CONTENT:

When growing up, I usually came home late from hunting, so I always tried to tell a good story to stay out of trouble. I still do the same thing.

I wrote these stories mainly for my son, Sam, and for family and friends. These stories are a combination of autobiography, family traditions, bygone times, and tall tales.  I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing them.

PS: All of my stories are true, or mostly true, or maybe just made up!

-- Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back!

1. THE EARLY DAYS

Buck Fever

River Swamp Hounds

Flat Woods Hounds

Mr. Clyde's Camp

Losing Your Shirt Tail

Our Rite of Passage

Fishing & Gigging on Doctors Creek

2. THE CARE-FREE YEARS

The Georgia State Trooper

Just Two Boys and a Jeep

My Future Mother-In-Law

Confessions of a Squirrel Hunter

Ode to an Evening Fox Race

3. MORE FAVORITE STORIES

The "Hairy" Man

Face to Face with a Huge Boar

Aliens in Bobtown Hunting Club!

The Franklinia Altamaha

Running from Bears

The "Manipulated" Dove Field

Christmas Past

4. FOR SAM

If by Rudyard Kipling

The Man in the Arena by Theodore Roosevelt

The Walk by Sawyer Brown

To Be A Man by Dax

Perfect by Ed Sheeran

5. Other websites featuring interesting stories & pictures:

Vanishing South Georgia, Photographs by Brian Brown

The Ludowici Trap by Tom Zoellner

Haunted South Georgia by James Miles

Altamaha's Big Monster Catfish by Lindsay Thomas, Jr.

Buck Fever

No one told me I might cry.

It was 1965.  I was eight-years old, dreaming of shooting great big bucks, but not ready for what was about to happen.  

Daddy had taken me "still" hunting in the Ryals Camp Bend, a bulge in the back swamp full of tupelo trees and black water slews.  It was a great place to kill a deer. We didn't have fancy tree-climbing stands back then, we would just lean against on an old log near a deer path and wait.  Actually, this was one of the few times I remember Daddy hunting without his hounds.

The sun was just coming up, the morning was cold.  I was wearing a thick corduroy jacket; we didn't have expensive Cabela's camouflaged clothing back then.  The ground was muddy, too, not sloppy mud, but more like gumbo mud.  Your boots wouldn't get stuck in the mud as long as you didn't stand in one place very long.  Daddy had put me in a good spot, then moved about 100 yards further down the swamp.  I still remember leaning against that log.  I was using an old bolt action, single-barrel .410 shotgun.

That .410 shotgun was special, not for sentimental value, but because you needed to be a weight lifter to pull the hammer back, and you had to use a screw driver to remove the shell.  Daddy said someone had fired an old shell in the gun and blew out part of the ejection pin.  Anyway, the gun was as long as I was tall and hard to keep steady. I don't know where the gun came from or went to, but it was a challenge to use while trying to shoot your first deer.

First Buck

Kids get lucky in the woods, maybe because they're scared and afraid to move, maybe because they don't have that manly smell yet.  All I know is that a deer will travel a long way to find a kid in the woods.  That's what happened to me.

I remember leaning against that log, and for some reason, looked back over my shoulder.  There he stood, a huge buck, about 15 steps away. Daddy later said he was a spike.  The buck was standing in the mud, staring straight at me, his neck stretched out, his head low to the ground.  I have no idea how he got that close without me seeming him.  I'm sure he was as startled as I was.  I was able to get the .410 to my shoulder without much trouble.  At that point I still had control of my senses and body functions, but that didn't last long.

Buck Fever

Buck fever is a phenomenon that happens to most hunters during their first encounter with a deer.  I think it must be the anticipation and adrenaline rush that overcomes the hunter.  Breathing becomes difficult.  Your heart rate cranks up about three times faster than normal.  Your knees start to shake.  Your eyes mist up.  You can usually get the gun to your shoulder, but then your fingers turn to jello.  You can see the deer standing there, but you can't think.

Finally, the deer realizes you're up to no-good and bolts.  Usually with a loud snort, the deer ducks and wheels away at the same time, white tail flashing high.  As you see the deer running away, panic sets in.  Hunters handle this panic in different ways.  Some drop their guns and just stand there, others start shooting wildly, I cried.

Daddy said he remembered hearing me yell, "Daddy, Daddy."  He could see the buck running away, but couldn't get a clear shot.  Apparently I was crying like a baby when he got to me, saying something about not being able to pull the hammer back.  I don't recall anything else about that hunt, but I've never forgotten my first buck fever.  

I still occasionally get a little buck fever, but I've stopped crying.

Mike's Hunting Tip - Keep a big tree between you and a young hunter. You never know which way he might decide to shoot.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up!

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River Swamp Hounds

There will never be anything more exciting than listening to a pack of hounds, screaming with every breath, pushing a deer straight towards you.

In the Beginning

In the early 1960s, we were living in Jesup when we got into the dog hunting business.  We started out with an old dog named Spot, she was more of a pet than anything else.  I don't know where Spot came from, but she had a pup we named Snowball, and Snowball started a line of some of the best swamp hounds ever to set foot in Long County.

Early on Daddy knew a lot about hunting with dogs, but his only experience was hunting rabbits.  As a young boy, he grew up in North Carolina chasing rabbits with beagles.  I don't believe he ever hunted deer until the Army stationed him at Fort Stewart, about seven miles from Ludowici. ( Keith and I were both born at the Fort Stewart Army Hospital.  My son, Sam, was born there as well during the early days of Desert Storm.  I was stationed in South Korea at the time.)

In the beginning, Daddy trained our deer hounds the same way he used to train his rabbit dogs.  He would catch rabbits in wooden box traps, then turn them loose in front of our young pups.  Once they started running rabbits, he would get our pups into a deer race.  

Years later he trained our pups with a 3-legged dog named "Joe."  That old dog actually had four legs, but only three feet.  He lost one foot in a coon trap.  Old Joe was slow, but steady on a deer trail.  I once watched him trailing a deer while swimming across a wide slew; he would smell where the deer had brushed against the trees. He was a great teacher for our young deer hounds.

Back then there were basically two kinds of deer hounds; those that would run a deer for about 30 minutes, then come back to where they started. We used these dogs when hunting in the swamps.  The other kind was the breed of dog that would run a deer for hours without stopping.  We used those dogs when hunting in the flat woods, affectionately referring to them as long-legged Walkers.  We had both kinds of dogs over the years.

