Bill’s bolt action 22 rifle hung in its case on two coat hooks in the hallway. I had taken it down a couple of times by myself when no one was around. The dark wood stock was clean and polished as was the forearm. The metal barrel, trigger, and trigger guard was shiny and bright. It felt good to bring it to my shoulder. It wasn’t heavy. I worked the bolt a few times but did not pull the trigger to dry fire the gun. I knew better.

I made up my mind that when Bill got home again I would have enough nerve to ask him if I could use the gun when I went squirrel hunting. Bill (later he would be called Wil, so if I change his name in this story you’ll understand) was in the air force and didn’t come home often. When he did he was busy and likely had little time for hunting or shooting. I knew when he was coming home and prepared to ask him when the right opportunity came.

He came in for a visit a few weeks after I had decided to ask him if I could use his gun. It was not until he was about ready to return to his camp that I asked him if I might use his gun. Low and behold, he said OK. “But,” he said, “You have to take good care of it, no scratches and always clean it when you use it.” Naturally, I promised. My intentions were perfect.

The gun came out of the case only a few minutes after Bill got into the car with my dad to head back to his base. A few minutes more and I started hiking to the woods with the treasured gun and a half a box of 22 long-rifle bullets in my pocket. I liked the feel of the gun and knew it would shoot straight if I held it steady. I had only shot it a few times with Bill before that day. It was chambered for the longer 22 bullets and I liked the sound of the gun when I pulled the trigger. Up until then I had only shot the light 22 short bullet. A 22-short bullet went ping and the 22 long-rifle bullet went bang.

It took a half-hour for me to reach the woods near the rail-road ponds north of our home in Tunnel Hill, Illinois. This was the best squirrel woods I knew about. I knew the woods and where squirrels would likely be. I began a stealth hunt soon after crossing the short wire fence next to a large white oat tree. My steps in my tennis shoes were soft and quiet and I avoided twigs and leaves making almost no noise. This late spring day I would hunt squirrels in the sweet gum trees and knew of several of them in the woods. My confidence was as high as my emotions and I had a slick gun to use.

There must be a small kernel or morsel in the heart of the small gum ball that to a squirrel is like a pistachio nut to me. And like me breaking apart the pistachio for the nut, a squirrel will methodically and quickly open the gum ball for its kernel. We both pitch or let the shell fall where they may. A gum ball falling through the leaves makes a stream of sound that catches my attention. I creep closer and peer through leaves and branches until I see either the squirrel or the outline of one and the gum balls falling like a sprinkle of rain. I work myself into a position that I can see the squirrel clearly and offers a shot.

A small boy with a rifle needs a rest for the gun to hold it steady. I will look for tree, but a sapling will do. Finding one I again spot the squirrel and raise the gun and aim as carefully as possible. I pull the trigger. Pow and the squirrel falls to the ground motionless. I remain silent because it is likely that more than one squirrel is in the tree. There is and I find another spot and another rest and repeat the aim and pull and another squirrel falls. That’s enough for the day.

© Gartner Studios

ile 07 Bat Re-tob ca te

After the walk back home and skinning the squirrels I washed them and took them into the house where my mother would either put them away or keep them out to cook at the next meal then I put the gun back on the rack. I did not clean it. I would be sorry.

My intentions were to hunt with it again and then clean it, but somewhere along the way I got side tracked and the gun was not cleaned.

Not even when I knew Bill was coming home again did I think of the gun. He, of course, would, when he reached home go directly into the hall where the gun was hanging and pick it up and look it over. Luckey for me there were no scratches on the stock or forearm. The gun was empty and he opened the bolt so that he could look down the barrel from both the breach and barrel end. The tiny specks of rifle residue (powder) inside the barrel were like giant gobs of muck to my brother. The barrel did not gleam as he remembered it. My red haired freckled faced big brother was not happy — and said so. I felt poorly and ashamed. I stammered an apology but I knew it was a lame excuse. I knew that my punishment would be to never use the gun again.

But you know what? When Bill was again ready to leave to go back to his U.S. Air Force duties, he found me in the yard and asked if I planned to go squirrel hunting soon. I said yes. “Well,” why don’t you use my gun?” He added, “Just clean it when you are done.” I was astonished and also speechless.

lused the gun several times again that year and each time before it was put back in its case and put on the rack it was as spotless as I could make it.

© Gartner Studios

22 bolt action rifle

Bill’s bolt action 22 rifle hung in its case on two coat hooks in the hall. I had taken it down a couple of times when no one was around. Its dark walnut stock and forearm was clean and polished. The barrel, trigger, and trigger guard were gleaming. It felt good to bring the gun to my shoulder. It wasn’t heavy. I worked the bolt a few times but did not pull the trigger to dry-fire the gun. I knew better.

I made up my mind that when Bill came home again I would have the nerve to ask if I could use his gun when I went squirrel hunting. Bill was in the Air Force and didn’t come home often. When he did he was usually busy and had little time for hunting or shooting.

He came for a visit a few weeks later and I waited until he was ready to return to his base to ask him if I could use his rifle. Lo and behold, he said. “OK”! “But,” he said, “You have to take good care of it, protect it from scratches and always clean it after you use it.” Naturally, I promised that I would.

The gun came out of the case only a few minutes after Bill headed back to his base. A short time later I headed for the squirrel woods with the treasured gun and a half box of 22 long-rifle bullets in my pocket. It was chambered for the 22 long rifle bullets and I liked the sound of the gun. Up until then I had only shot the light 22 short bullet that went ping. The 22 long-rifle bullet went bang.

It took half an hour for me to reach the woods near the railroad ponds north of my home in Tunnel Hill, Illinois. Soon after crossing the low wire fence next to a white oak tree my pace slowed and my steps were soft and quiet. I avoided twigs and leaves, making almost no noise. This late spring day I would hunt squirrels in the sweet gum trees. My confidence was high and I had a slick gun to use.

There is a small kernel in a sweet gum ball. A squirrel will open a gum ball for its kernel, letting the shell fall through the leaves making a slight noise. Hearing that sound, I crept closer and peered through leaves and branches until I saw a squirrel cutting gum balls and making shells fall like a sprinkle of rain.

I moved into a position to see the squirrel clearly. I needed a gun rest to hold the rifle steady for an accurate shot. Finding one nearby I again spotted the squirrel, raised the gun, aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. Bang! The squirrel fell to the ground, mortally wounded. I remained silent for a time because it was likely that more than one squirrel would be in that tree. There was, and with another well aimed shot, another squirrel fell. Two squirrels were enough for the day.

After returning home and skinning the squirrels, I washed them and took them into the house where mother would either put them away or keep them out to cook for the next meal. Then I put the rifle back on its rack, but did not clean it. I would be sorry.

When Bill came home again he went directly to the hall where the gun was hanging. He picked it up and looked it over. There were no

of 1 2 22 bolt action rifle Bill’s bolt action 22 rifle hung in its case on two coat hooks in the hall. I had taken it down a couple of times when no one was around. Its dark walnut stock and forearm was clean and polished. The barrel, trigger, and trigger guard were gleaming. It felt good to bring the gun to my shoulder. It wasn’t heavy. I worked the bolt a few times but did not pull the trigger to dry-fire the gun. I knew better. I made up my mind that when Bill came home again I would have the nerve to ask if I could use his gun when I went squirrel hunting. Bill was in the air force and didn’t come home often. When he did he was usually busy and had little time for hunting or shooting. He came for a visit a few weeks later and I waited until he was ready to return to his base to ask him if I could use his rifle. Lo and behold, he said. “OK”! “But,” he said, “You have to take good care of it, protect it from scratches and always clean it after you use it.” Naturally, I promised that I would. The gun came out of the case only a few minutes after Bill headed back to his base. A short time later I headed for the squirrel woods with the treasured gun and a half box of 22 long-rifle bullets in my pocket. It was chambered for the 22 long rifle bullets and I liked the sound of the gun. Up until then I had only shot the light 22 short bullet that went ping. the 22 long-rifle bullet went bang. It took half an hour for me to reach the woods near the railroad ponds north of my home in Tunnel Hill, Illinois. Soon after crossing the low wire fence next to a white oak tree my pace slowed and my steps were soft and quiet. I avoided twigs and leaves, making almost no noise. This late spring day I would hunt squirrels in the sweet gum trees. My confidence was high and I had a slick gun to use. There is a small kernel in a sweet gum ball. A squirrel will open a gum ball for its kernel letting the shell fall through the leaves making a slight noise. Hearing that sound, I crept closer and peered through leaves and branches until I saw a squirrel cutting gum balls and making shells fall like a sprinkle of rain. I moved into a position to see the squirrel clearly. I needed a gun rest to hold the rifle steady for an accurate shot. Finding one nearby I again spotted the squirrel, raised the gun, aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. Bang! The squirrel fell to the ground, mortally wounded. I remained silent for a time because it was likely that more than one squirrel would be in that tree. There was, and with another well aimed shot, another squirrel fell. Two squirrels were enough for the day. After returning home and skinning the squirrels, I washed them and took them into the house where mother would either put them away or keep them out to cook for the next meal. Then I put the rifle back on its rack, but did not clean it. I would be sorry. When Bill came home again he went directly to the hall where the gun was hanging. He picked it up and looked it over. There were no

22 bolt action rifle

Bill’s bolt action 22 rifle hung in its case on two coat hooks in the hallway. I had taken it down a couple of times by myself when no one was around. The dark wood stock was clean and polished as was the forearm. The metal barrel, trigger, and trigger guard was shiny and bright. It felt good to bring it to my shoulder. It wasn’t heavy. I worked the bolt a few times but did not pull the trigger to dry fire the gun. I knew better.

I made up my mind that when Bill got home again I would have enough nerve to ask him if I could use the gun when I went squirrel hunting. Bill (later he would be called Wil, so if I change his name in this story you'll understand) was in the air force and didn’t come home often. When he did he was busy and likely had little time for hunting or shooting. 1 knew when he was coming home and prepared to ask him when the right opportunity came.

He came in for a visit a few weeks after I had decided to ask him if I could use his gun. It was not until he was about ready to return to his camp that I asked him if I might use his gun. Low and behold, he said OK. “But,” he said, “You have to take good care of it, no scratches and always clean it when you use it.” Naturally, I promised. My intentions were perfect.

The gun came out of the case only a few minutes after Bill got into the car with my dad to head back to his base. A few minutes more and I started hiking to the woods with the treasured gun and a half'a box of 22 long-rifle bullets in my pocket. I liked the feel of the gun and knew it would shoot straight if I held it steady. I had only shot it a few times with Bill before that day. It was chambered for the longer 22 bullets and I liked the sound of the gun when I pulled the trigger. Up until then I had only shot the light 22 short bullet. A 22-short bullet went ping and the 22 long-rifle bullet went bang.

It took a half-hour for me to reach the woods near the rail-road ponds north of our home in Tunnel Hill, Illinois. This was the best squirrel woods I knew about. I knew the woods and where squirrels would likely be. I began a stealth hunt soon after crossing the short wire fence next to a large white oat tree. My steps in my tennis shoes were soft and quiet and I avoided twigs and leaves making almost no noise. This late spring day I would hunt squirrels in the sweet gum trees and knew of several of them in the woods. My confidence was as high as my emotions and I had a slick gun to use.

There must be a small kernel or morsel in the heart of the small gum ball that to a squirrel is like a pistachio nut to me. And like me breaking apart the pistachio for the nut, a squirrel will methodically and quickly open the gum ball for its kernel. We both pitch or let the shell fall where they may. A gum ball falling through the leaves makes a stream of sound that catches my attention. I creep closer and peer through leaves and branches until I see either the squirrel or the outline of one and the gum balls falling like a sprinkle of rain. I work myself into a position that I can see the squirrel clearly and offers a shot.

A small boy with a rifle needs a rest for the gun to hold it steady. I will look for tree, but a sapling will do. Finding one I again spot the squirrel and raise the gun and aim as carefully as possible. I pull the trigger. Pow and the squirrel falls to the ground motionless. I remain silent because it is likely that more than one squirrel is in the tree. There is and I find another spot and another rest and repeat the aim and pull and another squirrel falls. That’s enough for the day.

© Gartner Studios

yilk a7 fal he-pob 22 He

After the walk back home and skinning the squirrels I washed them and took them into the house where my mother would either put them away or keep them out to cook at the next meal then I put the gun back on the rack. I did not clean it. I would be sorry. My intentions were to hunt with it again and then clean it, but somewhere along the way I got side tracked and the gun was not cleaned.

Not even when I knew Bill was coming home again did I think of the gun. He, of course, would, when he reached home go directly into the hall where the gun was hanging and pick it up and look it over. Luckley for me there were no scratches on the stock or forearm. The gun was empty and he opened the bolt so that he could look down the barrel from both the breach and barrel end. The tiny specks of rifle residue (powder) inside the barrel were like giant gobs of muck to my brother. The barrel did not gleam as he remembered it. My red haired freckled faced big brother was not happy — and said so. I felt poorly and ashamed. I stammered an apology but I knew it was a lame excuse. I knew that my punishment would be to never use the gun again

But you know what? When Bill was again ready to leave to go back to his U.S. Air Force duties, he found me in the yard and asked if I planned to go squirrel hunting soon. I said yes. “Well,” why don’t you use my gun?” He added, “Just clean it when you are done.” I was astonished and also speechless.

Lused the gun several times again that year and each time before it was put back in its case and put on the rack it was as spotless as I could make it.

© Gartner Studios

scratches on the stock or forearm. The gun wasn’t loaded and Bill opened the bolt so that he could look down the barrel from both the breach and barrel ends. The tiny specks of powder residue inside the barrel were like giant globs of muck to my brother. The barrel did not gleam as he remembered it, and my red haired, freckle faced, big brother was not happy — and said so! I felt ashamed. I stammered an apology but I knew it was a lame excuse.

I got a surprise when Bill was preparing to go back to his Air Force duties. He found me in the yard and asked if I planned to go squirrel hunting soon. I said “yes”. “Well,” why don’t you use my gun?” he said. Then, added, “Just clean it when you are finished.” I was astonished and speechless! I used Bill’s rifle several times that year, but before it was put back in its case and on the rack, it was spotless.

