In 1954, my father made the wise decision to move out of the city of Poughkeepsie. We were a family of six now, so he bought a large “fixer-upper” house, way out in the country, in the quiet, sparsely populated village of Pleasant Valley. My father and I would spend the next six years fixing and remodeling that ugly old house on route 44. In those early years there, I took a great liking to the idea of country life, and all that it offered. There was a wide and winding creek just across the highway. I spent many days exploring and fishing along the steep banks and farm fields that bordered it. Hunting was another sport I took serious interest in during my teenage years.
Once I became of age, my uncle Vito helped me to get my hunting license, and he also made it possible for me to buy my own rifle. I was so excited about having my own sixteen gauge, six shot, pump action shotgun. He co-signed for me so that I could buy the gun on a monthly payment schedule, from the Army and Navy surplus store in Poughkeepsie. Uncle Vito treated me as if I were his own son. I think it was my wild and adventurous spirit that endeared me to him. I rode with him many times on the bread delivery truck, out into the rural countryside. Sometimes I would bring the shotgun along because he and I would go off into the farmer’s fields to shoot small game and target practice. I often thought that my uncle was reliving his childhood, vicariously through me. I got to be a pretty good shooter, so much so that I could shoot from the hip and not miss the target.
To pass the time, during the long rides into the countryside, delivering bread and pastries to the farmers and other families; uncle Vito would tell me his war stories about his fighting in the Pacific. He was quite a ladies’ man too! I’m not proud to say that he taught me many “dirty words” (mostly in Italian) and acquainted me early on about the allures of women. My neighbor, Grace, who also was Italian, would scold me when I repeated what I heard from him. She would say: “Your uncle Vito has a foul trucker’s mouth.”
As time went by, and I entered into my mid-teens; I was able to support myself and have the money I needed to buy the things I liked by working nights in the bakery shop. By the time I reached sixteen years of age, I was fairly well developed from working many hours in the bakery shop and also doing occasional carpentry and masonry work for the neighbors. I even took an interest in weight lifting. The yard work and construction work made it possible for me to have the money I needed to support my sporting life-style, which was primarily fishing and hunting.
Because of my doing occasional yard work and handy-man work for the neighbor who lived next-door to us; I became a very close friend of their family. Grace and Adolf had two kids that I went to school with. Grace was an attractive woman, in her early forties, well proportioned, bleach-blonde and her husband Adolf was a tall, ruggedly handsome man who resembled Burt Lancaster. He was much older than Grace. They were very much into the outdoors lifestyle, especially fishing and hunting. I played hooky from school many times to go off into the Catskill Mountains with them, on fishing and hunting trips. Hunting was more of an interest to Grace than to her husband. He was a diabetic, and so trekking through the woods in the high mountains was not something he could handle very well.
One cold winter morning, Grace told me how much she wanted to have deer meat in her freezer for the winter, so we made plans to go deer hunting, up near a cabin that one of her friends owned in the Catskill Mountains. He was an old and wise mountain man named Charlie. When we got there, he pointed out the path we should take, so that we didn’t get lost, and end up succumbing to hypothermia and then to become the latest casualties listed in the local news papers. Every winter, there would be a few hikers and hunters found frozen to death in the mountains around Charlie’s cabin. The cause of death was usually stated as “death due to exposure.” It’s very easy to lose your way in such a densely wooded and rocky environment as the Catskill Mountains--especially in the pitch black darkness of night. Being eaten by black bears was also a concern for lost hikers and hunters around Charlie’s property. He said that he saved his share of them.
Aside from our apprehensions and fears; off we went! Grace had no rifle because she was afraid of them, and I had my trusty sixteen gage shotgun, loaded with deer slugs. I suppressed my fears and I loved the serene solitude of the wilderness. Grace trusted in me. She said: “Johnny...don’t get us lost. I don’t wanna die up here and be eaten by wild bears!” I said: “Don’t worry Grace, I’ll take care of you.” At that age, I was invincible, and I felt like I could handle anything. I was in for a rude awakening!
We wandered around through the dense evergreens of the forest, in a downward path, and at times it seemed that we were circling back to the same spot over and over. I had heard stories of this disorientation being experienced by other hunters who had lost their bearings in the woods. After a couple of hours of making our way through dense brush and low-hanging evergreen branches; we suddenly came upon a small heard of deer grazing in secluded clearing. We stood still in our tracks, and they just stood still staring at us. They appeared to be bewildered by our sudden appearance. I aimed my rifle at one huge buck, as we stared each other down; but for some reason, I couldn’t pull the trigger! The distance between us wasn’t more than eight feet. I just stood there eye to eye with it for several seconds. Grace kept repeating: “Shoot, shoot, Johnny!” The whole encounter seemed to be frozen in the tense stillness of the moment. The eye contact with the buck was intense. My trigger finger was paralyzed!
The huge, ten horned buck bellowed a loud snort through his flared nostrils that filled the air between us with a cloud of vapor, and then, as if in the blink of an eye; he quickly turned and leaped through the brush, with the rest of the heard trailing behind, and splattering Grace and I with mud and grass from the violent thrashing of their hooves as they fled. I stood still trying to comprehend what just took place; while Grace was pounding on my arm and chest and yelling: “Why... why didn’t you shoot. You had him. Now we’ll never get another chance!” All I recall saying was: “I’m sorry Grace...I’m sorry!”