Swamp Hounds

During the 60s and 70s, we did a lot of hunting in the river swamp.  This was a stretch of land that hugged the Altamaha River, east of Highway 301, between Ludowici and Jesup.  The area we hunted was about 10 miles long as the crow flies, and about three miles wide in some places.  This tract included the two large swamps with high ground in between.  Calling something in that part of Long County "high ground" is a bit misleading.  It didn't take much at all for the river to flood out the high ground.

The high ground was covered with water oaks, yellow pines and palmettos, now it's mostly clear cut, replaced with planted pines by the paper companies. The swamps were full of tupelo and cypress trees.  There weren't many good roads back then either, mostly just a few sandy two-path trails crisscrossing the ridges.  When the river rose and the swamps flooded, the high ground became small islands, with names such as Shoe Island, Buck Island and Joyner Island; perfect county for big bucks and swamp hounds.

Snowball

Snowball was our first real swamp hound.  She was a mixed breed, mostly red bone with a little bit of bird dog.  We would put her in the trunk of Daddy's Falcon until we met up with the other hunters.  Daddy would then put her in with another hunter's pack of hounds.  She didn't even have a collar back then. Her line of pups became great swamp hounds: Blue, Drive, Bullet, Maybelline, Showboat, and many others.

I still get sentimental when thinking about those dogs, back then dog hunting was serious business.  

Just Like A Drill Sergeant

Daddy used to be a sergeant in the Army, and that's the way he handled our dogs. I remember Keith and me following Daddy and those dogs on many deer drives.  Sometimes we were busting through thick myrtle and palmettos on the sand hills between the swamps, other times we were crossing black water slews so deep that Daddy would carry Keith across on his back.  Other hunters would take up stands on the narrow sandy roads and into the swamps, surrounding an area.  We'd then push our pack of hounds through until they jumped.

Daddy never did have the patience for sitting on a stand, so we were always "drivers."  Whenever he dropped the tailgate on our truck, the dogs would almost bust up the dog box trying to get out.  Once in the woods, they would scatter, but Daddy would start whooping and clapping and everyone of those dogs would be right there within minutes.  Wherever we went, our dogs were always out front, but never really out of sight.

Whenever Daddy shifted right or left, the whole pack would shift with him.  I even remember watching those dogs looking back at Daddy to see which way he wanted them to go.  The instincts in our hunting dogs were strong, they seemed to come into the world knowing what was expected of them.

Our swamp hounds didn't have to worry much about trailing.  We were good at finding deer beds, and that's all it took.  Daddy once told me that whenever deer busted out of  their beds, some of our hounds would actually start jumping up, looking over the palmettos, trying to catch a glimpse of the deer.  But once a deer did get up in front of that pack of hounds, the chase was on.

And there was never a doubt as to when they jumped.  The whole pack would start screaming with every breath, sounding like a freight train rolling through the swamps. Because of the few roads and swamps, it never took long for the dogs to push the deer out of the drive. If one of the standers didn't kill the deer crossing a road, most of the dogs would be back within 30 minutes.  Then we'd continue with the drive, doing it all over again.

Many deer were killed in front of our pack of swamp hounds back then.  I still miss them.

Mike's Hunting Tip - When hunting with dogs, more deer are killed "slipping" away from the dogs than in front of them.  When on a stand, try to stay hidden and keep still.  Your chances of seeing a deer will greatly improve.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up!

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Flat Woods Hounds

In the flat woods, we were always racing from one dirt road to the next.

Road Runners

We often hunted large tracts of paper company land that bordered both sides of Tibet highway, which was in the southeastern part of the county. These tracts included thousands of acres of planted pines, with wide sandy roads crisscrossing all over the place.  Every road, curve, dip or swamp had a unique name, such as Curry Ford, the Magnolia Tree, Bob Town, the Burnt-Out Bridge, Cow Head Swamp, Gooseneck, the Briar Patch, and many others.

In the flat woods, we always hunted from the roads, using CB radios to keep track of the chase.  We rarely left the side of our trucks. Once the dogs got after a deer, the idea was to figure out which dirt road it was going to cross next and get there first.  It was a race in more ways than one.  If the deer got past us on that road, then we would try to cut it off on the next road.  There was always one more road to get to.  Sometimes hunting felt like NASCAR racing, but it was never boring.  I think that's why Daddy liked it so much.

In the early days, Keith and I rode in the truck with Daddy.  Later on, one of us would ride with Uncle Eddie, he always had a fast truck and a good CB radio.

Eddie Collins

The Ritual

The ride from our house in town to the flat woods usually took about 20-25 minutes; listening to the CB chatter kept us occupied during the ride.  Each club or group of hunters had their usual CB channel.  We would often flip through the radio channels, trying to figure out who was hunting where that day.  Sometimes we would break into their conversations to let them know where we were hunting, and to be on the lookout for our dogs.  Everyone always took good care of each other's hounds, often traveling long distances to return a lost dog found in the woods.

The day's hunt always started out the same -- riding down dirt roads at daybreak looking for deer tracks.  Daddy driving, me staring out the window looking for sign, and Keith sitting the middle, trying not to fall asleep.  We would drive slowly, our heads barely sticking out the windows, the truck heater going full blast.  The wind would sting, sometimes tears would stream down my face as I looked for deer sign.

It was a small wonder I could even spot a track, especially considering how easily I get car sick.  I never could look straight down on the road or I would get sick.  I figured out that by looking ahead at a slight angle, I could spot deer sign without getting sick.  Somehow I became good at finding faint deer tracks in the sand with a cold wind in my face.  Anyway, the sooner you found tracks, the sooner you got out of that cold wind. 

Finding deer sign crossing the road wasn't too hard, the difficult part came next...determining if the tracks were fresh. For some reason this took every old man on the hunt.  They would all pull up in their trucks, then stand around staring at the tracks.  If the tracks were heading in the direction we wanted to hunt, then the men would perform something of a lost art...that of determining if the tracks were fresh.  We never wanted to put the dogs on a track that was too old, the scent would be almost gone and the dogs wouldn't be able to "jump" the deer, or it would take way too long to jump.

Figuring out if a deer track was fresh took skill, experience and a fair amount of guessing.  I watched Daddy do this many times.  The ritual was always the same.  He would get out of the truck, put his glasses on, and stick his hands into his pockets.  Slightly bending over, he would carefully examine each print, looking for anything that indicated whether the tracks were fresh or not.
 
One of the first things he did was to see if the deer had stepped on any pine straw in the road.  Bits of sand still stuck to the straw indicated the track was made after the dew fell, which usually meant the track was only a few hours old.  He would look at the tracks to see if the edges were sharp or whether they had started to dry out.  He looked to see if wind had blown loose sand into the tracks.  He almost always had to get after Keith or me for getting ahead of him and stepping all over the sign.

