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"Yup," said old Francis, "I always wanted a double. Until I got one, that is."
We were sitting around a woodstove trying to dry out after a stormy day of ice fishing. Hunting season had ended a month ago but it was still fresh in the men's minds.
"What do you mean," asked Bill. "You didn't like it after all?"
"Well," Francis responded in a slow voice, which meant he was about to get expansive, "It was like this. Brother Bob and I were hunting Witch's Swamp down in Brooksville. It was one of those late dark November days when the leaves are all gone and it feels like it should be raining even if it isn't. Dreary. Dismal. A good day for the deer to be moving early.
"I was cold and hungry and started heading for the truck even though there was still a half hour of shooting time left. I was creeping along the old tote road, you know the one, it's corduroy logs all covered with moss. It's more like a tunnel nowadays. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention when I saw a flash of white on my left.
"That white dipped toward the ground and I figured it was brother Bob got caught short and had to go to the bathroom. I started to move on when there was more movement. It looked like Bob, all right, with a thick dark body and white underwear. He seemed to be changing his mind, squatting down and then standing back up. I moved a little more and the head was outlined against a birch tree. What I saw was a rack of horns with at least twenty points.
"My double was open and I slipped a load of OO Buck in the right hand barrel and slammed it shut. And screamed. My thumb had slid into the left hand barrel and was mangled when I closed the gun. As far as I know that deer is still living in the swamp. And I don't want any more doubles."
We all shared a laugh at this, and I could see the only way to beat that tale was to go into the bear stories.
"Well, men, let me tell you about some adventures I have had as a bear hunter."
A chorus of groans greeted this remark but I pretended not to notice their poor manners. A deer camp is not the place to bone up on the niceties of etiquette.
"You guys know what it's like around here. Bear are pretty scarce in this region so I've had to try specialized techniques to get any action. Now a few years ago I got to reading about predator callers in the west. Seems like a lot of them had called in bears. I've got an electronic caller so I figured I was in business.
"To made sure it was legal I called state fish and game. It took three days to get an answer, but the answer was yes, go ahead.
"I had found a lot of sign down near Molasses Pond. That's about a two hour drive, but the sign was good. All kinds of stumps had been torn up and the blackberry bushes showed the damage that a feeding bear makes.
"I've got a tape that is dynamite. Side One is just instruction, but Side Two it meant to be played in the woods. Just plug it in and wait. What could be simpler?
"On the day of the hunt I got up at two in the morning, drank all the coffee in the house and headed for the pond. Light was just beginning to show in the eastern sky as I set up the tape player and stretched out the speaker cord. I press play and hurried over to my stand.
"In thirty seconds the speaker blared forth at full volume, WELCOME TO THE EXCITING WORLD OF PREDATOR CALLING. WITH THIS TAPE YOU CAN CALL......
"Slowly I rolled up the tape player unit and headed for the truck. When playing a tape one should always check which side will play next."
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