John Casey 4/2011

764

A close encounter with an Ostrich

I’ma deer hunter. A few years ago in early September I was on a scouting trip in Southern Illinois. Access was through an open pasture that held a dozen free range ostriches.

Walking back to my vehicle I was approached by a large aggressive male ostrich. After a brief stand-off, he rammed me, knocking me to the ground. I rolled and scrambled to avoid his vicious kicks aimed at my head.

When I regained my feet the ostrich charged me again. Down I go, up I get and he charged again. Desperate, I grabbed his neck, held on, and choked him into submission and he fell. By the time I found a limb/club nearby to finish the battle, the ostrich had scrambled up and ran off.

My clothes were torn to shreds. I was bleeding and bruised, but happy to have survived this close encounter.

Later I learned the same bird had attacked a farmer who required hospitalization for broken ribs, and severe cuts and bruises.

Profile

Jim Casey

465 Garden Heights

Harrisburg, IL 62946

618-253-6906 (Day time phone number) 618-841-6297 Cell

Age at time of encounter: 71

I’m 5’7” and weigh 165 Ib.

I’ve hunted deer in Illinois since the first season in 1956 Present age: 75, Ihave hunted 67 years

Submitted to Out Door Life Also to Field and Stream

Bee Trees I have Known

Bvory year there would be several now bee trees found by the family while they were in the woods, Being in the woods was fairly common for my femily. In the Spring, jeunts in the woods wes justgetting reaqueinted with all the Spring woods fauna. I wes particularly fond of blue Bells, Such tinggy litule things that were so beautiful. I could get right upon them and pick several and study them about an inch from my eyes and marvel at their aslicate figure. There wero like fairies that spring up in the woods. It would not be difficult, I imagined, thet Mother Nature could wave a wand and the Blue Bells would begin jumping and singing that Spring was here agains H appy flowers they were.

fhe moss om the rocks was saturated with Spring rain and they became greener than anything in the woods. Or, was thet because the moss was always contrasted with the grey rocks. The green was lighter than most of the other green in the woods and I always guessed it was because of the lack of cholorphyl. ( Several times I have considered sucking the moss for the thirst L would suddenly get in the woods. Amd, don't bet that sometimes the urge wold overtske ne and

a handfull of mose would be used. There mast have been millions of little living things in that moss but "Tt woun't burt you if you don't know theys

aro there." Moss would squish under your feet when you walked along the rocks, but thet was the only skgm sound, It was usually sven quieter to walk on the moss than on the bare rock, Barefooted walking on the moss was supére The

moss was soft end cushioned underfoot. then you tried to walk only on the moss Ww? you would criss-cross along the rocks and sometimes have to junp to the next iy.” patch. You couldn't look anywhere tut down when you were moss walking and many jw, | times a teFrapin (box turtle) would suddenly “be right these". Py “4

Meas was forgotten in favor of the Yarrapine/lthe facinetion with that critter al wouldn8t be too long. We would mp pick it up and count the squares on the shell.

We would leok at the snderside and exemine the construction of the house that

held the enimal. The shell olways looked constructured to mo, Here and there

a toad stool would show the bite marks left by the Terrapin, Sometimes shyness

left the Terrapin, especially the young ones, and eut his leggx would come.

The legs were moving when they came out of the shell and off he would race againeg

Kew that I heve gotben a Little older, i wonder just how young was the young Torrapinse low big is e young Terrapin?

fhe woods was not always alive with wild life, unless you considered the ferns, the moss, the trees and the like. ‘The animels in the woods were the Squirrels, Chipmunks, lizards, snakes, frogs, skunks, raccoon, Otpossoms, and Terrapins.

I alwaye sew more Terrapins than almost enything else, It wes rome bine be fore Iwas to learn the woods good enough to look for and know where the animals were likely to be. If it hadm't have been for my Unole Ball lot of resl important things would heve gone on DYFe

My Uncle didn't walk fest in the woods. He just kinds sleuntered sround. He wasn't quiet like Indians were supposed to be. Im fact he doubted if Indians wore very

qu in the woods either. Now kx don't get the notion thet he meade a lot of noise, he didu't. He stepped on the bigger rocks, avoided leaves in fever of bare xommut ground when he could. He never crunched small twigs underfoot or broke off limbs in his weys He just moved natural like, picking his wey through the woods teking the path of least resistance. Come to think of it, he walked through the woods

like he walks through life, Not bothering anything, enjoying it in it's naturel state. dust leoking and ebservings and learning and teaching the youngsters as

much as they werted to learn about whet he knewe He never tried to teach anyone thet didn't want to learn, He said you waste a lot of yourself and the other person when you tried to teach something they didn't want to Jearn. First you got to want to learn and you don't always need a teacher to learn something, or anythinge

country had @ throug

es enjoyed through the ite a bit,to mostly t mbered hn the woods,an occasional bee them, Take bait out,usually soi up,sand take it out in ot and leave it ng,then go back and check ater to sec bees had ey be works in it and eek till one rises off tk ward the tree bse were in. They had to make a trip and cirele about and was my but just 3 l made trip or so,then follow toward a OAT ey’ woods,so get line on t get inte

cold songy. conib

ag BBS

ot & Ey Ss gS a a

2828

+O fa) pez) 3 o ot 5 co]

r th the gens not good %

Shs bod

& – A country boy who ] to aunt meer

suitable holes,so was mos ly a matter of eneckin x isually tried 0 find 2-3 each year,to get some

atures sweets,and one of 2st to cat. If had been in the tree very long,

¥ built comb the first year in the treo sal o each subsequent year,then had

sed young bees each year,which tended to make comb dar’-,so only the newest

b was ever real good and white,and the best eating.

got acquainted with Hubert Schauleffel when he bought the Beauman place in

ly 1950 and in talking to him,found he and is Brother Bill had few along in

a where they grew up,so carly fall made date to take him out to my Brother

s on a certain night to get into one.

to house and pi

whi

through the

lyn,then we drove about 3 miles s mall box,loaded up the tools he had broush che car and walked about 3/l, mile across hi tree,which we started to saw down. Bill had exe good,the dog > i up on hot coopn track

Teng too,and

gand just as % eady to f let tree lay Te she dog and soon saw the coon,w BL11L induced to jump oit,by shootin,

the tree and into i back to car,wnen Trailer barked on tr.

et,and it soon jwnaped,so h Gb. Dont rem

back to the bee mney out and started il of another coon,near mile, south of use iil didnt want to leave d in woods that far from home,so we took the Baheney ete ane Ks work at LIPM,so told him Hoe we put the red Hubert and Marilyn and bare rade it to work Sing but enjoy 34 + e trip and found out later,Bill got the oe coone Some years lateor,maybe the next fall,I found a bee tree in Huberts woods on

the bottom farm,and we made da to get into that one. I to my wife and Terry and rather g that was Ediths first and last bee tree cut ybut we got to area about 5 and Cubert nad his wife,Marilyn,y and his girl id,who had come night,also Raymond MeCuan the saw, We the tree and open looks,decided the 10 quart rought, would

¢ erry and Macilyn back to my house for di shpan,<o be led to take the honey out,and I dont recall any ured would be some stings,but lot times was no ners that time,as we di & times,when had the the hour or so in great outdoors,built a fire and

sood coon ght,then got mber how good it wa.,but got the

ing a mS on anyone. to plan. Any le too.

y last trip Bill always nad some,so made date to meet him ime,and had Hubert in on it too,and I drove out alone.Bill 1 for,so I went on up there and had theit 3 kids aay

£ arold,Dolcres and Linda howser,iary and Linda road,parked the cars and about 160 yar Bong a small oak,out was very ttle in that one, ek across the field,but over le east,to long too and had brought poiled enss,and

drove up

wai

Close call with a ostrich

I have hunted deer in Southern Illinois since the first season opened in 1956. I plan hunts far in advance. Having secured permission from a property owner to hunt an area, I went on a scouting trip in late summer. It was a hot day when I parked my truck and headed to the woods.

I’m 71 and had had a heart attack a few months before, and heat was sapping my strength so I cut my trip short. As I headed back to my truck I noticed a large male ostrich following me. It was, I thought, a tame ostrich from a nearby ostrich farm.

Suddenly it barreled into me, knocking me to the ground and began kicking me. I tumbled and rolled and got up, but he knocked me down again. I managed to get up again and the ostrich charged me once more. I desperately grabbed its neck in a choke hold. After a while, it became limp and passed out. I found a limb nearby meaning to finish the battle, but the ostrich scrambled up and ran away.

I returned to my truck, still shocked by the encounter. My clothes were in shreds and I was bleeding in several places and bruised all over, but happy I had survived this close encounter.

Note: The once promising ostrich farming industry had gone south and farmers quit feeding them expecting the birds would succumb to predators or simply starve. After my close call I heard that a farmer was attacked by the same ostrich that attacked me. The man suffered broken ribs and severe cuts and bruises and was hospitalized for a week following his own close call.

Corn Crib Bill and a fishing trip

| have often written about characters in the family about how they lived,their language, dress, temperament, etc. but not about their age, tempers, or wealth. In every story there is another story, the writers. | wrote hoping it will remind siblings, cousins, relatives or friends about Uncle Bill.

Uncle Bill Casey was such a character he became a legend. Jim Hodges, a cousin named him CORN CRIB BILL because he lived ina converted corn crib. He was a favorite uncle of all of dads children,

including me. The preacher at his funeral ended with an eulogy including these words he heard uncle Bill say. “All | want is a little house by th

of the road and be a friend of man.” He is buried in Reynoldsburg Cemetery near midway and Ozark, IL. | along with others, helped dig his grave. Mount’s Funeral home in vienna was the service provider. He was 76.

The story

“Uncle Bill,” have you ever been to Kentucky?” | asked him one day. His reply, “Once.” | asked him lots of questions and he always answered with a quip and a smile.

He told about a fishing trip he made with his two best friends, Carter and Blue McMahan. They were farmers and also contracted with other farmers to cut, bale and haul hay and put it in their barn lofts for winter feed for cattle.

| recall that they drove a blue Studebaker automobile. It was a futeristically designed car with a rocket like nose and no chrome on it. It was also low priced. Carter was the driver and the brothers loved it. One day all three, Bill, Carter and Blue were on Herman Pratt’s store’s front porch. Carter said, “lets go fishing and they agreed and Carter and Blue headed home to get things ready for their trip, promising Bill they would not take long and they’d bring him fishing gear and eats/drinks.

The brothers loaded their 12 foot John boat onto a flat bed trailer and hitched it to the Studebaker. Then they loaded the boat with gear, two life vests, fixed sandwiches and a jug of water. The small 5 horse power motor and anchor rope and a small anchor was in the boat. They also had bait of

Corn Crib Bill and a fishing trip I have often written about characters in the family about how they lived,their language, dress, temperament, etc. but not about their age, tempers, or wealth. In every story there is another story, the writers. I wrote hoping it will remind siblings, cousins, relatives or friends about Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill Casey was such a character he became a legend. Jim Hodges, a cousin named him CORN CRIB BILL because he lived in a converted corn crib. He was a favorite uncle of all of dads children, including me. The preacher at his funeral ended with an eulogy including these words he heard uncle Bill say. “All I want is a little house by the side of of the road and be a friend of man.” He is buried in Reynoldsburg Cemetery near midway and Ozark, IL. I along with others, helped dig his grave. Mount’s Funeral home in vienna was the service provider. He was 76. The story “Uncle Bill,” have you ever been to Kentucky?” I asked him one day. His reply, “Once.” I asked him lots of questions and he always answered with a quip and a smile. H e t o l d a b o u t a fishing trip he made with his two best friends, Carter and Blue McMahan. They were farmers and also contracted with other farmers to cut, bale and haul hay and put it in their barn lofts for winter feed for cattle. I recall that they drove a blue Studebaker automobile. It was a futeristically designed car with a rocket like nose and no chrome on it. It was also low priced. Carter was the driver and the brothers loved it. One day all three, Bill, Carter and Blue were on Herman Pratt’s store’s front porch. Carter said, “lets go fishing and they agreed and Carter and Blue headed home to get things ready for their trip, promising Bill they would not take long and they’d bring him fishing gear and eats/drinks. The brothers loaded their 12 foot John boat onto a flat bed trailer and hitched it to the Studebaker. Then they loaded the boat with gear, two life vests, fixed sandwiches and a jug of water. The small 5 horse power motor and anchor rope and a small anchor was in the boat. They also had bait of

not lock the house and I would return for shells. Later I found them in a pocket of my gear bag and stayed in the woods. I went to the area where the buck had been and found a blood trail that I followed for 1 ½ miles and about 1 ½ hours but I did not find the buck. I returned to my stand and at midday I took a nap. When I awoke to a noise I saw two deer looking at me. I aimed carefully (no shaking this time) and shot the larger one, a doe, and down it went. After field dressing the deer and preparing a pull pole I called a buddy and asked for help to get it out. He came soon and we pulled the deer through the woods toward a field where we would use a truck to get it to the check-in station. I had forgotten my knife at the kill area and went back to get it and was carrying it in my left had and with my right hand I was helping my buddy pull the deer through the woods. We came to a tight place between two saplings and the saplings were bent back and one of the limbs whipped back and hit the knife knocking it into my thumb. I immediately cried out that I was hurt and grabbed my hand/thumb. This move acted as a tourniquet and the wound did not bleed. He finished getting the deer to the clearing and we returned to the camp thinking that I would go to the hospital. At the house I ran cold water on the wound and used a napkin for a bandage and taped the bandage with Scotch tape. It seemed to work. There was only very little blood due to my pressure clutching of it with my right hand. We waited until shooting hours were over and returned to the field for the hunters and the deer. Back at camp I decided to go home and get my hand taken care of because the cut on the hand was bleeding profusely. I went to the hospital instead of going home and there, after a long, long wait, the thumb was stitched up.

not lock the house and I would return for shells. Later I found them in a pocket of my gear bag and stayed in the woods. I went to the area where the buck had been and found a blood trail that I followed for 1 % miles and about 1 % hours but I did not find the buck. I returned to my stand and at midday I took a nap. When I awoke to a noise I saw two deer looking at me. I aimed carefully (no shaking this time) and shot the larger one, a doe, and down it went.