The men would then stand around for a few minutes talking about where they thought the deer would run, mentioning favorite crossing places.  Eventually someone would say, "Let's try it."  Daddy would then tell one of us to get his famous long-legged Walker dog, "Drive",  out of the dog box. Drive was well known throughout our hunting group as a great trail hound, he never took long to get the chase going.

A Different Breed of Hound

Sometime around the early 1970's we started raising long-legged Walker hounds.  These dogs were great for hunting in the flat woods.  They could cold-trail a deer when needed, and once jumped, they could run a deer forever.

I remember one morning we jumped a deer in Bob Town and ran him for hours before finally losing the dogs around the Gooseneck.  They had crossed into another club's leased land.  Anyway, the deer got away from us and we lost the dogs.  We traveled the roads the rest of the day looking for lost dogs, picking up a few here and there.  Around mid-afternoon I decided to take a break and "still" hunt a few hours before dark near a place called the Corduroy; a swampy area located about nine miles as the crow flies from the morning hunt, a lot further than that by truck.

During that afternoon hunt I could hear a couple of dogs pushing a deer across the Sand Hills, getting closer and closer to the Corduroy.  It was almost dark when the deer made a fatal mistake and circled a bit too close to my set-up.  I ended the race with one shot.  I couldn't believe it when the two dogs chasing that deer turned out to be Drive and Rock, two of the dogs we had lost that morning around the Gooseneck. 

Daddy's dogs could run a deer for a long time, so long in fact that sometimes the skin would peel off the bottom of their feet, or the hair would be rubbed off their ears.  Long-legged Walkers...they're the kind of dogs you wanted when hunting in the flat woods.  Maybe we should have called them "NASCAR" hounds!

Mike's Hunting Tip -- It's often difficult to hit a fast running deer in thick pines.  Look ahead and pick out an open shooting lane.  Wait for the deer's nose to hit the opening, then pull the trigger. He'll fall like a rock.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up!

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Mr. Clyde's Camp

When I was a boy, I helped Daddy and Uncle Gene work on Mr. Clyde's Camp.

The River Swamp used to be full of hunting and fishing camps with names like Judge's Camp, Mud Lake Camp, Buck Island Camp, Bullpen and many more.  Over the years I stayed at most of these camps, but one camp was very special to me, Mr. Clyde's Camp. It was located next to the Morgan Lake train trestle, but on the highway side of the railroad tracks.  Daddy and Uncle Gene did most of the work, but it was still a family affair.

Building the Camp

The main feature of the camp was an old school bus converted for camping.  The bus had a stove, cabinets, sink, beds and a table in it.  I never slept in it because I always thought a few rats stayed in it, too.

Daddy and Uncle Gene built a shelter next to the bus to cover more tables.  They also sunk a hand-pump.  Much sweat was lost pounding those pipes deep enough to draw fresh water.  I never did get used to drinking pump water, always tasted like rocks to me.

They then built an out-house behind the bus.  Uncle Gene dug a deep hole and used old army canvas for walls.  A kitchen chair modified with a commode seat finished it off.  The out-house worked pretty well, especially if you didn't mind a few mosquito bites from underneath the commode seat.

There was also had a big tent with a large kerosene heater in it.  I still remember one particular night was so cold the water pump froze.  We had the tent heater going full blast, I was using one of Daddy's old army sleeping bags (which I still have.)  Uncle Gene kept the heater working while I stayed curled up in that sleeping bag.  I believe that was the best night's sleep I've ever had.

Fishing and Drinking

I stayed at that camp a lot in those days, mostly with Uncle Gene, sometimes Uncle Buddy camped with us, too.  I think Uncle Gene may have even lived there for a while.

We did more fishing than anything else from that camp, Uncle Gene and Uncle Buddy did more drinking than fishing.  I knew they both drank too much, but I loved being with them whenever they were sober.  They were always took good care of me.

Uncle Gene and Uncle Buddy could fish, too.  They knew how to float nets in the Altamaha River for big shad, run trot-lines, and set bush-hooks for catfish in the Patterson Waterway. They could give White Perch (Crappie for my more northern-located friends) a fit with a cane pole and minnows in Morgan Lake.  They even knew how to "telephone" for fish (I'm sure the statue of limitations against using a crank and car battery that makes fish float to the top of the water has long expired by now.) 

One night a family tragedy almost happened.  Daddy, Uncle Buddy, and I were checking trot-lines on the far side of Morgan Lake, the deep side.  Daddy was in the back of the boat working the paddle, I was in the middle holding the flashlight, and Uncle Buddy was up front, checking the trot-line.  For some reason, Uncle Buddy stood up, lost his balance and fell into the lake.  Uncle Buddy and Daddy both had been drinking that night.

Uncle Buddy went under with a big splash, then there was nothing.  Daddy rushed to the front of the boat, almost knocking me in, too.  I don't remember exactly how much time passed, but I do remember starting to panic.  Daddy grabbed the light and starting searching around the boat, but no Uncle Buddy.

Daddy then shined the light into the lake.  You could see Uncle Buddy down there, looking up at us, like a dead man.  Daddy reached deep into the water, grabbed a hand-full of hair and pulled him the surface.  After Daddy got Uncle Buddy back into the boat they both started laughing.  We continued checking trot-lines that night.

The Real Story About Hush Puppies

We had many family dinners at that Camp.  Momma would fry fish, hush puppies and cook pots of grits.  We even had catfish mull a few times, that's fish stew made with catfish heads, potatoes and onions (You gotta try it before making a face.)

While frying fish at the camp one evening, Momma told me how "hush puppies" became a southern tradition.  She said that when she was a young girl, her Grandmother, Mary Anna Mumford Browning, would fry fish on the back porch of her old house off Factory Street in Ludowici.  Once the cooking started, the neighborhood dogs would gather around the porch, whining for scraps of food.

Feeling sorry for the poor dogs, she took a little left-over cornmeal, made a batter and dropped spoonful's of the thick stuff into the frying pan.  After several minutes, she took the cooked balls out of the pan and threw them to the hungry dogs, saying, "hush, puppies."  A southern tradition was born and people have been eating hush puppies ever since.

I still have many memories about that old camp --  for a while the place was full of chickens, which turned wild. We had to catch them on the roost one night using a cane pole with a hook on the end -- for some reason Uncle Gene would only wash his frying pan with sand and water from the lake --  and then there was the search in the woods near the camp one cold night for a man who had a "monkey on his back."  Daddy and I helped with the search.  Tragically, the man was found the next morning, he had died from exposure.   

