tea of the swamp.

 

 

 

 

I heard a vehicle coming up behind me as it broke the water. These two men pulled up.  The driver had never been there before. He asked me if I thought he could make it. I told him no but he could make his friend get out with a stick to dip test areas for depth of hole; made sense to me. Once again, Sacajawea was telling Lewis and Clark not to go there but they did.

 I was now the unofficial swamp troll telling hunters if they could pass or not. Somehow, I thought I needed a staff like Gandalf, while proclaiming, “You shall not pass!” The problem with these two guys was the truck. It was one of those low riding Nissan deals. I could see it sinking into the mire while water flooded it.

We talked about turkey because they were there to hunt like me. It was about 10:30 am and the two hunters were trying to find a gobbler after the hens left for nesting.  We discussed the surveys the DNR sends out and how I got one that was a psychological questionnaire. I told the guy, “I am now starting to question my mental status because I am here, knee deep and up to my eyeballs, pushing a mountain bike with a shotgun strapped to the handle bars.” We laughed.

The driver also told me he thought some of the younger men shoot the turkey and drive right out of the WMA without saying a thing so they can reserve their tags for other days. I think this was probably his opinion but I don’t know what people do and don’t do in the WMA once they get dead birds to their truck. I kept in mind he said he had never been to this WMA so I am wondering if he didn’t mean some other where he had seen it. I am not the game warden but people sure do tell me a lot of stuff.  After shooting the breeze a little more these two intrepid souls decided to chance the water and mystery holes on the road horizon while pushing forward to their dreams.

I wondered up the road and came to a small clearing that lead to a grown up road with a gate in disrepair. I thought about going down it because something had stomped down a path. I looked down in the ditch to find an assortment of red shotgun shells floating there. I piddle for a while then realized it was to overgrown. I went across the road and down in the water-filled ditch. I was unceremoniously up to my waist in water but made it across to the dryer part and mounds of dirt. I messed around in that area but it was one of those spots that one step and you are down in it with your head sticking out. I passed on this but while standing on the hill heard a motor coming. A red jeep wrangler appeared pulling the little green Nissan in tow with the driver laughing like Santa Claus and his co-conspirator, riding in the truck bed, laughing it up at me while I cried, “I tooooldddd yoooouuu soooo.” The swamp troll was vindicated. Those two guys looked like they were in their forties but the look on their faces reminded me of two sixteen-year-olds out with new drivers licenses and getting in trouble.  I thought it was hilarious and so did the jeep driver. They were just waving and laughing.

I then went to the trouble of getting me a witch cane and measuring a section of ditch to cross that wasn’t so deep. I barely made it across but I didn’t get my backpack or gun wet. I walked back up the road to get my bike. I then thought this wasn’t going to get better but I remembered back at the sign-in box there was a gate and I saw a turkey. I walked back. At the second park, two men stopped me to tell me that I didn’t have to wear safety orange because someone would shoot me and the game warden couldn’t write me a ticket because it was turkey season. I told him people worried me enough with their drinking and hunting. The one old dodger had a cannula in his nose where he was getting oxygen. I thought he must be a boss because even sickness wasn’t going to hem him down. He was giving my shotgun googley eyes and said, “That is an 870. Best gun ever made for turkey shooting.” I said, “Yes sir.” He looks at me and says, “Go in there girl and get that turkey.” He excused himself and rode away with his friend. He didn’t want to go down the road either and he had a new Jeep Liberty. I wished at that point I had a Jeep Wrangler but all I had was a mountain bike. Yep, good old mountain bike.



 

 

 

 

I watched them go and strolled through the waters. Finally I got to the gate and steered around the post to go inside. Dart frogs were shooting in every direction. This road was previously bush-hogged and I could walk it no problem. I wanted to be far off the road because of the no shooting zone. I came to a bend and went right where I eventually found a little cul-de-sac and nestled in. The only water I had to cross was a small low place with running water. It was dry as a bone and you couldn’t tell from where I was, that not too far in the other direction, it was flooded. I sat giving my calls and listened. I heard purrs and some yelps. I then concluded that I was on the dry spot with the hens, which were nesting because by this time it was mid-day. Every so often I would do some calls. I was so engrossed at one point with practicing my purr-cluck, I didn’t notice the fast moving black racer that came up to three inches of my snake boot to stare at me. It looked to be over six feet long. It scared the bee-jesus out of me to start with because it snuck up on me and I tossed my flex-tone wooden piece to my slate somewhere in the beige straw grass. I yelled and it shot over to do a semi-circle around me. My inner voice said,  “Snake I am not a hen laying an egg. Go away.” I thought about how this was probably adding to my white hairs that I have had since I was twenty.

 

Of course there is the old superstitution that if a black snake crosses your path, someone is trying to do you harm. I don't think so because this snake was just after something to gulp down.

It’s funny how even snakes can hunt eggs and hear or feel a sound that signals a hen is laying and came calling. I decided after sitting for about two hours that I would call it an empty-handed success. I then saw baby ticks on my gun. It wouldn’t be hunting unless the ticks were invited unannounced to the party.

I did want to see where the road leads but half way up it was muddy like a hog parlor. I relented, jumped on my bike and peddled away. I was doing well until I hit the water hole at less than top speed but didn’t sink the boat. I was exhausted but fairly accomplished.

I then snickered that I had found the hens and walked up on a turkey. I was still in the woods making calls when everyone else was giving up over water and not looking for options. I didn’t wait on someone else but went to do my business, whether I failed or succeeded. I laughed at intrepid souls who laughed at themselves and met people, all men who have been hunting longer than I have. I transversed a ditch to get to the other side then went back into that same ditch to come out. I questioned my mental status while knowing I was not insane. I stood on a hill and laughed at people's shenanigans. There were hunters knew to the WMA that didn’t have a clue and I was educating them and giving them advice. I was encouraged by a man that looked like he was two steps from a nursing home bed.

With hunting, it’s as much what you observe people doing and how they deal with situations that arise. It is not just actually scoring a turkey for you. People are amazing, funny, and informative when you get off your computer, out your house, and strike out down a path to a spot in the brambles. I do have new found respect for ancestors that ran with the Swamp Fox through those same swamps. I signed out after four hours while watching people come then giving up. I thought and laughed a lot going home.

After all, I did it on a mountain bike.

 

 

 

Written by: W Harley Bloodworth

 

~Courtesy of the AOFH~