After field dressing the deer and preparing a pull pole I called a buddy and asked for help to get it out. He came soon and we pulled the deer through the woods toward a field where we would use a truck to get it to the check-in station. I had forgotten my knife at the kill area and went back to get it and was carrying it in my left had and with my right hand I was helping my buddy pull the deer through the woods. We came to a tight place between two saplings and the saplings were bent back and one of the limbs whipped back and hit the knife knocking it into my thumb. I immediately cried out that I was hurt and grabbed my hand/thumb. This move acted as a tourniquet and the wound did not bleed. He finished getting the deer to the clearing and we returned to the camp thinking that I would go to the hospital. At the house I ran cold water on the wound and used a napkin for a bandage and taped the bandage with Scotch tape. It seemed to work. There was only very little blood due to my pressure clutching of it with my right hand. We waited until shooting hours were over and returned to the field for the hunters and the deer. Back at camp I decided to go home and get my hand taken care of because the cut on the hand was bleeding profusely. I went to the hospital instead of going home and there, after a long, long wait, the thumb was stitched up.

9:15 Turn on cell phone and call buddy to leave shells at camp 9:30 return to camp get shells & go back to woods 9:30 track wounded (the buck) for 1 ½ miles 11:29 lose track of deer and sadly turn back 11:30 return to stand 12:00 take short midday nap 1:20 wake up 1:21 see two deer looking at me 1:22 aim gun and squeeze trigger 1:23 success – it was the 10th deer seen of the morning 2:30 call other buddy for help to get deer out of woods 2:45 see seven more deer when leaving woods 3:00 meet buddy and go back to woods 3:05 buddy and I drag deer through woods 3:35 pm cut thumb bad with knife (too long of a story to tell) 3:35.001 moan, cry, writhe, roll eyes and cuss 3:35.002 ditto, ditto, etc… 3:40 whimpering almost stops, cussing doesn’t 3:46 declare myself insane 3:47 buddy and I head for camp 4:15 at camp put napkin bandage on thumb and wrap with Scotch tape 4:20 buddy says to “John Wayne it – be tough.” 4:21 Tell buddy to shut the hell up 4:22 Quiet time – buddy smiles wickedly 5:10 Buddy and I return to the woods for the deer 5:30 get deer to camp 6:00 head home 6:20 veer car to hospital 6:30 resume moaning, etc. at hospital but did not cuss 6:35 ask nurse for old leather ball glove to chew on to ease the pain 10:30 beg for chips and channel change on TV 10:35 Dr. sews up my thumb 11:00 arrive home 11:15 declare insanity 11:16 fall asleep with thumb in air John Casey 11/17/06 (with some embellishments made to protect the insane) I passed up a 6-point buck at 7:30 hoping for a chance at the 12 pointer I had seen before. At 9:00 it was chasing a doe and heading right for me. I pulled my gun up and aimed at the doe and when I saw the buck I swung the gun toward him and fired. I was surprised that he did not fall and shot again as he bounded away and stopped 90 yards away. A large tree blocked him from me. After a few minutes he trotted off. I checked my gear for shells and did not locate them and called my buddy at the house and asked that he

The original page will appear here.

The original page will appear here.

The original page will appear here.

DEER HUNTER 6:30 pm Arrive at camp (house) 6:45 finish unloading hunting gear 6:50 open bottle of Gentleman’s Jack 6:51 have 1st toast with buddy 6:52 begin eating chips with hot salsa 7:00 have 2nd toast with buddy 7:05 buddy puts last year’s deer roast on grill 7:35 have taste of rare deer – build hotter fire 7:46 have 5th toast with buddy 8:05 eat deer with baked potato 8:05 buddy and I take turns lying to each other 10:01 finish Gentleman’s Jack 10:02pm go to bed 2:00 am wake up on couch and try to figure out where I’m at 2:01 have to pee 2:02 figure out where I am but not where the bathroom is 2:06 found it 2:10 go back to bed 3:00 wake up turn on light to see what time it is 3:30 go back to sleep 4:00 wake up and have to pee – must have had too much water with GJ 4:05 return to couch and close eyes 5:00 wake up & get up 5:02 make a pot of decaff (ugh) coffee 5:10 make sandwiches & heat soup to take to the woods for lunch 5:20 finish dressing in 3-layers of hunting clothes 5:25 collect & put extra shells, rope, gloves, etc. in gear bag 5:35 go outside with buddy and leave for the deep woods 5:40 return to camp for gun 5:45 go like crazy to get to woods 5:55 load gun with the shells that were in my pocket 6:15 arrive at stand in deep woods sweaty and out of breath 7:30 see large buck deer 40 yards away 7:31 take aim and squeeze trigger 7:31.005 “click” 7:32 load shell in gun chamber and watch deer go over hill 7:33 declare myself insane 8:58 put gun down and put on heavy wool mittens, it’s cold 9:00 hear loud crashing noise 9:01 see large deer heading my way 9:01.005 pick up gun 9:01.006 pull off mittens and push safety off 9:01.007 large doe deer closes on me 9:01.008 point shaking gun at deer 9:01.009 see 12-point buck running behind doe 9:02 010 deer sees me 9:02.11 point shaking gun at buck 9:02.20 pull trigger hard 9:02.30 see deer run 9:02.50 pump gun and pull trigger hard 9:03 see deer run 9:10 shaking almost stops 9:11 declare myself insane

DEER HUNTER

Arrive at camp (house)

finish unloading hunting gear

open bottle of Gentleman’s Jack

have 1 toast with buddy

begin eating chips with hot salsa

have 2"™ toast with buddy

buddy puts last year’s deer roast on grill have taste of rare deer — build hotter fire have 5" toast with buddy

eat deer with baked potato

buddy and I take turns lying to each other finish Gentleman’s Jack

go to bed

2:00 am wake up on couch and try to figure out where I’m at

7:31.005 7:32 7:33 8:58 9:00 9:01 9:01.005 9:01.006 9:01.007 9:01.008 9:01.009 9:02 010 9:02.11 9:02.20 9:02.30 9:02.50 9:03 9:10 9:11

have to pee

figure out where I am but not where the bathroom is found it

go back to bed

wake up turn on light to see what time it is

go back to sleep

wake up and have to pee — must have had too much water with GJ return to couch and close eyes

wake up & get up

make a pot of decaff (ugh) coffee

make sandwiches & heat soup to take to the woods for lunch finish dressing in 3-layers of hunting clothes

collect & put extra shells, rope, gloves, etc. in gear bag go outside with buddy and leave for the deep woods return to camp for gun

go like crazy to get to woods

load gun with the shells that were in my pocket

arrive at stand in deep woods sweaty and out of breath see large buck deer 40 yards away

take aim and squeeze trigger

“click”

load shell in gun chamber and watch deer go over hill declare myself insane

put gun down and put on heavy wool mittens, it’s cold hear loud crashing noise

see large deer heading my way

pick up gun

pull off mittens and push safety off

large doe deer closes on me

point shaking gun at deer

see 12-point buck running behind doe

deer sees me

point shaking gun at buck

pull trigger hard

see deer run

pump gun and pull trigger hard

see deer run

shaking almost stops

declare myself insane

DEER HUNTER

6:30 pm Arrive at camp (house)

6:45 finish unloading hunting gear

6:50 open bottle of Gentleman’s Jack

6:51 have 1s toast with buddy

6:52 begin eating chips with hot salsa

7:00 have 2"4 toast with buddy

7:05 buddy puts last year’s deer roast on grill

7:35 have taste of rare deer — build hotter fire

7:46 have 5th toast with buddy

8:05 eat deer with baked potato

8:05 buddy and I take turns lying to each other

10:01 finish Gentleman’s Jack

10:02pm. go to bed

2:00 am wake up on couch and try to figure out where I’m at

2:01 have to pee

2:02 figure out where I am but not where the bathroom is 2:06 found it

2:10 go back to bed

3:00 wake up turn on light to see what time it is

3:30 go back to sleep

4:00 wake up and have to pee — must have had too much water with GJ 4:05 return to couch and close eyes

5:00 wake up & get up

5:02 make a pot of decaff (ugh) coffee

5:10 make sandwiches & heat soup to take to the woods for lunch 5:20 finish dressing in 3-layers of hunting clothes

5:25 collect & put extra shells, rope, gloves, etc. in gear bag 5:35 go outside with buddy and leave for the deep woods 5:40 return to camp for gun

5:45 go like crazy to get to woods

5:55 load gun with the shells that were in my pocket

6:15 arrive at stand in deep woods sweaty and out of breath 7:30 see large buck deer 40 yards away

7:31 take aim and squeeze trigger

7:31.005 “click”

7:32 load shell in gun chamber and watch deer go over hill 7:33 declare myself insane

8:58 put gun down and put on heavy wool mittens, it’s cold 9:00 hear loud crashing noise

9:01 see large deer heading my way

9:01.005 pick up gun

9:01.006 pull off mittens and push safety off

9:01.007 large doe deer closes on me

9:01.008 point shaking gun at deer

9:01.009 see 12-point buck running behind doe

9:02 010 deer sees me

9:02.11 point shaking gun at buck

9:02.20 pull trigger hard

9:02.30 see deer run

9:02.50 pump gun and pull trigger hard

9:03 see deer run

9:10 shaking almost stops

9:11 declare myself insane

9:15 9:30 9:30 11:29 11:30 12:00 1:20 1:21 1:22 1:23 2:30 2:45 3:00 3:05 3:35 pm 3:35.001 3:35.002 3:40 3:46 3:47 4:15 4:20 4:21 4:22 5:10 5:30 6:00 6:20 6:30 6:35 10:30 10:35 11:00 11:15 11:16

John Casey

Turn on cell phone and call buddy to leave shells at camp return to camp get shells & go back to woods

track wounded (the buck) for 1 % miles

lose track of deer and sadly turn back

return to stand

take short midday nap

wake up

see two deer looking at me

aim gun and squeeze trigger

success — it was the 10 deer seen of the morning call other buddy for help to get deer out of woods see seven more deer when leaving woods

meet buddy and go back to woods

buddy and I drag deer through woods

cut thumb bad with knife (too long of a story to tell) moan, cry, writhe, roll eyes and cuss

ditto, ditto, etc…

whimpering almost stops, cussing doesn’t

declare myself insane

buddy and I head for camp

at camp put napkin bandage on thumb and wrap with Scotch tape buddy says to “John Wayne it — be tough.”

Tell buddy to shut the hell up

Quiet time — buddy smiles wickedly

Buddy and I return to the woods for the deer

get deer to camp

head home

veer car to hospital

resume moaning, etc. at hospital but did not cuss ask nurse for old leather ball glove to chew on to ease the pain beg for chips and channel change on TV

Dr. sews up my thumb

arrive home

declare insanity

fall asleep with thumb in air

11/17/06 (with some embellishments made to protect the insane)

I passed up a 6-point buck at 7:30 hoping for a chance at the 12 pointer I had seen before. At 9:00 it was chasing a doe and heading right for me. I pulled my gun up and aimed at the doe and when I saw the buck I swung the gun toward him and fired. I was surprised that he did not fall and shot again as he bounded away and stopped 90 yards away. A large tree blocked him from me. After a few minutes he trotted off. I checked my gear for shells and did not locate them and called my buddy at the house and asked that he

A Drivers, Hunting, Fishing, Gun Owners, Deer, small game, Habitat, Sportsman, and Daily Permit License We know you drive, but

Do you hunt? Do you have a gun? Do you fish? Do you have a rod and reel?

Do you eat what you kill? Do you eat what you catch? Can you clean game or fish?

Can you cook it?

Do you hunt or fish on your own land?

Do you know game laws? Do you know fish laws? Are you mostly truthful? (except for what you kill or what you catch?)

Do you have orange clothes? Can you bait a hook yourself?

Do you own more than one pair of boots?

Can you climb trees? Can you swim? Do you camouflage?

g Can you whistle?

Do you wear glasses? Have you ever used binoculars? Can you read a depth finder?

Do you want to be organ donor? Is your gun plugged? Is your reel oiled? Is your knife sharp?

Have you ever used a barbless hook? Why? y Is it a bobber to you or is it a cork or float?

Have you ever caught a carp? Will you eat an eel? Will you eat a possum?

Have you shot something out of season? Have you caught more than your limit? During the last five years?

Do you own a truck? Do you own a boat? Do you loan them out?

Your answers will be evaluated and you may expect a reply real soon. Thanks for being so truthful. Your vehicle registration tag, with photo, will clearly mark the type of license you will receive. Your fee will be determined by the type of license you need. iS) Keep driving, hunting, and fishing till we tell you to stop.

Recently, | lost my wallet and with it several license, tags, and permits. I'm getting them back slowly and painfully. Why not combine all of the licenses we need into one? Think of it, It could work don’t you think? John Casey 12/18/02

FIRSG SQUIRREL WIGH A PISGOL

Uncle Bills 45 pound dog, Joe, treed a squirrel ina mulberry tree near where my uncle lived in rural Southern Illinois. I was either 9 or 10 years old and loved to hunt with my favorite uncle.

U. Bill carried a 9-shot H&R long barred pistol in a hand-made leather holster. A strip of leather holding the holster/and gun was looped around his neck. It was loaded with small calibre 22 rifle shells called shorts. It held 9 bullets in it's cylinder.

The squirrel had flattened out ona limb about the width of the squirrels body, including it's tail. The limb was about 20 foot high. Uncle Bill unholstered the pistol and motioned me to take it. I balked. He said, “I want you to shoot that squirrel" and handed me the gun. It was a single shot pistol which meant you had to pull the trigger every time you wanted to fire it.

It felt a little heavy to me and I held it in both hands. “Aim and fire”, Uncle called out. I did. it hit nothing. He said keep shooting and I did until all nine shells were fired. I may have wounded the squirrel, it was still in the tree.

Uncle loaded the gun and handed it back to me. He said to aim carefully and squeeze the trigger very lightly. On the eleventh shot the bullet hit the squirrel and it fell to the ground where Joe immediately grabbed it in his teeth and shook it. It was dead.