I think a bait shop now sits on the old camp site, surrounded by a trailer park.  If they only knew...


Mike's Fishing Tip - Use a match stick to turn a Catawba worm inside out.  Jiggle this bait around stumps and submerged logs, the Warmouth will go crazy trying to get on your hook.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true, or maybe just made up :)

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Losing Your Shirt Tail

Who knew you could be tried by the Judge for missing a deer?

I always wore old clothes deer hunting when I was a boy. I wouldn't dare let Mamma catch me wearing a nice shirt to the woods. 

It's been over 50 years now, and I can still hear her telling me, "Don't wear that good shirt hunting." And for good reason, if you missed a deer, the Judge would order your shirt tail cut off.

Serious Business Back Then

Hunting was serious business in my early days. Hunters enjoyed the sport, but they needed the meat. I still remember watching hunters draw numbers out of a hat for a piece of venison. 

After the hunt was over, all of the men would gather at the skinning rack. If there were seven hunters, the deer would be cut up into seven piles. The hunter who killed the deer always had first choice, then the remaining hunters would draw numbers from a hat and claim their meat.

Hunting was also serious business because there weren't as many deer back then. We couldn't afford to miss. I don't know how the tradition got started, but if a hunter missed a deer, the men would hold court after the hunt was over to determine if the hunter had a good reason for missing. I know it was just having fun, but it sure made you shoot straighter. 

Mr. Clyde Gordon

Court would always start with someone being appointed Judge to hear the evidence. In our group, the Judge was usually Mr. Clyde Gordon. He was the city Mayor and ran the local barber shop. Later, Daddy would become his business partner in the barber shop. 

Mr. Clyde's Barber Shop

I believe Mr. Clyde must have issued a lot of guilty verdicts back then because the "shirt tail" boards were always full of hacked-off pieces of cloth.

Facing the Judge

I was nine or ten-years old the first time I faced the Judge. We were camping with a large group of men at the old Mud Lake Camp near Buck Island. 

Daddy and I had made the drive that morning near Betsy's Field. The dogs jumped and were circling back towards us. The woods were covered with scrub oaks and palmettos. 

We were kneeling on an old logging road when Daddy motioned for me to move around the curve. By the time I got around the corner, the deer was already crossing the road. I fired, but missed.

Later that evening, we had gathered back at the camp when Mr. Clyde decided it was time to hold court. I imagine it was a funny scene, but before I knew what was happening, Mr. Harold Manning had grabbed me by the shoulders and put me in front of the Judge. 

Mr. Harold Manning with Planning Committee

Standing there, I could hear Mr. Clyde saying, "Court will now come to order." I was being tried for missing that deer.

The Judge must have been ready to pronounce my guilt when Daddy came to my rescue. He reminded the court that drivers couldn't be tried for missing a deer; drivers usually only had snap shots, not better shots like most standers got. To my great relief, the Judge agreed and ordered the shirt-tail cutting committee to cease their activity.

I was saved. Daddy later told me he had to do something because my bottom lip was starting to quiver. I'm sure it was because I was worried about Momma getting mad if I lost my shirt tail.

Mike's Hunting Tip - Always keep a ragged t-shirt in your truck. You never know when someone might try to revive an old tradition.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up 😀!

Photo Credit: Barber Shop (peachridgeglass.com,) Harold Manning (Long County Library Collection)

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Our Rite of Passage

There are two deer you never forget, your biggest buck and your first kill. There's trauma with both.

Shooting a big buck brings excitement, and a bit of relief; every hunter likes to say he's killed a big buck. Killing your first deer brings excitement, too, but then a sense of dread takes over. The young hunter knows he's about to experience his rite of passage -- getting Blooded.

I can still recall my first deer like it was yesterday. We were running dogs in Bobtown Hunting Club. It was getting late in the day. Daddy and I had just stopped on the Bombing Range road, near a place we called the Tricycle Stand. We could tell the deer had turned and was heading our way. Daddy quickly put me in some open pines, then moved about 75 yards away to the head of a dry pond. 

By now the dogs were charging straight for us; it was almost too loud to hear with the dogs screaming and my heart pounding. I remember it was difficult to see, too; I wasn't that tall yet and had squatted down in thick broom straw. The dogs were almost on us when I heard Daddy shoot, I nearly jumped out of my boots. He then yelled for me to get ready; there were two deer, he killed one and the other one was heading straight for me.

I was ready, kneeling on one knee with a 12-gauge automatic shotgun to my shoulder. The deer almost jumped over me. One second I'm hearing Daddy yelling for me to get ready, the next moment the deer is not more than a few yards away. It all became a blur, then instinct took over. I started pulling the trigger as fast as I could; I don't even remember aiming.

Three fast shots, then nothing; the deer was gone as quickly as it came. I believe Daddy was by my side before the smoke cleared away. I showed him where I was kneeling and where the deer had run; I was pretty calm for the moment. The dogs were getting closer now, so Daddy told me to get to the road just in case the deer made a turn that way. But before I could get there, I heard him yelling, "Here it is, here it is." I think I fell down at least three times while trying to get back there. The young doe hadn't run more than 25 yards before she fell dead. 

First Blood

Later that evening all of the men had gathered at Colon Beecher's home to clean deer. I remember a lot of hunters being there. My deer was finally put on the skinning rack. I knew what was coming next; part of me wanted to run, but a bigger part of me wanted that experience, it was my rite of passage as a hunter.

I can still see Daddy dipping his hands into the deer's chest cavity when someone grabbed me; I could hear the other men start laughing. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Daddy covered my entire face with deer blood, even rubbing some of it in my ears for good measure. Then it was over, the deed was done. I was one proud little boy. I kept that blood on my face all the way home; I couldn't wait to show Momma.

Janet's Turn

Do you think the traditional rite of passage was limited to just boys? Well, think again, Janet was next.

Daddy, Janet, Keith and I had driven to Gill Bay one evening looking for lost dogs. We had stopped to visit with some men who were camping next to the road leading to the Jeff Ridges. It was starting to get dark when we heard a pack of hounds running on Gill Bay. We jumped into the truck, hoping to cut the deer off when it crossed the road,

Daddy put me on one side of a big curve and Janet on the other. He and Keith then moved further down to the road. Janet was using my youth-style, 20-gauge, single-barrel shotgun. I thought the deer was coming to me when Janet shot. I could hear the deer falling in the bushes, Daddy said he heard it falling, too.