About this time, the sun was setting quickly behind the dense, growth of towering pine trees. We hadn’t noticed just how dark it was getting, with all the excitement of the hunt. Also, the temperature was dropping rapidly. Grace was shivering and looking a little worried. We decided to head upwards towards the cabin. It seemed like the logical thing to do; head up. It was getting darker and colder by the minute. Knowing that the sun was quickly fading, and that in the pitch darkness of the forest; we were doomed to surviving the freezing night with only what we had on...and six deer slugs; Grace began to panic. She kept saying: “We’re lost! We’re lost Johnny! We’re gonna die!” Then, she did something I never expected; she started taking her scarf and outer jacket off! She was hyperventilating and crying uncontrollably; like a little child. I had heard of some people reacting this way when they panic, in hopeless situations. I tried to console her, but it only got worse. She was crying hysterically and scratching at the ice and snow for water to wet her mouth. Her nose was running and her face was flushed. She cried: “We’re gonna freeze here tonight and be eaten by bears!”
At this point, I did my best to hold back my own fears...and tears! I had to be the strong one, and not show Grace any fear on my part; if we were going to have any chance of getting out of there alive. The sun had now set beyond the tree line, and total darkness was just a short while away. In the woods at night, it does get to be “pitch black” darkness. You can’t see an inch in front of you--especially when the moon is concealed by dark clouds, as it was then. I was beginning to resign myself to the fact that we were probably going to die, just as Grace had described. I thought about finding a rocky crag where we could huddle for the night and make our stand against the elements. I vowed to her, that I would protect her with my own life. Since this scenario was not something we had anticipated—-and since we were such novices at this hunting business,--we didn’t have matches or any other survival gear with us.
As a last resort, I pointed my shotgun into the air and fired three distress shots, in succession. I hoped and prayed that those shots would not be wasted. And I prayed that Charlie didn’t go home and that he heard my shots. I wouldn’t fire anymore shots because I would need them to protect us--if necessary, that night. The shots gave Grace a little hope. She convinced herself that Charlie would hear them and come to save us. I reinforced her optimism. It was pitch dark now, and we could only feel each other’s bodies. The eerie sounds of the nocturnal animals sent a chill up my spine. I held a tight grip on Grace’s wrist as I thrashed my way through the dense, snow covered underbrush; still heading upwards. I kept saying: “Come on Grace...don’t stop!” She kept screaming: “Help! Help!” A woman’s scream carries a long way in the still of the night. Now, I could feel the tears running down my cheeks. I recall thinking how sorry I was that I got Grace into this situation. I felt responsible for not being more aware of our time in the woods. I saw her then, as a little girl, crying for help. I thought; this is not fair, that we should die this way!
At that moment, I heard: “Stop! Stop! Don’t move!” It was Charlie’s voice! Immediately, Grace started to laugh and cry simultaneously and uncontrollably. She was crying and laughing at the same time!
Then, a beam of light flashed through the underbrush above us. Charlie appeared! He was carrying a large, double-sided flashlight in one hand and wielding a walking stick in the other. Grace grabbed onto him with a big hug and kiss. Charlie said: “I heard your distress shots a while back and I went into the woods looking for you guys. Every time I thought I was near you, you kept goin’ away from me. You were goin’ in circles! I heard Grace’s screams for help. That’s why I yelled STOP! Thank God you did! A little while more and this ole man was about ready to give up the chase. I was runnin’ outa steam and thinkin’ I was gonna be a casualty along with you two! My old “ticker’s” not up to this activity anymore.”
We made it up to the cabin and dried off in the warmth of the huge, stone fireplace. Charlie gave us hot coffee, and told us: “You guys would not have survived the night up here in this freezin’ cold, bear infested mountain.” Grace looked at me with a sense of embarrassment and said: “Johnny...I’m sorry that I got you into this, all because I wanted a deer. Thank you for not panicking...like I did.” I never told her of my own fears that night...if she only knew!
In those days, "exposure," covered a number of ways people would die when being lost or unprepared for bad weather. Similarly, your inability to pull the trigger, was called, "buck fever," by those who experienced it. In the three years that I hunted for deer, two with my Mossberg 16gauge bolt action shotgun, I never fired a shot although I saw many doe and only one underage buck with bumps on his head who came right up to me.
I hunted in a scrub oak and evergreen state forest where the landscape was flat and all the clearings were very similar. It was very easy to get turned around and on gray days not know which way was north. I recall getting a bit nervous a couple of times following deer trails without looking up, but I found my way back to our car every time before dark.
You were indeed lucky that Charlie heard your gunshots. Grace's panic and unwillingness to carry a rifle showed that she was not the strong hunter she pretended to be. It's a good thing you will with her.
Looking forward to hearing about other close calls in your storied life.
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My memories as an immigrant professional woman in Ottawa, Canada 47 years ago. A new life after having survived the liberal war of a new country Bangladesh on December 16, 1971.
In 1954, my father made the wise decision to move out of the city of Poughkeepsie. We were a family of six now, so he bought a large “fixer-upper” house, way out in the country, in the quiet, sparsely populated village of Pleasant Valley. My father and I would spend the next six years fixing and remodeling that ugly old house on route 44. In those early years there, I took a great liking to the idea of country life, and all that it offered. There was a wide and winding creek just across the highway. I spent many days exploring and fishing along the steep banks and farm fields that bordered it. Hunting was another sport I took serious interest in during my teenage years.