Tears were in my eyes and I gave the pistol back to Uncle Bill. He bagged the second squirrel with one shot. I never shot a squirrel again with a pistol. Uncle Bill never asked me again. He and I would hunt again. I marveled at his keen eyes and accuracy with that pistol.

John Casey Jrcasey134@gmail.com

FIRST SQUIRREL WITH A PISTOL Uncle Bills 45 pound dog, Joe, treed a squirrel in a mulberry tree near where my uncle lived in rural Southern Illinois. I was either 9 or 10 years old and loved to hunt with my favorite uncle. U. Bill carried a 9-shot H&R long barred pistol in a hand-made leather holster. A strip of leather holding the holster/and gun was looped around his neck. It was loaded with small calibre 22 rifle shells called shorts. It held 9 bullets in it’s cylinder. The squirrel had flattened out on a limb about the width of the squirrels body, including it’s tail. The limb was about 20 foot high. Uncle Bill unholstered the pistol and motioned me to take it. I balked. He said, “I want you to shoot that squirrel” and handed me the gun. It was a single shot pistol which meant you had to pull the trigger every time you wanted to fire it. It felt a little heavy to me and I held it in both hands. “Aim and fire”, Uncle called out. I did. it hit nothing. He said keep shooting and I did until all nine shells were fired. I may have wounded the squirrel, it was still in the tree. Uncle loaded the gun and handed it back to me. He said to aim carefully and squeeze the trigger very lightly. On the eleventh shot the bullet hit the squirrel and it fell to the ground where Joe immediately grabbed it in his teeth and shook it. It was dead. Tears were in my eyes and I gave the pistol back to Uncle Bill. He bagged the second squirrel with one shot. I never shot a squirrel again with a pistol. Uncle Bill never asked me again. He and I would hunt again. I marveled at his keen eyes and accuracy with that pistol. John Casey Jrcasey134@gmail.com

TRUE STORIES BY JOHN CASEY

Don't Try This – Fish Ol Is Slick

As a youngster, I loved to fish in the rail road ponds about a mile north from our home in Tunnel Hill. One day, me and a couple of buddies caught over two hundred little bitty blue gill and put’em on the rail road tracks and when the train came along, those blue gill stalled the train; a coal-powered, steam driven locomotive with 60 coal cars.

It scared us half to death. Please don’t tell my dad who worked for the rail road.

FISHING WITH 41 HAMMER AND JIN IKE

In late winter, before the green house effect took over, the swollen creeks in Southern Illinois would freeze over and several of the neighborhood kids would go fishing with hammers and axes.

We knew the pools in the creek that had fish and we could see them through the clear ice. We split our group into herders and hammer and axe handlers. The herders would lie down on and slide down the frozen creek chasing the fish towards the hammer and axe guys at the end of the pool ready with hammers and axes. When the fish came by, a sharp smack on the ice with the hammer shocked the fish and they would turn belly-up for a few seconds. That gave the kids with the axes time to cut a hole in the ice and flip out the fish.

I loved to bang that hammer, but sometimes had to herd the fish. I haven't seen anyone fish that way since us kids used to do it.

John Casey

public lake. Plus, how likely it would be to believe I was just fishing. So far only fingerling bass had been stocked in the new lake. I decided not to move and let whatever might be in the woods with me be there and hopefully go away. The sounds, plural now, came closer and suddenly something was leaping over my head. A deer! Another one and a third one leaped gracefully over the log and me landing softly on the path and trotted away. They were gone as quickly as they had came and never showed any alarm. I was now wide-awake, but not startled. I was a witness to and part of the woods and some of its creatures. The day had still only barely begun when the deer passed and the fog had lifted too. Maybe I did have a 15-minute

nap.

I started my bank stalk along the north edge of the lake and soon heard the chattering of feeding ducks. I looked, peered, blinked and used my imagination before spotting several ducks some 30-35 feet from shore. I moved closer, slinking behind trees when I could and slowly drew myself within range for a shot. I had never shot more than a few ducks before and that was over open water when the ducks would wash ashore. That was the reason for the rod and reel outfit I carried. I would cast over the duck, snag it and pull it to me. I shoot by instinct. Just raise the gun to my shoulder, and with both eyes open, pull down on the target. Suddenly and with out really thinking I pull the trigger. It’s one motion. I don’t feel the kick of the gun. I’m right handed and love to swing right to left on shots. As the ducks rose from the water, right to left, the gun spoke once and a duck fell into the water. I felt both elation and a bit of sadness and the same feeling I had always felt when bagging game. It would never change. That was the last duck I have killed in my life, although I have hunted several times since. I am not against hunting and understand it very well, thank you. That duck was over 40 foot from the bank and the breeze had let up completely. The lake was a mirror, and the duck never moved.

My Mitchell 300 outfit was brought along for this exact situation. In my mind I could see me casting the lure over the duck, snagging it and pulling it ashore. No problem. Problem. The duck was close to trees and not in open water. I’m pretty good with an open bail reel and can side arm or even flick an underhand cast with reasonable accuracy. No problem. Problem. It was cold, not freezing, but the temperature was less than 40 degrees and I had on a thick jacket. My ungloved right hand held the rod and my cold index finger wasn’t working well for feathering the line and controlling the cast. I cast short, left, then right. I took off my coat and stretched my casting arm and my confident next cast saw the lure loop quickly over a branch just over the duck. The lure was wrapped over the limb several times and wouldn’t come loose. OK, I’Il break it off and use the other lure. My confidence was shaken, and that led to the next ten or so casts that were pitifully off target. Finally, I cast perfectly over the duck.and slowly retrieved it to the duck. The lure reached the duck and instead of popping the rod in a strike like manner to hook the duck, I just reeled in line and lure. The duck moved towards me and I reeled quicker but the lure was not embedded and the duck rolled over and my lure came loose. Now the duck was closer, but also closer to a small bush sticking out of the shallow water. Three times, four, and sure enough on the fifth cast my lure flew into the bush and became ensnarled. I was fairly snarling too, but could not extract the lure. I put the reel into anti-reverse and tightened it so that the line hung over the water anchored by the lure on the bush and the rod tip on the other end, butt end of the rod stuck in an old crawdad hole. I hated my thoughts and the hunting lessons to never leave game you have killed in the woods, in this case, in the water. I knew guilt would follow me the rest of my life if | didn’t get that duck. Then I did what every bank shooter would do in that situation, I decided to go into the water and get it.

I sat down on my jacket and took off my boots and socks, then my pants, then my long underwear and finally my shorts. I felt that the breeze had kicked up a bit. I left on my shirts, but tied them into a knot slightly above my waist. The first two inches of water and five inches of mud wasn’t that bad, but the water was about two foot deep or more where the duck lay. Deep water is cold especially when the air is cold. My breath sucked out of me with each timid step, even when I stood on tiptoes. With a commitment renewed and my arms up, I swished and swayed towards the duck. My shirttails got wet up to my nipples as I reached out and clutched the duck and with one motion turned back to the bank. To hell with the lure. A retum trip anywhere always seems shorter and maybe the water was not as cold. I put my underwear and pants on first to thwart the blustery wind and could hardly put my socks on my cold shrunken feet. But soon I was back to normal.

Fishing for Ducks

I carried my brother Jim’s L.C. Smith double-barreled 16-gage shotgun, eight # 4 high brass Western Expert shells, a light five foot long fishing rod with a Mitchell 300 reel and three spoon/spinner lures wrapped up in a small brown paper sack tucked into a jacket pocket. I was going duck hunting.

It was October; I was 16, almost 17. The year was 1957. The Lake of Egypt, near Creal Springs, IL bordering Johnson and Williamson County was new. The east and south end of the lake was still filling up. Many of the trees in the shallow water were still alive and would not be stumps and snags for many years. It was a perfect place to jump shoot ducks feeding in the shallow lake. Teal and Wood Ducks, the early ones every year, were there, but so were some Mallards, a few Red Heads, and an occasional Pentail.

I knew nothing about calling ducks and my clothing was just old cotton jeans, a wool shirt, a jacked and on my feet were leather boots. I could slip quietly along the bank under cover of trees and bushes looking for ducks. Once spotted, I would figure out an angle to approach the ducks close enough for a shot. I was not successful very much and often the ducks had swum a sufficient distance from the bank to be out of range.

Thad killed a few ducks that fall and one time had to strip down to nothing and waded out to the ducks to retrieve them. Fortunately it was not icy cold that day. [had left my dry clothes, socks and boots on shore, and naked to the waist, had whistled and sucked in my breath all the way out and back to get the ducks. The dry clothes felt as though they had been warmed when I jumped back into them.

Not wishing to repeat this, and knowing the water was much colder, was the reason I carried the fishing rod and had the old lures in my pocket. If I shot and killed a duck that could not be reached easily from the bank, I would cast over the duck, catch it with the lure, and retrieve it. Simple enough.

I dropped two Wood Ducks several yards off the bank and the little waves on the lake were carrying them further from shore. My casts barely reached the ducks, but I managed to bring them both to shore. I felt successful and smart. I spent the rest of the morning looking around the shore, counting ducks and scouting for deer signs. It was a grand day.

When I returned home, I showed the ducks to my mom who did not approve of my success. I cleaned them and asked her to cook them. No is an answer I know. It doesn’t mean anything except a no.

These ducks were clean, not too big and had to be tender. I had heard that ducks tasted better if you baked them in the oven, put a raw cut potato and a couple

of quarters of an apple in the body cavity, peppered and salted them and put a piece of bacon on their breasts and cooked them at 350 degrees for about 2 hours. That’s exactly what I did. Mom did not venture into the kitchen.

When the cooking time ended and the oven door opened there were two tiny duck breasts. Taking only a knife and fork, I slowly ate those ducks. No bread, no dressing, no vegetables, nothing but duck. They were terrific and the only ducks I have ever had in my life. I never ate another duck. I don’t want to eat another duck.

My mom never looked in on me, never said a word and never told anyone that two very pretty ducks had been cooked and eaten in her kitchen by her son.

John Casey 11-08-2001

Fishing for Ducks

I carried my brother Jim’s L.C. Smith double-barreled 16-gage shotgun, eight # 4 high brass Western Expert shells, a light five foot long fishing rod with a Mitchell 300 reel and three spoon/spinner lures wrapped up in a small brown paper sack tucked into a jacket pocket. I was going duck hunting.

It was October; I was 16, almost 17. The year was 1957. The Lake of Egypt, near Creal Springs, IL bordering Johnson and Williamson County was new. The east and south end of the lake was still filling up. Many of the trees in the shallow water were still alive and would not be stumps and snags for many years. It was a perfect place to jump shoot ducks feeding in the shallow lake. Teal and Wood Ducks, the early ones every year, were there, but so were some Mallards, a few Red Heads, and an occasional Pentail.

I knew nothing about calling ducks and my clothing was just old cotton jeans, a wool shirt, a jacked and on my feet were leather boots. I could slip quietly along the bank under cover of trees and bushes looking for ducks. Once spotted, I would figure out an angle to approach the ducks close enough for a shot. I was not successful very much and often the ducks had swum a sufficient distance from the bank to be out of range.

had killed a few ducks that fall and one time had to strip down to nothing and waded out to the ducks to retrieve them. Fortunately it was not icy cold that day. Thad left my dry clothes, socks and beots on shore, and naked to the waist, had whistled and sucked in my breath all the way out and back to get the ducks. The dry clothes felt as though they had been warmed when I jumped back into them.

Not wishing to repeat this, and knowing the water was much colder, was the reason I carried the fishing rod and had the old lures in my pocket. If T shot and killed a duck that could not be reached easily from the bank, I would cast over the duck, catch it with the lure, and retrieve it. Simple enough.

I dropped two Wood Ducks several yards off the bank and the little waves on the lake were carrying them further from shore. My casts barely reached the ducks, but I managed to bring them both to shore. I felt successful and smart. T spent the rest of the morning looking around the shore, counting ducks and scouting for deer signs. It was a grand day.

When I returned home, I showed the ducks to my mom who did not approve of my success. I cleaned them and asked her to cook them. No is an answer I know. It doesn’t mean anything except a no.

These ducks were clean, not too big and had to be tender. [had heard that ducks tasted better if you baked them in the oven, put a raw cut potato and a couple

FISHING FROM A HOT AIR BALLOON (A true tale by John Casey)

Fishing from a free flying hot air balloon appealed to an adventuresome fisherman like me. Especially when no one had ever before landed a fish from a hot air ballon until the day.

On a beautiful April morning in 1987, balloon flyers gathered near the Mt. Vernon Airport Lake and commenced to blow up their colorful balloons for a spectacular flight that morning. I helped my balloonist some, but I also rigged my spin cast reel for a fishing trip. I was going to be a passenger in a balloon, but my goal was to catch the first fish ever from a balloon.

My magic lure for bass was a little piece of lead and feathers that practically floats (no pun intended) through the water. The Maribu Jig was completely hand made from the down like hair from underneath an ostrich's wing.

What a thrill! Lifting off in the balloon and heading for the lake. My first cast produced a resounding strike and the fish exploded beneath the rising basket. A lunker bass was on and then it dove and pulled the basket into the lake.

It was ankle deep in the basket and still the bass pulled. Evenrude Johnson, the pilot of the hot air balloon, begged me to cut the line. I refused. "Turn up the heat," I yelled. He did and with a whoosh the balloon began to rise, the bass struggled below. I tightened the drag on the reel and the fish came out of the water.

Now, was 40 feet below the balloon dangling on the line. But

now the problem was the woods coming up with the tops of the trees barely below the bottom of the balloon basket. Uh-oh!

I hooked the De-Liar to the line, deducted 12 pounds for drag and calculated the fish to weigh 7 and 1/2 pounds. Evenrude took my picture holding the fish, then I sadly cut the line and the fish plunged smartly back into the lake.

The streaking shadow in the water below must have been the biggest bass in the world. It hit the just released fish and the turmoil in the lake was like a giant whirlpool. Evy didn't see it.

Evenrude and I agreed that the bass could have been landed if I had not cut the line, so it should count as the first ever fish landed from a hot air balloon. We submitted it to the Gunnesses' Book of World records and it should appear in this years edition. Look for it. Note: Evenrude won the balloon eve@ when his bean bag missed the hare's mark a scant 10 inches. I made a hole-in-one that afternoon.

