A Thanksgiving Tradition (from the "Riley" series)
Posted: Tuesday, November 22, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
The Thanksgiving season, in our circle, has always been a season for hunting. The weather is cooler. Leaves are off the trees. All the small game species seasons are open. Dads and sons are both on days off. Participation in the outdoor ‘sport’ that has been part of the Pennsylvania culture for hundreds of years intensifies. On a drive through the ‘country’ one will see innumerable swatches of orange in the fields and woods as the million licensed hunters in the state take advantage of the natural resources and enjoy the deep seated tradition.
One year, when Riley was about five and at the peak of his career, he was especially busy. His clientele had greatly expanded by then and he had many personal requests. As his hunting companion, that week exhausted me. Even Riley, with his seemingly unquenchable enthusiasm for the hunt, began to lose intensity and slowed down some before it was over. He spent most of the following week at Deer Camp sleeping or lounging on the couch. He did seven hunts in ten days, including two on Black Friday.
Weeks in advance, Riley had been scheduled for several bird hunts with repeat customers. The Saturday before the holiday week he had a big chukar (a partridge-like bird), hunt in the afternoon with a family he’d hunted with several times before. Thanksgiving Day morning was booked years in advance by friends who liked to take their sons out while the women-folk were home preparing the feast. Two businessmen from out of state, who always gave very generous tips, traditionally hunted the Friday morning after Thanksgiving when their sons were home from college.
The holiday week is very busy for the hunting preserves, and, since Riley’s reputation had spread, he was frequently offered jobs in addition to his regular or privately booked hunts. That year they requested him (and me), to do a quail hunt Thursday the week before the holiday and three a pheasant hunts: the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, one Black Friday afternoon and one the following Saturday morning. Being greedy, or perhaps just being short of money that year, we committed to do them all.
The quail, and chukar hunts went fine. Riley’s “find percent” was about 110 in those days—for every hundred birds they stocked for him, he’d find a hundred and ten (few hunting parties bagged all their birds so there were always extras in the fields). On the Tuesday pheasant hunt he somehow broke a toe on his right hind foot. It stuck out at an odd angle and was very sensitive to touch. I tried to tape it up for him, but he wouldn’t permit that, chewing it off in a few minutes.
Our traditional Thanksgiving morning hunt went well, as usual. The broken toe didn’t seem to affect him much. Occasionally I saw him limping or chewing at it, but otherwise, he was his normal focused, intense self. I did notice his energy level was down a little. So was mine. By the time we got home and cleaned up, we were both pretty well pooped out. Doing four hunts in a week was tough. It wasn’t long after Thanksgiving dinner that I was dozing on the couch and he was in his room on his bed, dead to the world. We needed our rest. We had three more hunts to do in the next two days.
Riley and I always greeted our New Jersey businessmen clients and their sons with big smiles. First, they’d become friends. We’d watched the boys grow from immature teens into men over the past few years. Second, they were good and safe hunters; and, finally, they really appreciated Riley’s intensity and skill and paid us very well. If we got them shots at extra birds, or especially if one of them got a rabbit, too, the tips were embarrassingly good. The hunt went well.
After bidding our friends goodbye, instead of going home for a hot bath and massage—for Riley, not me—we went back to the preserve headquarters to pick up the next hunting party. It was the only time we ever committed to doing two hunts in one day. It was a mistake. They were mediocre shots, so Riley and I had to work very hard, to find them several extra birds to assure they filled their limit. Both of us could hardly walk by the time it was over, but we made enough money that day to ease our pain some.
Riley’s broken toe was bothering him, and he was generally stiff and sore. I gave him an aspirin and he zonked out early that night. I still had to pack and load up for a week at Deer Camp. I didn’t think it was possible, but I was dreading another pheasant hunt in the morning, followed by the five hour drive up to the mountains.
I went into Riley’s room to gather my deer hunting cloths. When I turned on the light he didn’t even move. His head was on the pillow, eyes tightly closed. I watched him for a minute to be sure he was breathing. A few minutes later, while I was digging around in the bottom of a chest looking for my thermal socks, he started to dream. He quivered, occasionally kicked out his back leg and whimpered. I knew he was chasing down a wounded pheasant on some happy hunting ground, somewhere. He’d have one more chance to do it for real the next day.
We both were stiff, sore and tired in the morning. I clearly remember that last of the seven hunts in ten days for several reasons. There was only one hunter, and he looked like a scruffy hillbilly. His wife was supposed to be hunting too, but she was not feeling well that morning. She was six months pregnant. I would have never suspected, and was really surprised when he told me he was a dentist. I was sure I’d not like him poking around in my mouth.
He griped continually at the price he had to pay for the birds and the guide and dog (us), even though it was the most reasonably priced preserve in the region. He was a poor shot and only bagged four of the eight birds they’d stocked for him. On several occasions, when I didn’t see how he could have missed, he claimed that I or "the dog" had been in his way or distracted him. He insisted that we keep hunting after both Riley and I knew there were no more birds to be found. When it was finally over, he gave us the smallest tip we’d ever received.
With the killer week finally finished, I pulled as many burrs off of Riley as I could and loaded him into the Jeep. He was so worn out I had to lift him up and in. I changed out of my hunting clothes right there on the tail gate in the field. The drive up to Deer Camp seemed longer than usual that year. Riley was curled up asleep on the front seat most of the way. By the time we got to the Show Shoe rest area, I was getting cramps in my legs and my butt was numb.
Riley just lay around for a few days. He always went into ‘vacation mode’ at Deer Camp, anyway. A couple of days later I had to drag a nice sized buck down off the mountain and nearly keeled over in the process. The memory of our ‘big week’ didn’t soon fade. We wised up and, from then on, were a little more selective about the hunts we booked during the Thanksgiving season.
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Top-level comments on this article: (1 total)Hilarious indeed. Couldn't help giggling while reading through. Riley, I also begin to think differently of him. Great !!
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