Janet was upset the deer had gotten away. She didn't hunt as much as we did, but she had that killer instinct in her. I can still see that skinny, little blond-headed girl standing there, holding tightly to her shotgun. I hope I offered her a bit of encouragement.

It wasn't long before we heard the dogs baying in a deep water slew that ran between Honey Island and the Corduroy. Daddy told Janet and Keith to wait with the truck while we waded into the swamp. The light was almost gone by the time we got to the deer. Daddy made a mercy shot, then told me to wait with the deer until he returned with help. I remember not being too keen on waiting in the dark without a flashlight.

I wasn't the only one a bit scared that night, Janet and Keith didn't like being left alone either. I'm sure Keith probably got a little devil in him and tried to scare Janet, only to end up scaring himself more. I don't know what they did while waiting on us to return, but I do know one thing, they weren't alone.

A stranger walked up to Janet and Keith that night. Janet said she didn't recognize the man, and no one ever mentioned the incident to Daddy. The stranger asked if they were scared, and Janet said, yes. He then made a small fire for them. Janet said the stranger left as quietly as he came.

It must have been an hour or more when I finally saw flashes of light heading my way. Daddy had taken Janet and Keith to Slew-Foot Herndon's camp, then came back for me and the deer. I was tired and shivering, but happy to be riding in the back of Slew's old jeep.

I don't know if Janet was anticipating getting blooded, but Daddy sure was. A familiar scene took place. Daddy dipped his hands into the deer's chest cavity, someone grabbed Janet, and the deed was done. She had been blooded. 

I remember she got it far worse than I did. Not only was her face covered in blood, so were her pigtails and clothes. I believe she must have wiggled more than I did. I know she ended up grinning a lot that night. She was very brave.

Keith's Turn

The baby of the family always gets away with everything, but not this time. Keith's rite of passage was most fitting for a young boy we called, the "Chief."

We were hunting that morning in a place called Steam Boat Swamp. I've heard people say that a steamboat sank in the river near there. I searched that swap several times for relics or grave sites, but never found anything.

Keith was eight-years old. I think he was using my youth-style, 20-guage, single-barrel shotgun, the same gun Janet used to kill her first deer. He and Daddy were making the drive. Sometimes Daddy would put us on a log if he came across a nice open area while he finished the drive. That morning he put Keith on a log.

Daddy had not gone far when the dogs jumped. The deer made a quick circle and headed straight for Keith. It's a good thing he was ready because the deer almost jumped over him. Out of nowhere, the deer came sailing over a palmetto bush, less than five yards from where Keith was sitting.

Keith made a quick shot, but like mine and Janet's first deer, it kept on going.  A few minutes later another stander shot at the deer, too. The deer went a bit further and fell dead. That's when the conflict started.

The deer was hit hard. One front leg was shattered, and buckshot has passed completely through the deer, including it's lungs. Keith's shot was less than five yards away; the other stander's shot was over 130 yards. The other shooter, who was visiting from South Carolina, tried to claim the deer, but an impromptu court ruled for Keith -- woods justice prevailed.

Another familiar scene was about to take place, but this time several of Daddy's friends beat him to the punch.

The deer was hanging on the skinning rack, split down the middle, bloody innards still intact. Keith was caught off guard. He was waiting on Daddy to do the deed when Larry Gordon and George Hendricks grabbed him. They each held an arm and a leg, then lifting Keith off the ground, they proceeded to dip him head first into the the deer's exposed innards. Keith came up spitting blood, and who knows what else.

All of us were rolling on the ground with laughter. The Chief definitely experienced his rite of passage. He was covered in blood from his head to his little boots.

Family Tradition

Getting blooded is our family's tradition. We all experienced our rite of passage: Daddy, Al, Fred, Charlie, Ren, Kendall, Kaleb, Kyle, David, Seth, and Sam. I blooded Sam in the shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains, it was a glorious morning.

Mike's Hunting Tip - Don't worry about the blood, it tastes like chicken.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Fishing & Gigging on Doctors Creek

Daddy loved Doctors Creek.

For a long time we did most of our fishing on the bank of that slow, black water creek. You couldn't fill up the cooler, but the fishing was still good. I think Daddy was just hooked on frying catfish with his Coleman stove on the bank of that creek.

Getting Ready

I can still remember coming home from school on a Friday afternoon and seeing Daddy rigging up cane poles for an evening fishing trip. He always bought his fishing poles from Zip Billings, and used simple corks, splicing them with his pocket knife, then wrapping black electrical tape around them. We never bought bait because we could always find plenty of worms behind our dog pens. 

Once the truck was loaded, we would drive down the old Macon Darien dirt road and park just before getting to the bridge. We fished between the dirt road and highway 57, making our way down the bank to several deep holes not far from the road. Sometimes we would put in a small paddle boat at the bridge.

Fishing along the bank of Doctors Creek was not for the feint of heart. You had to fight mud, mosquitoes, snapping turtles, and the occasional snake. And if you got hung up in a deep hole, there was nothing to do but put on a new line, hook, sinker, and cork. 

Frogs & Catfish

My favorite memory of Doctors Creek was the night we went frog gigging. We had caught a mess of small cats before dark, then climbed into the boat and started gigging frogs. Uncle Gene was paddling, Daddy was doing the gigging, and I was holding the flashlight. 

It didn't take long before we were back on the bank frying catfish and frog legs for supper. I wasn't old enough, but a cold beer sure would have been good, too. How can you ever forget a meal like that.

Quick History Lesson

I was surprised to learn that Doctors Creek was most likely named after an Indian Chief called Captain Alleck, who lived in the 1700s. "Doctor" is the translated version of the Creek word "Alleck." Over the years, Captain Alleck lived on several spots along the creek, and became somewhat instrumental in helping the Governors of Georgia settle boundary line disputes with the Creek Confederacy.

Mike's Fishing Tip - Getting stuck by a catfish fin is painful. To ease the pain, rub the catfish's butt-hole on the spot. The pain will magically start easing off. Who knew...

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true, or maybe just made up :)

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The Georgia State Trooper

He "told" me to step out of the truck.

Like most country kids, I started driving early.  I was always excited when Daddy would let me drive his hunting truck in the woods. I could drive quite well by the time I was 12 or 13-years old.

The Daily Lunchroom Run

I was actually 14 when I started driving our hunting truck around town; not on joy rides, but to pick up the food scraps from the school lunchroom.  Daddy had made arrangements with the local school to use the food scraps to feed our deer hounds.  It was a daily routine; after I got home from school, I would drive our hunting truck back to the lunchroom, pick up several trash cans full of scraps, then take them home to feed our hounds.  I would scrub the cans clean and do it again the next day.  It wasn't a fun job, but I'm sure it saved us a lot of money over the years.