FISHING FROM A HOT AIR BALLOON (A true tale by John Casey)

Fishing from a free flying hot air balloon appealed to an adventuresome fisherman like me. Especially when no one had ever before landed a fish from a hot air ballon until the day.

On a beautiful April morning in 1987, balloon flyers gathered near the Mt. Vernon Airport Lake and commenced to blow up their colorful balloons for a spectacular flight that morning. I helped my balloonist some, but I also rigged my spin cast reel for a fishing trip. I was going to be a passenger in a balloon, but my goal was to catch the first fish ever from a balloon.

My magic lure for bass was a little piece of lead and feathers that practically floats (no pun intended) through the water. The Maribu Jig was completely hand made from the down like hair from underneath an ostrich's wing.

What a thrill! Lifting off in the balloon and heading for the lake. My first cast produced a resounding strike and the fish exploded beneath the rising basket. A lunker bass was on and then it dove and pulled the basket into the lake.

It was ankle deep in the basket and still the bass pulled. Evenrude Johnson, the pilot of the hot air balloon, begged me to cut the line. I refused. "Turn up the heat," I yelled. He did and with a whoosh the balloon began to rise, the bass struggled below. I tightened the drag on the reel and the fish came out of the water.

Now, Lt’ was 40 feet below the balloon dangling on the line. But now the problem was the woods coming up with the tops of the trees barely below the bottom of the balloon basket. Uh-oh!

I hooked the De-Liar to the line, deducted 12 pounds for drag and calculated the fish to weigh 7 and 1/2 pounds. Evenrude took my picture holding the fish, then I sadly cut the line and the fish plunged smartly back into the lake.

The streaking shadow in the water below must have been the biggest bass in the world. It hit the just released fish and the turmoil in the lake was like a giant whirlpool. Evy didn't see it.

Evenrude and I agreed that the bass could have been landed if I had not cut the line, so it should count as the first ever fish landed from a hot air balloon. We submitted it to the Gunnesses' Book of World records and it should appear in this years edition. Look for it. Note: Evenrude won the balloon eve when his bean bag missed the hare's mark a scant 10 inches. I made a hole-in-one that afternoon.

public lake. Plus, how likely it would be to believe I was just fishing. So far only fingerling bass had been stocked in the new lake. | decided not to move and let whatever might be in the woods with me be there and hopefully go away. The sounds, plural now, came closer and suddenly something was leaping over my head. A deer! Another one and a third one leaped gracefully over the log and me landing softly on the path and trotted away. They were gone as quickly as they had came and never showed any alarm. I was now wide-awake, but not startled. I was a witness to and part of the woods and some of its creatures. The day had still only barely begun when the deer passed and the fog had lifted too. Maybe I did have a 15-minute nap.

1 started my bank stalk along the north edge of the lake and soon heard the chattering of feeding ducks. I looked, peered, blinked and used my imagination before spotting several ducks some 30-35 feet from shore. I moved closer, slinking behind trees when | could and slowly drew myself within range for a shot. I had never shot more than a few ducks before and that was over open water when the ducks would wash ashore. That was the reason for the rod and reel outfit | carried. | would cast over the duck, snag it and pull it to me. I shoot by instinct. Just raise the gun to my shoulder, and with both eyes open, pull down on the target. Suddenly and with out really thinking I pull the trigger. It’s one motion. I don’t feel the kick of the gun. I’m right handed and love to swing right to left on shots. As the ducks rose from the water, right to left, the gun spoke once and a duck fell into the water. I felt both elation and a bit of sadness and the same feeling I had always felt when bagging game. It would never change. That was the last duck I have killed in my life, although I have hunted several times since. I am not against hunting and understand it very well, thank you. That duck was over 40 foot from the bank and the breeze had let up completely. The lake was a mirror, and the duck never moved.

My Mitchell 300 outfit was brought along for this exact situation. In my mind I could see me casting the lure over the duck, snagging it and pulling it ashore. No problem. Problem. The duck was close to trees and not in open water. I’m pretty good with an open bail reel and can side arm or even flick an underhand cast with reasonable accuracy. No problem. Problem. It was cold, not freezing, but the temperature was less than 40 degrees and I had on a thick jacket. My ungloved right hand held the rod and my cold index finger wasn’t working well for feathering the line and controlling the cast. I cast short, left, then right. I took off my coat and stretched my casting arm and my confident next cast saw the lure loop quickly over a branch just over the duck. The lure was wrapped over the limb several times and wouldn’t come loose. OK, I'll break it off and use the other lure. My confidence was shaken, and that led to the next ten or so casts that were pitifully off target. Finally, I cast perfectly over the duck.and slowly retrieved it to the duck. The lure reached the duck and instead of popping the rod in a strike like manner to hook the duck, I just reeled in line and lure. The duck moved towards me and I reeled quicker but the lure was not embedded and the duck rolled over and my lure came loose. Now the duck was closer, but also closer to a small bush sticking out of the shallow water. Three times, four, and sure enough on the fifth cast my lure flew into the bush and became ensnarled. | was fairly snarling too, but could not extract the lure. | put the reel into anti-reverse and tightened it so that the line hung over the water anchored by the lure on the bush and the rod tip on the other end, butt end of the rod stuck in an old crawdad hole. | hated my thoughts and the hunting lessons to never leave game you have killed in the woods, in this case, in the water. I knew guilt would follow me the rest of my life if I didn’t get that duck. Then I did what every bank shooter would do in that situation, | decided to go into the water and get it.

I sat down on my jacket and took off my boots and socks, then my pants, then my long underwear and finally my shorts. I felt that the breeze had kicked up a bit. I left on my shirts, but tied them into a knot slightly above my waist. The first two inches of water and five inches of mud wasn’t that bad, but the water was about two foot deep or more where the duck lay. Deep water is cold especially when the air is cold. My breath sucked out of me with each timid step, even when I stood on tiptoes. With a commitment renewed and my arms up, | swished and swayed towards the duck. My shirttails got wet up to my nipples as I reached out and clutched the duck and with one motion turned back to the bank. To hell with the lure A return trip anywhere always seems shorter and maybe the water was not as cold. I put my underwear and pants on first to thwart the blustery wind and could hardly put my socks on my cold shrunken feet. But soon I was back to normal.

A Drivers, Hunting, Fishing, Gun Owners, Deer, small game, Habitat, Sportsman, and Daily Permit License

We know you drive, but

Do you hunt? Do you have a gun? Do you fish? Do you have a rod and reel?

Do you eat what you kill? Do you eat what you catch? Can you clean game or fish?

Can you cook it?

Do you hunt or fish on your own land?

Do you know game laws? Do you know fish laws? Are you mostly truthful? (except for what you kill or what you catch?)

Do you have orange clothes? Can you bait a hook yourself?

Do you own more than one pair of boots?

Can you climb trees? Can you swim? Do you camouflage? Can you whistle?

Do you wear glasses? Have you ever used binoculars? Can you read a depth finder?

Do you want to be organ donor? Is your gun plugged? Is your reel oiled? Is your knife sharp? gare RP Have you ever used a barbless hook? Why? AO Is it a bobber to you or is it a cork or float?

Have you ever caught a carp? Will you eat an eel? Will you eat a possum?

Have you shot something out of season? Have you caught more than your limit? During the last five years?

Do you own a truck? Do you own a boat? Do you loan them out?

Your answers will be evaluated and you may expect a reply real soon. Thanks for being so truthful. Your vehicle registration tag, with photo, will clearly mark the type of license you will receive. Your fee will be determined by the type of license you need. Keep driving, hunting, and fishing till we tell you to stop.

Recently, I lost my wallet and with it several license, tags, and permits, I’m getting them back slowly and painfully. Why not combine all of the licenses we need into one? Think of it. It could work don’t you think? John Casey 12/18/02

Hunting was over for the day and I happily returned to the car. I was proud I had not given up and thrilled at the wonderful morning, especially the two deer encounters. | got back to our house at about 11:00 AM. I was hungry but there was no food to be had — cooked that is- in the house. | wanted to eat a cooked duck! A fresh one.

My mom was in the front room of the house with her sister, Etta, and the neighbor lady, Wilma Conroy. They were working on making a quilt and were cutting pieces of cloth for it. T asked mom to come into the kitchen with me and she did. | told her I had a duck and wanted to eat it and would she cook it. My mom was about five-foot tall and weighed about 94 pounds. Did I also say she had red hair? She did. “If you want a duck, you cook a duck, and why would you ever shoot such a beautiful duck anyway!” That was as close to cussing as I ever heard her get. She returned to the front room. | thought about saying to her, “Hey, how about those cute Rhode Island Reds that you wring their necks and serve to the preacher man? | thought better of that remark; I didn’t want mom to really cuss.

It took a while for me to get the duck feathers off of that bird and almost as long to get him ready to cook. I quartered two Jonathan apples and two small potatoes and stuffed them into the duck. I put three strips of bacon on the duck, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, put the duck in a roasting pan, turned on the oven and set it a 350 degrees, and sat down on a chair to wait until that duck cooked. I waited a long, long, time. Enough time to clean the 870 and the 300. Aunt Etta came in the kitchen, said hello and good bye and left. Wilma left by the front door. Mom stayed in the living room. I had almost worn the door off of the oven, but finally it appeared that the duck was done. In great spirits, | ate that tiny duck without a single side dish. It was delicious. | have the recipe if you want it. I kept a few tail feathers from that duck, but hide them from mom.

6-24-05 j. casey

Hunting was over for the day and I happily returned to the car. I was proud I had not given up and thrilled at the wonderful morning, especially the two deer encounters. I got back to our house at about 11:00 AM. I was hungry but there was no food to be had — cooked that is- in the house. I wanted to eat a

cooked duck! A fresh one.

My mom was in the front room of the house with her sister, Etta, and the neighbor lady, Wilma Conroy. They were working on making a quilt and were cutting pieces of cloth for it. I asked mom to come into the kitchen with me and she did. I told her I had a duck and wanted to eat it and would she cook it. My mom was about five-foot tall and weighed about 94 pounds. Did I also say she had red hair? She did. “If you want a duck, you cook a duck, and why would you ever shoot such a beautiful duck anyway!” That was as close to cussing as J ever heard her get. She returned to the front room. I thought about saying to her, “Hey, how about those cute Rhode Island Reds that you wring their necks and serve to the preacher man? I thought better of that remark; I didn’t want mom to really cuss.

It took a while for me to get the duck feathers off of that bird and almost as long to get him ready to cook. I quartered two Jonathan apples and two small potatoes and stuffed them into the duck. I put three strips of bacon on the duck, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, put the duck in a roasting pan, turned on the oven and set it a 350 degrees, and sat down on a chair to wait until that duck cooked. I waited a long, long time. Enough time to clean the 870 and the 300. Aunt Etta came in the kitchen, said hello and good bye and left. Wilma left by the front door. Mom stayed in the living room. I had almost worn the door off of the oven, but finally it appeared that the duck was done. In great spirits, I ate that tiny duck without a single side dish. It was delicious. I have the recipe if you want it. I kept a few tail feathers from that duck, but hide them from mom.

6-24-05 j. casey

Hunting with a shotgun and a fishing rig.

I pulled my car behind the Salem Church where my dad and mom first met and parked near the cemetery where both of mom’s parents were buried. When I exited the car, I slipped my Remington Model 870 -12 gage pump out of its case and slid a red cased # 4 shot Winchester Expert into the gun’s chamber and pushed two more shells into the magazine, then reached for my Mitchell 300 open bail reel matched with a black seven foot, two-piece fiberglass rod. I tucked a small box with two old lures in inside my jacket. I stomped my leather booted feet on the hard ground, zipped my coat, pulled on insulated gloves, tugged my cap bill down and headed towards the south neck of The Lake Of Egypt, a new 2600-acre lake located in deep Southern Illinois. It was 4:45 AM and the last day of October, 1957, the day after my 17‘ birthday. I planned to jump shoot ducks in the shallow neck of the lake.

The lake was % of a mile from where I parked. A path led through a pasture, a briar patch and a band of woods. After crossing a barbed wire fence a rabbit startled me, zigzagging through the black berry vines. Farther along I saw an ambling possum enter the woods. When I entered the still dark woods I caught sight of three large bucks. The heavy antlered deer had reared up on their rear legs, stretched their bodies and neck to bite off an acorn from an oak tree branch then slowly lowered back to the ground. I watched the deer feeding for a few minutes before continuing on to the lake.

A thin fog hung over the lake and a light northwesterly breeze causing a slight ripple on its surface. A morning woods is hardly ever exactly quiet: water drips off of leaves, birds make soft sounds as they flit from branch to branch and a squirrel will shake a thin branch or scratch the bark of a tree. I saw a couple of colorful terrapins that did not make a sound as they bit into a flattened mushroom attached to a rotting log. It was not yet daylight when I came to a huge tree that had fallen directly in my path. It was a perfect place to wait until the fog lifted.

I sat down in a pile of leaves by the tree and leaned my gun and rod against the tree’s trunk. I was comfortable and warn and nodded off to sleep. I awoke suddenly to a sound nearby. I froze and listened intently. I did not have a hunting license or a duck stamp and I didn’t want to expose myself. The noise came closer and suddenly a deer leaped over me. Then two more deer leaped gracefully over the log, and me, landing softly on the path and trotted away. They were gone quickly. I became wide-awake and aware of a special moment in the woods. Soon the fog lifted. I was ready to hunt ducks.

I started stalking along the north edge of the lake and heard chattering of feeding ducks then spotted several about 30-35 feet from shore. Using trees and brush to block my approach, I drew within range for a shot. I had shot ducks over open water before and waves had washed them close to the bank so that I could retrieve them. The ducks were in shallow water with brush and small trees everywhere. That’s why I brought fishing tackle. If 1 downed a duck, I would cast a lure over it, snag it and pull it to where I could retrieve it.

I crept closer to the water and suddenly stood up. The ducks flushed, rising from the water. I shoot by instinct, just point and squeeze the trigger. The gun spoke once and a duck fell into the water more than 40 foot from the bank and never moved.

