brownbear932008
Well-known member
As I celebrated another year of chasing bushy tails in the hickory tree's on a foggy September morning on the old farm memories flooded my head this morning.
As anyone from Virginia knows it's been hot this month. The Virginia hunting season began on September 5th this year. I normally hit the woods that weekend but with temps nearing 90 it just didn't feel right yet. Finally this morning it felt like fall and the time was right on the 25th.
I pulled into the farm lot where my grandparents house sat many decades until it was torn down. Now just lots of memories front porch sitting, waiting for a clumsy groudhog to wander into the hay meadow to meet his demise to the old Marlin 22 after grandpa fetched it from the rack in his bedroom. Many summers were spent rocking in chairs waiting to waste some powder in grandpa's gun on those old groundhogs and crows. The old rodents were pretty lucky usually from my teen shooting skills or lack of I should say.
This morning the truck read 45 degrees when I shut her down. It was 6:47am and daylight was approaching fast as I looked out over the hay meadow the fog had settled into overnight. The cattle fed quietly as I rushed off across the field to the "ridge" as grandpa always called it. This morning felt like a great morning, fall nip in the air, light fog covering everything, no wind, a squirrel hunters delight. I could hear the leaves dropping their moisture that keeps them thriving each year as I crested the ridge line. At 52 I just can't hear like I did when I was a young buck.
I use to live for that first sound of wet leaves dumping all their moisture when the first squirrel dived from his den to his morning feed tree. Now I just gotta watch for it. Just as exciting really. I examine the under story of a few walnuts and hickory trees, I decide it's not a good mast year it seems for the animals. Late frost gets us many years here in Appalachia. I work my way South on the ridge and finally see the telltale sign of a squirrel moving through the tree tops. He is on a mission across the fence line. I watch three more below the ridge line moving toward feed trees. I ease along a little further and spot a bushy tail climbing his way up a wild cherry tree entering a monster white oak to feed. He paused just long enough in the top for a shot. He folds at the crack of the rifle and hits the ground with a thud.
This one was memorable. See this summer I decided I wanted to replace grandpa's old Marlin with one of my own. Grandpa's disappeared after his death sadly to an uncle that had some struggles in life and has now passed on as well. After scouring shops and the internet I was able to snatch a lightly used Marlin 781 in .22lr from a pawn shop in Spokane of all places. I let one slip by me locally like a fool. I topped the rifle with an old Weaver V10 with very fine crosshairs. While the rifle was not up to par with my Annie or Weatherby it was special to me and like a step back in a better place and time. I messed with it off and on all summer and decided it was minute of squirrel ready. Shortly after the first squirrel hit the ground I spotted another keeping a low profile. He moved and I lost him for a bit. Patience paid off, he jumped out onto a large lower limb ten minutes later and I made an impressive shot for the second bushy tail of the morning. With two on the pin I decided to change spots.
As anyone from Virginia knows it's been hot this month. The Virginia hunting season began on September 5th this year. I normally hit the woods that weekend but with temps nearing 90 it just didn't feel right yet. Finally this morning it felt like fall and the time was right on the 25th.
I pulled into the farm lot where my grandparents house sat many decades until it was torn down. Now just lots of memories front porch sitting, waiting for a clumsy groudhog to wander into the hay meadow to meet his demise to the old Marlin 22 after grandpa fetched it from the rack in his bedroom. Many summers were spent rocking in chairs waiting to waste some powder in grandpa's gun on those old groundhogs and crows. The old rodents were pretty lucky usually from my teen shooting skills or lack of I should say.
This morning the truck read 45 degrees when I shut her down. It was 6:47am and daylight was approaching fast as I looked out over the hay meadow the fog had settled into overnight. The cattle fed quietly as I rushed off across the field to the "ridge" as grandpa always called it. This morning felt like a great morning, fall nip in the air, light fog covering everything, no wind, a squirrel hunters delight. I could hear the leaves dropping their moisture that keeps them thriving each year as I crested the ridge line. At 52 I just can't hear like I did when I was a young buck.
I use to live for that first sound of wet leaves dumping all their moisture when the first squirrel dived from his den to his morning feed tree. Now I just gotta watch for it. Just as exciting really. I examine the under story of a few walnuts and hickory trees, I decide it's not a good mast year it seems for the animals. Late frost gets us many years here in Appalachia. I work my way South on the ridge and finally see the telltale sign of a squirrel moving through the tree tops. He is on a mission across the fence line. I watch three more below the ridge line moving toward feed trees. I ease along a little further and spot a bushy tail climbing his way up a wild cherry tree entering a monster white oak to feed. He paused just long enough in the top for a shot. He folds at the crack of the rifle and hits the ground with a thud.
This one was memorable. See this summer I decided I wanted to replace grandpa's old Marlin with one of my own. Grandpa's disappeared after his death sadly to an uncle that had some struggles in life and has now passed on as well. After scouring shops and the internet I was able to snatch a lightly used Marlin 781 in .22lr from a pawn shop in Spokane of all places. I let one slip by me locally like a fool. I topped the rifle with an old Weaver V10 with very fine crosshairs. While the rifle was not up to par with my Annie or Weatherby it was special to me and like a step back in a better place and time. I messed with it off and on all summer and decided it was minute of squirrel ready. Shortly after the first squirrel hit the ground I spotted another keeping a low profile. He moved and I lost him for a bit. Patience paid off, he jumped out onto a large lower limb ten minutes later and I made an impressive shot for the second bushy tail of the morning. With two on the pin I decided to change spots.