I was on one of those daily runs when I encountered the Georgia State Trooper.  I had stopped by the local drugstore on my way to the lunchroom.  The drugstore was next to the only traffic light in town, it was a major highway intersection.  You could get a fountain coke for 25 cents.  I always had a shot of cherry flavoring put in mine.  Anyway, I bought the drink and was getting back in the truck when the trooper pulled up next to me.  He was waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

No Where to Run

I was busted.  I was sitting in the driver's side of the truck with a state trooper not more than 10 feet away.  I know I look my age now, but at 14, I looked like a babe.  There was nothing I could do at that point, I just froze.  The light finally turned green and the trooper drove away.  

After calming down a bit, I drove to the lunchroom, picked up the scraps and headed back home.  Just to be safe, I took a back road, North Macon Street, avoiding the drugstore and traffic light.  I was just about home when blue lights started flashing behind me.  It was that Georgia State Trooper.   

Panic is a mild word.  I was terrified.  No one ever messed with a Georgia State Trooper.  They were all over 6 feet tall, 200 plus pounds, armed, and never without their smoky bear hat and sunglasses.  I was 14, skinny for my age, no drivers license, and in a world of trouble.  He "told" me to step out of the truck.

I was always polite to my elders, but I immediately said, "Yes Sir" and practically fell out of the truck.  He asked for my drivers license, which I confessed to not having.  He then wanted to know how old I was.  You can imagine his facial expression when I told him I was only 14.

At that point he said, "Son, what are you doing driving this truck?"  I told him about picking up the lunchroom scraps every day to feed our dogs.  He then looked in the back of the truck at the trash cans and asked who my Dad was. I told him, thinking this is it.  He then gets this big grin on his face and said, "I know Bennie Griffin. Are these for his dogs?" 

The Rest of the Story 

The rest of my discussion with the trooper was much different from how it started.  He told me a quick hunting story and to stay on the back roads.  Then he was gone.  Just like that, I went from a moment of terror to getting back into the truck with a mild case of the shakes. When Daddy got home from work I told him about my encounter.  He laughed and said the trooper had stopped by his barber shop and told him, too. I'm sure Daddy invited him to hunt with us.

I guess I was just lucky to be stopped by a Georgia State Trooper with a fondness for deer hounds.

Mike's Tip:  Don't ever stop for a cherry-flavored fountain coke.  You never know when "Smoky the Bear" may be watching.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Just Two Boys and a Jeep

We were squatting at the water's edge, like ancient cavemen, butt-naked.  That's how I remember my first time skinny-dipping at Johnny's Clay Hole.

Johnny Hall lived on a dirt road just outside of town.  Near his house was a small clay pit, deep enough to hold water year-around, yet close enough to get there on your bicycle. We called it Johnny's Clay Hole, and I spent many summer days there with my best friends, swimming and having fun.  Riding my bike to Johnny's house for a swim started a great friendship.

The Jeep

Most boys growing up in our small town were interested in fast sports cars.  Johnny and I were only interested in his old jeep.  I think it might have been a Willis Jeep.  You could put that jeep in 4-wheel drive and go just about anywhere in the woods.  It was perfect for hauling a small paddle boat, or a mountain of camping gear. That old jeep was like Huck Finn's raft, it took us on many adventures.

Don't Mess with the Gator

For teenagers, we were pretty good at catching fish, but one day we caught something we hadn't bargained for.  Johnny had heard about an overgrown pond not far from my house, just past the Continental Can place on Highway 301.  The pond was part of an old rice plantation from a long time past.  People used to call that part of the woods Theus Bay.  We figured that pond had to hold a few bass, so we put the boat and our fishing gear in Johnny's jeep and started looking for it.  After about an hour of searching, we finally found the pond. You couldn't see it from the dirt road.  We had to drag Johnny's boat about 75 yards through thick brush to get there.

Johnny was good with a paddle, so he always sat in the back of the boat, I occupied the front.  His boat was 10-feet long and made of aluminum.  It could be heavy at times, especially after you had fished all day.  Sometimes we had an electric motor, but we mainly used paddles.  We didn't have fancy swivel seats either, just two old moldy seat cushions.  The boat wasn't pretty to look at, but it was ours to use anytime we felt the need to go fishing.

The rice pond wasn't large, maybe an acre.  We had fished hard for several hours, but only caught a few small bass.  The sun was starting to get hot when I noticed something moving near the bank.  It was a six-foot alligator, minding it's own business.

The fish weren't biting and I was getting bored, so I did something very foolish.  I took the plastic worm off my hook and started casting the heavy sinker and hook at the alligator.  I wasn't really trying to hook the old 'gator, but I did, right in the back.

So what does a teenager do when he hooks a six-foot alligator in the back with heavy-duty spinning tackle?  He starts laughing of course, that was until the alligator started swimming toward the other side of the pond.  I couldn't believe what was happening, we were being "pulled" across that pond.  I held on tight to the rod with my feet braced against the front of the boat.  Johnny was yelling at me to cut the line, but I just kept holding on to the rod.

Finally, the alligator dove and broke the line. The boat stopped sliding across the water, everything became deathly quiet.  With barely a word spoken between us, we looked at each other and decided we'd had enough fishing for one day.  We never did go back to that rice pond again.

The Miracle at Miller Lake

One afternoon we decided to hunt behind Miller Lake, which was way back in the swamp near McIntosh County.  The best way to get there was by using Blues Reach Road, which is actually the Old Barrington Road, but we always called it the Blues.  I think the Blues Reach is the longest, straight dirt road in Long County.  Some people think the King Road holds that distinction, but I compared the two on a map and the Blues won hands down.  No matter how you measured it, it was a long ride.

We were heading to a place called Tiger Slews.  Johnny and I often hunted around Tiger Slews and the Five Sisters -- always great deer and hog country.

We were just past Miller Lake when we had to cross a deep channel cutting the old logging road.  A long, rickety runway made with boards just wide enough for the tires was the only way to get across.  We made it across just fine, getting back was a different story.

We usually hunted past dark, but this time we decided to leave early.  Johnny was nervous about getting back across that runway.  The light was fading fast and we had a long way to travel.

We actually made it far enough across the runway to get the front tires on the other side of the channel when the back tires slipped off the boards.  The jeep was almost vertical, which reminds me of the night I drove an Army jeep into a tank ditch during military maneuvers in the Mojave desert, but that's another story.  