My fishing outfit was brought along for this situation. The duck was close to trees and not in open water. I’m pretty good with an open faced spinning reel and can side arm or make an underhand cast with reasonable accuracy but it was cold and I had on a thick jacket. Holding the rod in my ungloved right hand my cold index finger wasn’t working good enough to feather the line and control the cast. I cast short, then left, then right. I took off my coat, and on the next cast the lure looped several times over a limb and hopelessly became stuck. I broke the line and tied on my last lure but my confidence was shaken, leading to the next ten or so casts being pitifully off target. Finally, my lure landed over the duck, but instead of making a strike with the rod to hook the bird, I begin reeling in line. The lure was not embedded and came loose. I

Hunting with a shotgun and a fishing rig.

I pulled my car behind the Salem Church where my dad and mom first met and parked near the cemetery where my dad and mom’s folks were buried. As soon as I got out of the car I slipped my Remington Model 870 -12 gage pump out of it’s case and slid a # 4 shot, red Winchester Expert into it’s chamber and pushed two more shells into the magazine. I also took out my Mitchell 300 open bail reel matched with a black five-foot two-piece fiberglass rod. Two old lures were in a single box and the box was tucked into the inside of my jacket. I stomped my leather booted feet on the hard ground, zipped up my coat half way, put on insulated gloves, tugged my cap bill down and started towards the south neck of The Lake Of Egypt, a new 2600 acre lake located in deep Southern Illinois. It was 4:45 AM and the last day of October, the day after my 17" birthday. (1957)

L anticipated jump shooting mallards and wood ducks in the shallow water of the lake. The walk to the lake was about three-quarters of a mile from the car through a pasture, a weed and briar patch and a band of woods. After crossing a barbed wire fence a rabbit startled me before I had walked 20 feet, zigzagging through the black berry vines and a little farther along an ambling possum entered the woods just before I did. I was barely into the still dark woods when I caught sight of three large deer out of my right eye. They had not heard or seen me. They were feeding on the sweet white oak acorns from the tree. Two of the deer were raised up on their back feet and with their necks outstretched were carefully plucking acoms from the tree branches. I had never seen deer feeding like this before and watched with fascination as the heavy antlered deer simply raised themselves up, stretched their bodies and neck and bit off an acorn and softly lowered back to their all fours. I watched this scene for five or more minutes before deciding I had to move along to my objective of ducks.

A light fog hung over the lake, the air being colder than the water, and there was a light northwesterly breeze causing a slight ripple on the surface. It was perfect. It was still, rather than quiet. A morning woods is hardly ever exactly quiet. Water drips off of leaves, birds make a soft sound as they flit from branch to branch and a squirrel will shake a thin branch or scratch bark. Colorful terrapins, however, don’t make sounds even when they bite into a flattened mushroom attached to a rotting log. I saw two. It was not yet daylight and the fog almost concealed the lake. A huge tree had fallen directly over the path I was on. Its stump was in the water; the trunk over the path and the bushy top was higher on the bank. It would be a perfect place to wait until the fog lifted enough for me to see clearly enough for a shot at a duck.

I sat down on the log, it was comfortable, but quickly decided I could sit down in the heap of leaves collected by the tree’s trunk and use the trunk for a back rest and gun.and rod stand. It was immediately comfortable and the woods was very still and I started to nod off. I’ve done this sort of thing before and have always enjoyed taking a nap in the woods.

What, a minute, five maybe? I was in sleep suspense? I heard something beyond the log. Since I did not have a hunting license let alone a duck stamp, I didn’t want to expose myself to a possible game warden, or to anyone for that matter, who would immediately know that I was jump shooting ducks in the

Hunting ae

I've known no better teacher than hunting. Through exacting and tenacious tracking, patient watching and attentive listening my enjoyment of the mysterious, questions, and curiosities unfold. A deer hunter watches the next bend; the duck hunter watches the sky; the bird hunter watches the dog; the non- hunter does not watch.

I’m not a “pretend hunter.” Someone that doesn’t actually have to learn to hunt or measures hunting by kills. Someone who uses purchased shortcuts to replace personal skills. Without personal honor to pass up shots when no one else is watching. I keep in the shadows even when leaving the woods. Pll be back. Without hunting I would never have come to know the woods, it’s secretive inhabitants or myself as I have.

In dense forest, the ears always see farther than the eyes and soon you heed them — weighing each sound. Each sound triggers keen excitement. Was that a squirrel, a woodpecker, a wild turkey or a ground foraging bird or something heavier thus bigger? Soon, I’m encouraged by a brief, brittle snap: like a hoof stepping on a dry limb. An intense silence ensues as I sit entranced and focused. Adrenaline starts to pump.

Prey species are sensitive to front-set predatory eyes and can fee/ a carnivorous stare. It’s a mysterious sixth sense. Squinting eyes to a slit and looking slightly away avoiding direct visual contact, tracking my prey peripherally, from time to time his roaming gaze falls directly on me, but never lingers long. I am invisible. So long as he stays up wind. All things are connected and all living things have value in and of themselves. Life depends on integrity. The respect of both the hunted and the woods is why I hunt.

Morels

Hunting morels is an earthly, deeply rewarding and subtly mystical experience. Once you lock on the proper search image given good habitat and a good mushroom year — you will see them everywhere. Maybe.

In the greening woods when suddenly — there they are — winking up at me in the instant of recognition providing me with considerable delight. As I kneel to collect the first or second one, I immediately see more, and more, my tunnel vision gone. As though it was a ceremony with sacred rituals. I'm into animism not unlike the turkeys, deer, or terrapins as my brief and spirited earthism blooms.

Never pick the first morel you find right away. Politely ask it to speak kindly on your behalf to the rest of its clan. Never pick tiny morels — return when they are grown. Never carelessly pluck a morel bodily from the soil. Rather, use a small, sharp knife and cleanly slice off the stem at the ground. Never take more than not quite enough. Never pick an area clean. And use a mesh or net bag. Such “leaky” containers allow spores to scatter as you walk. You’ ll be back next year.

Loons As we fished in the remote lake some 12 miles from camp, the only civilized evidence for 50

miles, I noticed the natural sound-soundscapes in a habitat that will become extinct. I quit fishing or moving. At least for a moment I would feel the wildness that was abundant around me. I would not deny myself this experience of where and how we are meant to be. I went to nature not to play but as a visit to a cathedral and sacred grove. To retain the traditional human knowledge of how to relate in deeply satisfying and meaningful ways to the natural wildness within us. The oldest and deepest area of our heart/mind —

is nourished. That night after a meal of lake perch, my favorite, and walleye served with creamed corn and a

side garnish salad of sweet onions and cucumbers, I heard the lonely wails of loons on a moon-mirrored north country lake. The loon’s strange flight barely inches off of the water was more than a half mile long and fascinating. The loon’s music defines the best of what’s left of wildness in this place. There are no wolves. If you have never heard the lilting fluttering marvelous weird sounds before, you'd think it was some tortured soul from hell, howling in anguish and pain. An eerie cry it is. But to those who know it well, the loon’s cry is an anthem of freedom and dignity

Which way from here? What does it mean to be human? To me living well is less material and am more ethereal. [ have to quit thinking so much. Jre_ 7/12/05

I don’t defend hunting or consider the hunt as harvesting game. I am a predator. My eyes are in the front of my head like they are in all predators. I hunt prey that has eyes in the side of their heads so that they can see predators easier. I kill game, and I dress and protect it so that it will be ready to cook and eat. It is that simple.

When I hunt I use all of the understanding and knowledge I have gained and apply them in the woods and field. There is no guarantee of success, but there is expectation as I look for tracks, signs, and for the game I’m hunting. Hunting is as close to nature as I will get all year. The awareness of living creatures, trees and plants is acute. But also the role of the dead tree that is decaying and providing food for bugs and insects, birds and small mammals.I belong and love to be in the woods.

When I reached my stand there was only a slight movement of air. Thermals they are called, when the hollows have warmer air than the hills just before or at sunrise and the lower air rises. An hour later a hefty 6-point buck appeared uphill from me. A clear shot was available for a few seconds. Raise and fire was all that was needed to bag my first deer in a decade. I didn’t shoot. It was early and I was trying for the huge 12-point buck I had seen in the same woods three weeks earlier when I was scouting.

When the deer passed I relaxed but vigil. I thought how silently the buck had came within a few yards of me before I heard or saw it. I scanned the woods again, slower, knowing that any animal moving would hardly make a sound. Another hour went by and only a small deer and squirrels caught my attention. It was colder than earlier. The frost on the trees bare limbs were still there as the sun began to peek through the forest canopy. I pulled on woolen military mittens over the thin shooting gloves and immediately felt warmth in my hands and fingers. Then things happened fast.

The crashing of running deer in the woods 100 yards away drew my attention. At first I imagined dogs running a coyote, and then a large doe came suddenly into my view. I hunkered down and drew my gun to my waist and pushed the safety off. The deer was upon me in a flash and as I stood up she saw me and wheeled and turned away and continued her headlong race back through the woods. A second deer, a 12-point buck, had been following the doe and was closing on me, its path would take it within a few yards of me. I swung my 12-gage shotgun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger, expecting to see the huge deer fall. It didn’t and I pumped another shell into the chamber and fired again. A miss? Probably.

I saw the buck stop about 90 yards away and could see its nose, then it’s large antlers. My eyes played a trick on me, I thought

LAM THANKFUL FOR THE DEER HUNT — NOVEMBER, 2002

The internal alarm that goes off early in the morning Means I am alive and filled with anticipation.

The shadow that trees and I cast when I’m going to my stand Means that I’m out in the moonlight or in the sunshine.

The heartbeat that quickens, even when sitting, Means I am alive and close to nature.

The rustle of leaves on the ground and in the trees Means that I can hear pleasant sounds.

The vigil and awareness of surroundings Means I am focused on the hunt.

The weariness and tired muscles at the end of the hunt Means that I have been capable of hunting hard.

The story telling that follows the hunt Means that it was important and fun.

The mess to clean up after filling meals Means that I have been surrounded by friends.

The clothes that fit a little too snug today Means that I had plenty to eat and enjoy.

The piles of laundry Means that had warm clothes to wear.

The good-natured complaining and kidding Means I have friends who care about me. John Casey 11-25-2002

1AM THANKFUL FOR THE DEER HUNT — NOVEMBER, 2002

‘The internal alarm that goes off early in the morning Means | am alive and filled with anticipation.

The shadow that trees and I cast when I’m going to my stand Means that I’m out in the moonlight or in the sunshine.

The heartbeat that quickens, even when sitting, Means J am alive and close to nature,

The rustle of leaves on the ground and in the trees Means that I can hear pleasant sounds.

The vigil and awareness of surroundings Means I am focused on the hunt.

The weariness and tired muscles at the end of the hunt ‘Means that [have been capable of hunting hard.

The story telling that follows the hunt Means that it was important and fun.

The mess to clean up after filling meals Means that I have been surrounded by friends.

The clothes that fit a little too snug today Means that I had plenty to eat and enjoy.

The piles of laundry Means that had warm clothes to wear.

The good-natured complaining and kidding Means I have friends who care about me. John Casey. 11-25-2002

I love you. A true Story 2011- November, deer season.

“T love you Kent,” I said as I hugged him when I first entered his home Thursday evening last week. He did not shrink.

“T love you Jim,” I said when I met Jim coming across a muddy bean field Friday evening in the darkness. (I did add, “but I will not hunt with you again if you don’t get out of the woods earlier than pitch black.”’)

“Kent,” I said Saturday morning in the big garage, “your love of Aaron and his love of you is extremely important.” He acknowledged, “Yes it is.”

“T love you Shan,” I said when I talked to him by phone late Sunday evening. He responded in like.

“T love you Sue,” I said as I hugged her in her kitchen Monday evening just before heading home.

T heard…

“Uh oh, you have a problem.” Buddy Hubbard; the property owner where I parked my truck Sunday. The “uh-oh” was in reference to a broken tye rod on my truck. It was fixed Monday.

“Tell her to get off of her lazy fat ass and get you something to eat.” Sue told me that Skye, Sue’s great grand daughter, told her in confidence that Skye’s mom, Candice, said that to her when Skye asked her mom for a snack. Sunday

“She still hasn’t changed clothes and it’s almost noon, it happens every day.” Jim referring to Sue – Sat.

“I’m not ever going to set foot in those woods with dad ever.” Kent — Sunday.

“Those boots fat-butt is wearing cost Kent over $200.00.” Jim (Saturday) Referring to a new pair of hunting boots for Aaron, Jenny’s son.

“Tf you paid me $40.00 a week, I would do the laundry.” Sue, quoting Candice’s response to Sue asking Candice to do the laundry. Sue/Jim pays their cleaning lady $40 a week for a four hour cleaning session that includes doing the laundry. “You would think Candice would at least do the laundry for the family so I would have time to really clean the house.” The cleaning lady — Friday

“He doesn’t love her enough.” Kent, Sun, a.m. – referring to his dad and mom.

There is more to the story behind every revealing remark. All were said in conversations I had with each person venting to me in trust.

Kent died in December, 2011, just more than a month away from my November visit. I went to see him just before he died a few days before his 50" birthday, and managed only a minute with him. He was sedated and barely acknowledged my presence. He was angry when he died. Sue died in July, 2013.

Jim died 10/19/2015.

Uncle Bill's 40-pound feist dog, Joe, treed a squirrel in a mulberry tree near where Uncle Bill lived. I was 9 or 10. Bill carried a 6-shot .22 pistol in a homemade leather holster – the holster was a strip of leather hung over his shoulders. The squirrel had flattened out on a limb about the width of its body. Uncle Bill withdrew the pistol and motioned me to take it. I backed away. 'I want you to shoot that squirrel,' he said, and handed me the pistol. It was a single-action gun and held 9 bullets in its cylinder. 25 feet was a little heavy to me, so I held it in both hands. 'Aim and fire,' Bill called out. I did – nothing happened except the 'blink' of the small .22 shell. 'Shoot again,' Bill called out. I did, again and again, and hit the squirrel once. It didn't fall. Bill loaded the gun and gave it back to me and said, 'Take careful aim.' On the 17th shot the bullet hit the squirrel and it fell to the ground dead. Tears were in my eyes and I gave the pistol back to Bill. We took home 2 squirrels – Bill shot one and I the second. I never again tried to kill a squirrel with a pistol. Uncle Bill understood and never asked me again. I hunted with him several times and marveled at his keen eyesight and shooting skills. – John Casey 8/1/2021

'Alton hunter wounded in season's first accident' JERSEYVILLE – An Alton hunter who was wounded in what appears to have been a hunting accident before daylight today became the first area victim in the deer hunting season that opened at 6:30 a.m. today. Jersey County authorities were summoned only four minutes after the season opened. Robert C. Doerr, 33, of 402 State St., underwent surgery this morning at St. Joseph's Hospital for removal of the slug that wounded him in the left shoulder and wrist. Authorities have been unable to question him about the incident. Authorities located the Jersey County man, who told them he had helped Doerr to the road and called an ambulance. He denied having fired the shot that downed Doerr… The man returned to his home for a different gun after the wounding of Doerr. The gun the man carried when authorities located him as they searched for the scene of the accident had not been fired, they said… He helped Doerr to the road, summoned an ambulance and then returned home… Investigation is continuing as authorities await removal of the slug from Doerr's wounds. [adjacent column, unrelated: '…members at its conference… U.S. food aid… countries most seriously affected by shortages…']

PIRAIBA CATFISH OF THE AMAZON RIVER

WHEN I VISITED MY GRAMPS, WHO LIVED IN THE LAST BEST PLACE IN NORTH AMERICA, HE WOULD LET ME TAKE THE SHOATS TO THE RIVER EACH EVENING TO ENJOY THEMSELVES AND GET A DRINK. ABOUT EVERY OTHER EVENING ONE OF THE HOGS WAS MISSING. GRAMPS FIGURED IT WAS A MONSTER CAT GOBLING UP A SHOAT.

GRAMPS HAD ME TIE A STRONG ROPE AROUND A PRETTY NICE HOG, THEN HE TIED THE OTHER END TO THE HARNESS OF HIS MULE. WHEN THE CAT SWALLOWED THE HOG, GRAMPS WACKED THE MULE AND HAULED OUT THE BIGGEST CAT FISH I EVER SAW. IT WEIGHED 355 POUNDS INCLUDING THE HOG, OF COURSE.

WE FOUND OUT THAT THE CAT WAS A PIRAIBA CATFISH FROM THE AMAZON RIVER IN SOUTH AMERICA. THAT'S TRUE!

A LITTLE BIT OF HEAVEN?

WHEN THIS FISHERMAN PASSED ON AND REACHED "HIS PLACE", HE WAS GREETED BY A THIN FELLOW WHO HAD A ULTRA-LIGHT BASS RIG IN HIS HANDS. "HERE", HE SALD, HANDING THE RIG TO THE FISHERMAN, "LET'S GO FISHING."

ARRIVING AT THE BEAUTIFUL LAKE, THEY IMMEDIATELY SAW A BASS JUMP NEAR THE FAR BANK. THE THIN FELLOW SAID, "GO FOR IT." THE FISHERMAN REPLIED, "BUT IT'S TOO FAR, I'VE NEVER CAST THAT FAR BEFORE." BUT, WHEN HE TRIED THE LURE EASILY LANDED IN THE RINGLETS OF THE FISH WHICH HAD JUST JUMPED. THE RESULT WAS A NICE ONE AND THREE FOURTHS BUND BASS. AGAIN A FISH JUMPED, THE CAST MADE, AND ANOTHER ONE AND THREE FOURTHS POUND BASS WAS LANDED. THIS CONTINUED FOR FIFTEEN MORE CASTS AND FIFTEEN MORE ONE AND THREE FOURTHS POUND BASS. THE FISHERMAN BECAME BORED.

"T WANT TO GO AFTER BIG ONES NOW," HE SAID. "CAN'T," REPLIED THE THIN FELLOW, "EVERY CAST HERE MUST BE AT THE JUMPING FISH." "THAT DOESN'T SOUND LIKE HEAVEN TO ME," REPLIED THE FISHERMAN. "NEVER SAID IT WAS," THE THIN FELLOW SAID WITH A GRIN.

JOHN CASEY

The original page will appear here.

[yellow legal pad] [margin: Nov. 20] Shan, the article about an Alton Hunter wounded in [a] hunting accident was written soon after Bob Doerr was shot. I was with Bob earlier in the day. Both of us planned to hunt deer. After we parked and got into hunting clothes and equipment we walked together toward the area we would hunt. We walked a path / road through a field of corn. Stalks had turned brown and rattled in the wind. At a predetermined stop we went over hunting plans. Bob would go west – I would go straight. Our blinds had been prepared weeks before and we knew the area. At noon we would meet each other, have lunch, and make plans to continue to hunt – successfully. Our meeting was short. It was about 4 a.m. I walked quickly in the path used by machinery, crossed a fence and entered a wooded area and set up my stand. Nothing happened. It surprised me. Oh well. At noon I went to our meeting place. Bob didn't show. I waited longer and used a turkey call, hopefully to reach Bob. I figured he was lost or decided on his own hunting plan. I went back into my woods and missed my stand. I saw a doe and two fawns came close to me, maybe 10 yards. The doe snorted, stomped her feet and pretended to return to eating and…

ener (Sra — il, Qfbl, ZL

There is a private 115-acre farm in Northeastern Madison County, IL that will make hunters and nature lovers drool. It is located barely 30 minutes from St. Louis, but it is entirely rural, yet easily accessed.

The land is rolling hills, hollows, and boasts a plethora of trees and plants native to the Illinois hillsides and creek banks. Forty-two of the acres are tillable, and it is now used for haying. It would be excellent for food plots for the game that abounds there. Huge deer, turkey and smaller game love it too. Woodpeckers are plentiful and dress up this semi-wild place. As for as the other acres, it is heavily wooded with hard wood trees with several thickets and weed and grass beds for the animals it shelters. A wet creek runs through the low area and is bordered on both sides with meadows of clover, and alfalfa.

A most compelling 100-year old, two story three bedroom/two & 1/2 bath, 2,200 SF house sits near the country lane to the property. It has been painstakingly restored. The home has a modern and efficient kitchen with built in appliances and an island. It features dark hardwood floors, and a huge family room/den with an oversized fireplace. It also features an outdoor room and a mud and laundry room just off of the kitchen. Its classic beauty and inviting warmth, harks back to an earlier time. A time of gentility. Of family and friends. Of gracious, unhurried living. At this home it is possible to experience the best of the past while thoroughly enjoying the present.

Five very functional outbuildings are a few steps from the back door. A cattle/horse shelter and feeding barn is on the East Side, an equipment barn is next to it. There is a large implement/storage and tool barn closer to the house. A small wash room has been converted into an interesting place to visit or spend time with friends. It shelters you from the elements and has a wood stove for warmth in the cooler months. You will spend enjoyable time here. A fifth building is a nice little wood shelter that was once used as a chicken house, of course.

Despite the property’s secluded nature, it is less than 35 minutes to an international airport and only 20 minutes to a regional airport that can accommodate most classes of aircraft. This property is a testimony to the good life and natural beauty. This property would make a great resort or retreat.

Perhaps a horse farm. Maybe you have another use for it in mind.

Priced and shown carefully to discerning buyers. Call for information.

John Casey 692-7290

Net jo. Sale #00) –

… suddenly raising her head trying to catch me snoring. I enjoyed the encounter and finally stood up and shooed her to me. My imagination was that Bob had a kill and had decided to take care of it and take it to a check-in station. I stayed until darkness crept in – it was the 3rd week of November and days were short. I took the same path back to where we had parked my car. [margin: through the corn] As I neared the meadow of short grass I saw a flashlight skewing towards me. I called out hello. It was the farmer who owned the land we were hunting. He answered and came toward me and called out my name, 'Is that you John?' I replied, 'Yes.' He said, 'Are you ok. We wondered if you had been shot.' – 'What?' – 'Your buddy was shot and he's in the hospital.' Shan, I'll not finish this story now, unless you want me to. It goes on.

the deer was lying down and that my shots had been fatal. My purpose was being realized. I had hunted only this deer, and was glad I had passed up an earlier shot. I didn’t move for several minutes. I strained to see the deer. Then it snorted once and turned towards the bank of the hollow and slowly ambled away through the dense woods. My heart dropped.

I waited an hour before I began trailing the deer. It had moved out of the woods into a restricted area. Two hours later I reluctantly gave up my search.

Later that day I killed a large doe. Standing over it a wave of regret washed over me. My logical mind rationalized the killing of the animal I remained motionless and I gave thanks and appreciation for the animal and for my opportunity to hunt. I felt a presence and slowly raised my head. Not more than 35 yards away a deer was watching me. I shooed it away. It was the first day of deer season.

828 863

had to cast again. on the fifth cast my lure flew into a bush and became ensnarled. I was snarling too, but could not extract the lure. I set the reel on anti-reverse, tightened the line and stuck the butt end of the rod in an old crawdad hole on the bank. I knew guilt would follow me the rest of my life if I didn’t get that duck. Then I did what every bank shooter would do in that situation; I would wade into the water and retrieve the duck.

I sat down on my jacket, took off my boots and socks, pants, long underwear bottoms, and finally my shorts. A breeze had kicked up and I shivered and chill bumps sprung up on my exposed skin. I left my shirt on, tied it in a knot above my waist, and waded in. A skim of ice was touching the shore and my breath sucked out of me with each timid step I took. I hesitated, and then, with renewed commitment, I raised my arms, and swished and swayed to the duck. My shirttail was wet up to my nipples.

A return trip anywhere always seems shorter and my trip back to the bank was quick. I tossed the duck on the frozen ground and starting putting on my dry clothes. First, I put on underwear and pants to thwart the blustery wind and struggled to put socks on my cold shrunken feet, and, soon I was back to normal.

Hunting was over for the day and I happily returned to my car. I was proud I had retrieved the duck, and was also thrilled about the wonderful morning and the leaping deer. I reached home at 11:00 AM.

I was hungry but there was no food- cooked that is- in the house. I wanted to eat a duck, and I had one! Mom, her sister, Etta, and a neighbor, Wilma Conroy, were in the front room of the house sewing a quilt. I asked mom to come into the kitchen, showed her the duck and asked her if she would cook it. My mom was exactly five-foot tall and weighed 95 pounds. Did I also say she had red hair? She did. “If you want a duck, you cook a duck, and why would you ever shoot such a beautiful bird anyway?” That was as close to cussing as I ever heard her get. She returned to quilting, leaving me with the duck. I thought about saying to her, “Hey, how about those cute Rhode Island Reds? You wring their necks then cook-em and serve-em to the preacher?” I thought, but didn’t make that remark. I didn’t want mom to really cuss.

It took a while to get the feathers off of that bird and ready to cook. I quartered two Jonathan apples and two small potatoes and stuffed them into the cavity of the duck. I put three strips of bacon on the ducks breast, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, put it in a roasting pan, turned on the oven to 375 degrees, put the pan in the oven then sat down to wait for the it to cook. I waited a long, long time; enough time to clean the 870 shotgun and the 300 Mitchell reel and for my boots to dry.

I had almost worn the oven door off, but finally it appeared that the duck was done. In great spirits, I ate that tiny duck without a single side dish. It was delicious. I have the recipe if you want it. I kept a few tail feathers from that duck, but hid them from mom.

6-24-05 j. casey 1719 words

all kinds, red fiber glass rods, with open reel with heavy line, sinkers, and bobbers and two small canoe paddles. They also wore hats and brought Bill one. The men picked up Bill at Herman’s store, gassed up the studebaker, got a bottle or two of pop and a candy bar and headed out.

They had picked out a place on the Ohio River to fish. It was near Brookport, IL near the outlet of Lick Creek, a tributary of the Ohio River. When they arrived they methodically did their routine to take gear out of the boat and baited up before getting into the boat to slowly troll for fish. They were fishing for catfish.

Fish were not bitting and Cartier said “Let’s go to the Kentucky side.+ Everyone agreed. They pulled anchor and lowered the propeller of the 3-5 HP motor and headed to Kentucky. The trip seemed longer than they remembered and the under-currant was strong, water was lapping over the boats edge. It made them nervous and anxious to reach the other side. The bank was hard packed mud.

They tied the boat to a sapling and thought they would fish, but it seemed it would be very difficult. Carter and Bill walked into a wooded section, Blue staying behind. It didn’t take the two explorers long to decide to head back to Illinois which looked a long way off.

The trip back was a tad harder up-current and two men used the small paddles to help the tiny motor move the boat to the bank. Fishing was over for the day. The only fish they caught earlier that day were a few skinny gars, and Blue broke their lower jaw and tossed them back into the river for bait for bottom feeders.

Bill said they never went back to that place to fish again and seldom talked about it. | loved their story and listened to it a few times and kidded them about their excursion to Kentucky.

One day | asked Uncle Bill, “Have you ever been to Michigan? he replied, “Yep.” Ops, that’s another story.

all kinds, red fiber glass rods, with open reel with heavy line, sinkers, and bobbers and two small canoe paddles. They also wore hats and brought Bill one.The men picked up Bill at Herman’s store, gassed up the studebaker, got a bottle or two of pop and a candy bar and headed out. They had picked out a place on the Ohio River to fish. It was near Brookport, IL near the outlet of Lick Creek, a tributary of the Ohio River. When they arrived they methodically did their routine to take gear out of the boat and baited up before getting into the boat to slowly troll for fish. They were fishing for catfish. Fish were not bitting and Cartier said “Let’s go to the Kentucky side.+ Everyone agreed. They pulled anchor and lowered the propeller of the 3-5 HP motor and headed to Kentucky. The trip seemed longer than they remembered and the under-currant was strong, water was lapping over the boats edge. It made them nervous and anxious to reach the other side. The bank was hard packed mud. They tied the boat to a sapling and thought they would fish, but it seemed it would be very difficult. Carter and Bill walked into a wooded section, Blue staying behind. It didn’t take the two explorers long to decide to head back to Illinois which looked a long way off. The trip back was a tad harder up-current and two men used the small paddles to help the tiny motor move the boat to the bank. Fishing was over for the day. The only fish they caught earlier that day were a few skinny gars, and Blue broke their lower jaw and tossed them back into the river for bait for bottom feeders. Bill said they never went back to that place to fish again and seldom talked about it. I loved their story and listened to it a few times and kidded them about their excursion to Kentucky. One day I asked Uncle Bill, “Have you ever been to Michigan? he replied, “Yep.” Ops, that’s another story.