There was at least three feet of black water in that channel, the back tires were completely submerged.  To make matters worse, the front end of the drive shaft had popped out, too.  We didn't have cell phones in those days.  We were in a fine mess.

I grabbed my shotgun and started walking out when Johnny said he could fix the jeep.  You can imagine what I said about that idea.  Without a second thought, he jumped into that moccasin-infested water and proceeded to make a block and lever out of an old log and several railroad ties.  I followed him in, stepping into a hole up to my belly-button.  

The water was cold, but we worked fast.  By using the log as a lever, I raised the rear of the jeep just high enough for Johnny to get the drive shaft back in place.  We then put more blocks under the back tires and got them back on the boards.

That solved two problems, but all of the bearings had fallen out with the drive shaft.  Johnny shifted through the sand and found a few of the missing bearings.  With only a screw driver and pliers, Johnny put enough bearings back in place to get the drive shaft working again.

I had little faith, but Johnny crawled into the jeep, put it in 4-wheel drive and drove right out of that channel.  To this day, I consider what he did to be the most amazing example of raw mechanical engineering by a teenager. MacGyver would have been proud!

Beans and Potatoes

When it came to hunting and fishing, we always made big plans.  One spring we decided to camp along the Altamaha River and set bush-hooks for catfish.  We piled everything we could think of into the back of his old jeep: boat, fishing gear, gas stove, lanterns, sleeping bags, frying pan, cans of beans, a bag of potatoes, a case of Cokes, and several coolers full of ice.  We were going to dine on catfish for the next three days.

We put the boat in at Miller Lake with all our gear and headed for the river.  After three big bends up the Altamaha, we set up camp at the mouth of Old Hell Lake.  A small ridge with an ancient wooden shelter was going to be home for the next few days.

We set out over 100 bush hooks up and down Old Hell Lake and out into the swamp.  We used every kind of bait you could think of.  We didn't catch a single fish all weekend.

With no fish to cook, we had little choice about our menu.  Breakfast was beans with fried potatoes. Lunch was beans with fried potatoes. Supper was beans with more fried potatoes.  The next day was the same.  I had never been so tired of beans and fried potatoes in all my life.  We were good fishermen, but what do you do when the fish won't bite?  We gave up after two days and went home.

The Fire

We had more adventures, but the last one I remember was the "fire" episode while duck hunting.  I never was a good shot at anything flying, but Johnny wanted to shoot ducks, so we made plans.  We got up very early and drove to the Washout, a popular swimming place where Daddy taught me how to swim.  We were going to shoot wood ducks as they crossed the railroad tracks near the Washout.

The weather was awful, windy and cold.  We got there about an hour before daylight and started waiting.  Johnny's jeep didn't have a working heater, so it wasn't long before we started shivering.  I don't remember who made the suggestion, but we decided to build a fire under a large oak tree while waiting for daybreak.

The ground was damp, so Johnny siphoned some gas from the jeep to get the fire going.  That was a big mistake.  The flames started shooting up higher than we expected, and the wind started blowing sparks every where.  It wasn't long before we set the Spanish moss in the top of that tree on fire.

I couldn't believe my eyes.  I think the whole damn tree must have been on fire.  I just knew we were going to burn down everything between the railroad and Highway 301,

I started to get in the jeep to go for help when I saw Johnny climbing up that tree.  He was trying to put the fire out with his hat.  He was on a limb after some burning moss, when the moss behind him caught fire.

The situation was serious and hilarious at the same time; the moss in the top of that tree was burning and popping like Fourth of July fireworks, Johnny was stuck on a limb with fire on both ends, and I was stomping out fire spreading on the ground.

But the good Lord was watching over us.  As quickly as the fire started, it stopped.  Johnny made it to the ground, his hat still smoldering a bit.  Once we calmed down, we started laughing, promising never to tell anyone what had happened.  We ran out of shells shooting at ducks that morning.

I often think about those days with Johnny, we had wonderful times together.  Too bad Mark Twain wasn't still around; he could have written another great novel about two young boys living life large in the back woods of Long County, Georgia.

Mike's Camping Tip:  Always take some bacon while camping, the fish may not be biting.


Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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My Future Mother-In-Law

It's always best not to shoot at your future mother-in-law's children.

In 1970 we moved into our new home on highway 301. All of us were so proud: large bedrooms, new carpet, new furniture, and a new neighborhood.  There were woods near our house, too, and I couldn't wait to try out the new hunting grounds.

In my early days, I wasn't too concerned about getting permission to hunt, so as soon as I could, I grabbed my .22 rifle and headed for the new woods.

I was doing more exploring than hunting, but eventually I got after a few squirrels. I usually only needed a few shots per squirrel, but this one particular squirrel was jumping from tree to tree.  I was shooting as fast as I could pull the trigger.  Little did I know that I was about to meet my future mother-in-law.

That Theus Girl

Yvonne Theus and her two brothers, Fred and Charlie, were playing in their back yard when Yvonne said they heard bullets zinging past their heads (a tall tale for sure).  She ran into the house and told her Mom someone was shooting at them.  Sybil didn't waste any time, she rushed outside to stop the assault on her children.

I was just about to reload when I looked up and saw Sybil coming towards me.  I hadn't realized I was that close to her house or the highway.  She then proceed to severely chastise me for shooting a rifle on her property, and around her children.  I was cornered; the only thing I could do was start begging for mercy.  As soon as Sybil stopped to take a breath, I took off for home.

A few years later I started courting that young girl who ratted me out.  Sybil never did mention the shooting incident.  And to my great fortune, I married the love of my life, and ended up with the best in-laws and family a fellow could ever want.


Mike's Courting Tip:  Try to avoid shooting at your future wife; it might not always turn out as well.


Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, or mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Confessions of a Squirrel Hunter

Most dead squirrels don't come back to life.

As a young boy, I loved squirrel hunting.  The season always came in a few weeks before deer season. This gave me a chance to get back into the woods, an opportunity to get used to hunting again.  Occasionally a deer would get in my way while chasing squirrels.  I wasn't too particular about the calendar in those days either, we could always use the meat.  Our family ate a lot of venison back then.

My favorite squirrel hunting gun was Daddy's double-barrel, 12-gauge. I still have it.  I would put small shot in the right barrel and buck shot in the left, just incase a big hog cornered me.  The gun was short, light weight, and came to a perfect aiming point when you put it to your shoulder.

Daddy taught Keith and me to hunt squirrels much the same way we would still hunt for deer: find a place that had plenty of oak or tupelo trees, pick a spot to sit, and wait.  Usually within 5-10 minutes squirrels would start moving.

Squirrels also tended to get a little crazy when the shooting started. After the first shot, we were taught to stand still for a few moments. Often, when squirrels can't figure out where you are, they'll start barking and flashing their tails.  I once shot five squirrels out of the same tree. And that's the truth!

Bug Island

My favorite place to hunt squirrels was on the dim roads of Bug Island, which is located between Middleton Lake and the Altamaha River.  After Joyner Island, it's the largest island before you reach McIntosh county.  It's almost completely surrounded by swamps, and I think it may have some of the highest ground in our part of the county, which isn't saying much after living in Central Virginia for the past 20 years. 

Getting to Bug Island was always difficult.  Occasionally, you could drive around Middleton Lake through Horse Ford, an old runway across the swamp, but usually we had to cross the lake in a small john boat to reach the island.

Crossing Middleton Lake in a small boat during the early dawn was always eerie to me.  I would occasionally catch myself straining to see ancient Creek Indians quietly canoeing through the black water.  I often thought time stood still at Middleton Lake, it probably still looks the same as when the Creek Indians fished there over three centuries ago.

Bug Island was beautiful hunting country, covered with oak trees, dim roads, and full of game. I shot a lot of squirrels on that island while growing up in Long county.

Opening Day

The first day of squirrel season in 1977 found me heading to Bug Island.  I could still see the night stars as I paddled across Middleton Lake to an easy landing on Bug Island.

I decided to stay on the roads that day.  The leaves hadn't started falling yet, and I figured I would see more squirrels by quietly using the roads.  The day was perfect, clear sky, no wind, and cool temps.  I hadn't moved more than 100 yards down the road when a squirrel popped up right beside me.  I didn't know it at the time, but I was about to have my best squirrel hunt ever.

The Blood Trail

I've blood-trailed deer before, but never a squirrel, not until that day.  About mid-morning, I shot at a squirrel in the top of a big oak.  I could see the squirrel falling, catching limbs, and falling some more.  The squirrel got on the back side of the tree from me.  I quietly walked around tree expecting to find the squirrel laying there, but nothing.  I looked everywhere, yet no squirrel.  I was stumped.  I knew I hit the squirrel.

I finally looked closer at the tree trunk and found blood.  There was actually a tiny trail of blood going down the trunk.  I got on my hands and knees and followed the blood trail across roots, over leaves, and into a hollow log.

There he was, curled up in that hollow log, dead as any squirrel I'd ever shot.  I couldn't believe I blood-trailed a squirrel.  I've kept that story to myself for a long time.

Shaking the Bushes

I was after this squirrel, but it kept moving around the tree trunk, always keeping the tree between us. I decided to use a trick Daddy taught us, so I sat down for a few minutes to let the squirrel relax. I then tied a piece of string to a bush and rushed around the other side of the tree. As expected, the squirrel quickly move around to the other side, too. I then started yanking the string tied to the bush. The sudden movement and noise from the bush startled the squirrel, which quickly moved around the tree again, but that was its mistake. I was standing there waiting, another squirrel for the frying pan.

The Flying Squirrel

By now it was late-morning and I decided to find a shady spot to rest for a few minutes. While sitting there, I started watching a squirrel in the top of a tall pine.  I wasn't in a hurry, I'd already killed a lot of squirrels that morning.

After a few minutes, I got up to continue hunting, when all of a sudden that squirrel jumped to another tree. Squirrels do this all the time, but this one made a serious mistake, it misjudged the distance. I've never seen a squirrel fall out of a tree before, but I did that morning.

It was a long fall, and the squirrel landed hard. I couldn't believe what I saw, the squirrel was stone cold dead.  I thought to myself, why not, and put the squirrel in my game pouch. I was feeling cocky.

I hadn't gown far down the road when I felt something move. I stopped, a strange feeling came over me. I'm glad there wasn't anyone there to watch, because I don't know who pitched a bigger fit that day, me or that squirrel in my game pouch (apparently the squirrel had only been stunned.) We were both desperately trying to get away from each other.  

After I calmed down, I decided that was enough hunting. I had killed 19 squirrels that morning.

Mike's Hunting Tip - When hunting squirrels, always look behind you. Squirrels will often start flashing their tails once you've passed their hiding spot.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true or maybe just made up :)

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Ode to an Evening Fox Race

A Summer Night Under the Starry-Decked Heavens.

Evening twilight announced the coming hunt, the old hunter prepared for the long night. His young boys were excited, his hounds were eager for the chase. 

The old truck creaked and rattled, the ride to the woods was not long before the hunt was underway. The old trail dog was now out front, alone, searching for the faint trace of prey.  

The race was never meant to end in blood, the cry of the hounds was the hunter's joy. Like the starry-decked heavens, the voice of every dog would soon fill the night air.

The race was about to begin, the old trail dog now sounding the clarion call. The prey, the cunning fox, familiar with the old dog, listened too, knowing his search for food would have to wait.

The old hunter relied on instinct. He could sense the prey was on the run. His craft was not learned from books, but secretly passed, generation to generation. His dogs, straining to join the race, were let loose.  The singular clarion call of the old trail dog was now a chorus of new voices. The old hunter, horn to ear, cried out -- "Listen boys, I hear the hounds!"

Flashes of light appeared through the trees, more hunters and hounds arriving to join the race. Like lost brothers, the hunters greeted each other with firm grips and low whispers. Like the old trail dog, the old hunter pointed the way.

All of the hunters now waited, knowing a rhythm would soon take over. The prey made the long run, and then turned. The ebb and flow of the race began. All knew the game, it had been played many times before.

The hunters relaxed now, comfortable with fire, warm drink, and each other. All listened intently, each distant voice known by hook, chop, or long bay. Satisfaction filled the air. The vices and superfluities of life retreated for a while.

The young boys tried to listen, but play drew them away. The fire, the burning taper, was their ancient friend. They couldn't leave its side. The old hunter knew this too would change with time.

The night drew on, the faint hearted, both hounds and hunters began to fade. The fire began to fade. The young boys slept. The race went on.

The dark of the night was now upon them, the moon governed no more. The prey began to tire, knowing the race would soon be over. The hunters started calling forth, name by name, as the hounds began giving up the chase.

The final bay was made, the prey paused to listen, and the race was over. The pursued and the pursuers would rest, knowing another night awaited them.

The hunters, quitting their sacred retreat, were ready to mix again with the world. The old hunter put away his horn. The rising sun began to rule the new day.

Evening fox races were special, almost magical. What would I give to be there one more time with my Dad and Brother.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

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