The Mushroom Hun

nler

I saw one out of my left eye. It froze me. A mushroom! Kneeling down, I gazed over the ground. I peeled my eyes,

squinting and slowly moving my Head hight to left. Nothing. Why?

Hunting morels every spring in Southern Illinois is a time honored tradition. Bass and Bluegill herald the new season. The triumphant march begins: birds are in the dogwoods, Johnny Jump-ups are in bloom, May apples are sprouting. But working for mushrooms starts the real down-to- earth season for many of us. In the pan they can compliment the fish, and by themselves they are still great.

When I approach the mushroom woods, thicket, orchard, the anticipation grows. Will they be there again? Can I see them? Why are they so elusive? They must be here. Do they hide? They must. How quiet they are. I wish I could call them. A whistle, a bark, what? Why not find dozens all at once, all bright, clean, and just the right size? Would they taste as good? … I doubt it.

Late yesterday I made my pilgrimage to my mushroom woods after hearing stories of bread sacks, garbage bags, and peck baskets full of morels. Too late? IT thought not. The five- mile trip south of town passed several great looking spots. There grew hope leading to assurance that they were there. A quick jaunt down an old lane flushed two deer, and I arrived in the woods with the sun setting; an hour or so of daylight remained. Never did find any mushrooms as soon as I entered the woods, and T had never found any by not looking for them. So I started looking down. Bifocals or not? Decided not, need that peripheral vision.

I meandered through the dry woods. Slowly, painfully slowly, then slowing down more, I searched the ground. Minutes were almost as long as the shadows, and nothing. Don’t panic. Just one will do now. Then suddenly… One black, small mushroom appears, almost underfoot. Kneel, put on bifocals, scan slowly, anticipate, focus. Can you believe it? Another mushroom appears. Two is good. I’11]l crack an egg, and fry two just for the taste,

Not skunked, T can relax and let my territory expand. I’m hoping now to find dozens or even the field of mushrooms that others, fishermen, have told me about. Five lengthening minutes and IT still have only two mushrooms. Then another. And another. And another Now, six will be o.k., but I’m going for more! They are slow to show, but now I reach a dozen plus of nice, not huge mushrooms.

The process is not over until they are devoured and savored. A day later, they were, right after a soaking in

salt water, a dusting of flour following an egg-batter dip, and a buttering in the skillet. Ah.

Now, unless the rain comes with a real promise that a new batch is bound to sprout, I’1ll have to say that the year is fine — as far as mushrooms go.

Hunting was over for the day and I happily returned to the car. I was proud I had not given up and thrilled at the wonderful morning, especially the two deer encounters. I got back to our house at about 11:00 AM. I was hungry but there was no food to be had — cooked that is- in the house. I wanted to eat a cooked duck! A fresh one.

My mom was in the front room of the house with her sister, Etta, and the neighbor lady, Wilma Conroy. They were working on making a quilt and were cutting pieces of cloth for it. | asked mom to come into the kitchen with me and she did. I told her I had a duck and wanted to eat it and would she cook it. My mom was about five-foot tal! and weighed about 94 pounds. Did I also say she had red hair? She did. “If you want a duck, you cook a duck, and why would you ever shoot such a beautiful duck anyway!” That was as close to cussing as I ever heard her get. She returned to the front room. | thought about saying to her, “Hey, how about those cute Rhode Island Reds that you wring their necks and serve to the preacher man? | thought better of that remark; I didn’t want mom to really cuss.

It took a while for me to get the duck feathers off of that bird and almost as long to get him ready to cook. I quartered two Jonathan apples and two small potatoes and stuffed them into the duck. I put three strips of bacon on the duck, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, put the duck in a roasting pan, turned on the oven and set it a 350 degrees, and sat down on a chair to wait until that duck cooked. I waited a long, long time. Enough time to clean the 870 and the 300. Aunt Etta came in the kitchen, said hello and good bye and left. Wilma left by the front door. Mom stayed in the living room. | had almost worn the door off of. the oven, but finally it appeared that the duck was done. In great spirits, I ate that tiny duck without a single side dish. It was delicious. | have the recipe if you want it. | kept a few tail feathers from that duck, but hide them from mom.

6-24-05 j. casey

Hunting

T’ve known no better teacher than hunting. Through exacting and tenacious tracking, patient watching and attentive listening my enjoyment of the mysterious, questions, and curiosities unfold. A deer hunter watches the next bend; the duck hunter watches the sky; the bird hunter watches the dog; the non- hunter does not watch.

I’m not a “pretend hunter.” Someone that doesn’t actually have to learn to hunt or measures hunting by kills. Someone who uses purchased shortcuts to replace personal skills. Without personal honor to pass up shots when no one else is watching. I keep in the shadows even when leaving the woods. I'll be back. Without hunting I would never have come to know the woods, it’s secretive inhabitants or myself as I have.

In dense forest, the ears always see farther than the eyes and soon you heed them — weighing each sound. Each sound triggers keen excitement. Was that a squirrel, a woodpecker, a wild turkey or a ground foraging bird or something heavier thus bigger? Soon, I’m encouraged by a brief, brittle snap: like a hoof stepping on a dry limb. An intense silence ensues as I sit entranced and focused. Adrenaline starts to pump.

Prey species are sensitive to front-set predatory eyes and can fee/ a carnivorous stare. It’s a mysterious sixth sense. Squinting eyes to a slit and looking slightly away avoiding direct visual contact, tracking my prey peripherally, from time to time his roaming gaze falls directly on me, but never lingers long. I am invisible. So long as he stays up wind. All things are connected and all living things have value in and of themselves. Life depends on integrity. The respect of both the hunted and the woods is why I hunt.

Morels

Hunting morels is an earthly, deeply rewarding and subtly mystical experience. Once you lock on the proper search image given good habitat and a good mushroom year — you will see them everywhere. Maybe.

In the greening woods when suddenly — there they are — winking up at me in the instant of recognition providing me with considerable delight. As I kneel to collect the first or second one, I immediately see more, and more, my tunnel vision gone. As though it was a ceremony with sacred rituals. I’m into animism not unlike the turkeys, deer, or terrapins as my brief and spirited earthism blooms.

Never pick the first morel you find right away. Politely ask it to speak kindly on your behalf to the rest of its clan. Never pick tiny morels — return when they are grown. Never carelessly pluck a morel bodily from the soil. Rather, use a small, sharp knife and cleanly slice off the stem at the ground. Never take more than not quite enough. Never pick an area clean. And use a mesh or net bag. Such “leaky” containers allow spores to scatter as you walk. You’ll be back next year.

Loons

As we fished in the remote lake some 12 miles from camp, the only civilized evidence for 50 miles, I noticed the natural sound-soundscapes in a habitat that will become extinct. I quit fishing or moving. At least for a moment I would feel the wildness that was abundant around me. I would not deny myself this experience of where and how we are meant to be. | went to nature not to play but as a visit to a cathedral and sacred grove. To retain the traditional human knowledge of how to relate in deeply satisfying and meaningful ways to the natural wildness within us. The oldest and deepest area of our heart/mind — is nourished.

That night after a meal of lake perch, my favorite, and walleye served with creamed corn and a side garnish salad of sweet onions and cucumbers, I heard the lonely wails of loons on a moon-mirrored north country lake. The loon’s strange flight barely inches off of the water was more than a half mile long and fascinating. The loon’s music defines the best of what’s left of wildness in this place. There are no wolves. If you have never heard the lilting fluttering marvelous weird sounds before, you’d think it was some tortured soul from hell, howling in anguish and pain. An eerie cry it is. But to those who know it well, the loon’s cry is an anthem of freedom and dignity.

Which way from here? What does it mean to be human? To me living well is less material and more ethereal. I have to quit thinking so much. Jre 7/12/05

The Mushroom Hunter

; I saw one out of my left eye. It froze me. A mushroom! Kneeling down, I gazed over the ground. 1 peeled my eyes,

squinting and slowly moving my Head hight to left. Nothing, Why?

Hunting morels every spring in Southern Illinois is a time honored tradition. Bass and Bluegill herald the new season. The triumphant march begins: birds are in the dogwoods, Johnny Jump-ups are in bloom, May apples are sprouting. But working for mushrooms starts the real down-to- earth season for many of us. In the pan they can compliment the fish, and by themselves they are still great.

When I approach the mushroom woods, thicket, orchard, the anticipation grows. Will they be there again? Can I see them? Why are they so elusive? They must be here. Do they hide? They must. How quiet they are. I wish I could call them. A whistle, a bark, what? Why not find dozens all at

once, all bright, clean, and just the right size? Would they taste as good? … I doubt it.

Late yesterday I made my pilgrimage to my mushroom woods after hearing stories of bread sacks, garbage bags, and peck baskets full of morels. Too late? T thought not. The five- mile trip south of town passed several great looking spots. There grew hope leading to assurance that they were the A quick jaunt down an old lane flushed two deer, and I arrived in the woods with the sun setting; an hour or so of daylight remained. Never did find any mushrooms as soon as I entered the woods, and T had never found any by not looking for them. So J started looking down. Bifocals or not? Decided not, need that peripheral vision.

T meandered through the dry woods. Slowly, painfully slowly, then slowing down more, T searched the ground. Minutes were almost as Long as the shadows, and nothing. Don't panic. Just one will do now. Then suddenly… One black, small mushroom appears, almost underfoot, Kneel, put on bifocals, scan slowly, anticipate, focus. Can you believe it? Another mushroom appears. Two is good. I’11 crack an egg, and fry two just for the taste.

Not skunked, IT can relax and let my territory expand. T’m hoping now to find dozens or even t field of mushrooms that others, fishermen, have told me about. Five lengthening minutes and T still have only two mushrooms. Then another. And another. A! é Now, six will be o.k., but I’m going for more! Th > slow to show, but now I reach a dozen plus of nice, not huge mushrooms.

The process is not over until they are devoured and savored. A day later, they were, right after a soaking in salt water, a dusting of flour following an egg-batter dip, and a buttering in the skillet. Ah.

Now, unless the rain comes with a real promise that a new batch is bound to sprout, T’ll have to say that the year is fine — as far as mushrooms go.

of 2 2 scratches on the stock or forearm. The gun wasn’t loaded and Bill opened the bolt so that he could look down the barrel from both the breach and barrel ends. The tiny specks of powder residue inside the barrel were like giant globs of muck to my brother. The barrel did not gleam as he remembered it, and my red haired, freckle faced, big brother was not happy – and said so! I felt ashamed. I stammered an apology but I knew it was a lame excuse. I got a surprise when Bill was preparing to go back to his Air Force duties. He found me in the yard and asked if I planned to go squirrel hunting soon. I said “yes”. “Well,” why don’t you use my gun?” he said. Then, added, “Just clean it when you are finished.” I was astonished and speechless! I used Bill’s rifle several times that year, but before it was put back in its case and on the rack, it was spotless. John Casey 4/2011 764

Unkle Rachel James, we called him R.J. (wouldn't you?) invented so many lures that I can hardly remember them all. Most of his inventions were mistakes, but that's Unkle R.J. for you.

A 22 long-rifle hollow point was the first slip sinker. R.J. lost his lead one day and the only thing he could find in his pocket was a 22 long-rifle hollow point, so, he put it on his line with a worm and cast it out. It worked.

He invented the”wounded minnow,” but didn't know it. The spoon*was easy, and whittling mistakes helped him invent his "fast wiggler", later called the”Sonic’ He invented The"Bomber, he said to clear out the top water minnows and when he cought some big fish with it, put it in his tackle box. The lure that is.

HIs "speckled wobbler’ became the Jitter-Bug,. and when his tackle box got so hot one day, it melted a spare orange plastic stick into some hooks, so,he threw it into the lake, pa “the'Flat-Fish" was invented by R.J.

hoo + cite

Phorm PH

ded bry feck Tank of. bx posed

About thirty years ago, he and his friend Reynolds were

fishing with some of R.J.'s lures, and R.J. gave his friend

a "smokeless" cigarette, made out of fish oil and grape vines. R.J. and Reynolds enjoyed a lot of outings after that, and Mr. Reynolds kept trying to find just the right combination for the "smokeless cigarette". Don't guess he succeeded.

The “Crazy Crawler", The/River-Runt", “Hula Popper" And probably most of the lures in your tackle box was invented by Unkle Rachel James, But, he was embarrassed about his name, and was contented just to invent.

JOhn Casey

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Why I hunt a revision

I don’t defend hunting or consider it as harvesting game. I am a predator with eyes in the front of my head. I hunt prey that has eyes in the side of their head so that they can see predators easier. I kill game, dress it, and protect it until it is ready to cook and eat. It is that simple.

When I prepare to hunt I use all of the understanding and knowledge of the prey I will hunt as well as the land I will hunt. There is no guarantee of success, but there are expectations as I enter the hunting ground. It is as close as I will get all year to nature and living creatures, including trees and plants.

On the first day of deer season in 2008 I was on my stand by 5:30 AM. The ground stand I picked was a fork in a fall-down tree on the east slope of a hill. I chose to be in heavy timber and had an excellent view in three directions. Only a slight movement of air, called thermals, was coming from the deep hollows where, just before sunrise, the air is warmer than on the hills. I settled down to wait.

An hour later, a hefty 6-point buck appeared to my right slightly uphill from me. A clear shot was available and I raised my 12-gage shotgun and looked through the 6 power scope but decided to pass on the buck. It was early and I was hunting for the huge buck I had seen when I had scouted the territory weeks before. I lowered the gun and watched the deer as it shuffled away.

It was a very quiet morning and the air was cold. Tree limbs and leaves were still coated with frost as the sun began to peek through the canopy of trees. I pulled on woolen military mittens over thin shooting gloves and felt warmth return to my fingers. I scanned the woods slowly, knowing any animal moving would hardly make a sound; I would have to rely on my eyes. Then things happened fast.

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