Old Friends

About 6 months ago, I was convinced to join Facebook. Never was one for that sort of thing, but I relented to pressure from the wife and daughter. In the end, I'm glad I did. I have been able to reconnect to friends from High School that I haven't seen for (gulp) 27 years. Some I'd spoken to or thought about in the years since graduation, but most had faded into memories of years past. Until now. At first, it was exciting to catch up on what had happened to them as they navigated the years. I even got a phone call at 1am from a very good friend who now lives and works in China. But as the days past, catching up the past changed to sharing the present. Sharing the little joys, the daily chuckles, and unfortunately, the pain as well. Since we became "friends" two have lost spouses, and one lost his sister yesterday to H1N1. It's heartbreaking that my first words in 20+ years to my very best friend in High School were " I'm so sorry to hear about your wife."

Facebook has also gotten me wondering about many of the other people from my youth. Including one of my oddest, and most entertaining hunting partners of all time.

I met Andre Zoppas at Maumee Scout Reservation, just south of Bloomington. I was working on the camp staff and he was an Exchange Scout here for the summer from Puerto Allegre, Brazil. We hit it off from the start. We became good friends, and after camp was over, my parents invited him to stay with us for a week. That week happened to be the week squirrel season opened.

I wasn't about to skip the opener just because I had company, so Andre went along. Andre had never hunted. The opportunity just didn't exist in his home town. He was VERY excited. Preparations took on a different tone because the things I found so commnplace, like the giant brass diaper pin I used to carry my game were strange and new. Guns, check. Shells, check. Giant diaper pin, check. Cloths, boots, bug dope. Check, check, check and check. Like a kid on Christmas Morning, Andre was up and ready plenty early, and pacing like an expectant father. When we hit the woods, new questions arose.....Where are the squirrels? Can I shoot one? What is that? Where are the squirrels? Little did I know then that this was a preview of hunting with my children! Eventually, Andre got his squirrel. A big, well furred fox squirrel.We carefully skinned it, stretched and salted the skin, and dined like kings of squirrel and dumplings. When the week was over, Andre rolled his cured squirrel skin and left for some traveling around the USA befor his Visa was up in the late fall. I left for my Freshman year at Purdue. Andre became one of the many colorful charactors of my past. Until Thanksgiving Break.

I got home for my first visit home from college on Saturday morning. During lunch, the doorbell rang. It was Andre. "Hello!", he said. "Let's go hunting again!" It so happened that I was going to go to work with my dad on Monday to do some deer hunting. Dad liked Andre, too, so he was invited along. A non-resident license was tracked down, another shotgun was readied, and away we went.

Andre and I settled Monday morning in an oak grove above Sugar Creek. With instructions to only shoot at the ones with antlers, I put Andre on one side of a large beech tree and I sat on the other. After about an hour of sitting, Andre's gun roared! I jumped up, ran around the tree, and found him trying to reload the old Savage single 12 ga and look up into the treetops at the same time. "Squirrels!!!" he shouted. Squirrels? DAMMIT! After explaining that 1) "Dang it, we ain't squirrel hunting!" and 2) "You don't shoot squirrels with deer slugs. I don't have that many." We settled back down and watched the squirrels until lunch time.

While we were eating our ham sammiches, one of the skidder drivers arrived at the landing and told us he had just seen a buck down by the creek. Did we want him to show us? Well, HELL YEAH! Onto the skidder we piled, 3 people and 2 shotguns. Off on safari. When we got to the creek, the driver pointed across and said, "See him there? He's hurt or something cause he can't climb the bank." Sure enough, on a little flat at the base of the bluff was a buck. One of his back legs was broken at the hock, but he was still up and trying to climb up out of the creek bottom. We tried to find a shooting lane, but he kept moving to keep a sycamore tree between himself and me. Only one thing to do. Off came the boots. Off came the coverals, off came the jeans, and into the creek I waded wearing a sweatshirt, a blaze orange hat and my longjohns. A sight to see I'm sure. Thank gawd there were no digital cameras in 1982! Andre and the logger stood guard on the bank while I waded the riffle to get a shot at my trophy. Incredably, when I peeked above the bank, he was right there, staring me down. I shouldered my gun, pulled the trigger, and down he went. But I believe to this day the tripped trying spin around, because as quick as he went down, he came up running. Right down the middle of the Sugar Creek. I shot as quickly as I could work the pump on Dad's Hiawatha 12 gauge. Andre was shooting, too. And screaming at the top of his lungs in Portugese. Lord knows what he was screaming, but he sure meant whatever he was saying! When the smoke cleared, the deer stumbled out of the creek and into the woods on the OTHER side. I waded back across, we climbed onto the skidder and rode back up to the warm truck to dry off a bit. Of the 7 shots we fired, the skidder driver could say that at least 3 had hit him. The big concern was, I only had 2 slugs left. We warmed up in the truck, told our tale to the logging crew, who by now had all stopped logging, and made plans to track my buck.

Back at the creek, 6 men spread out to find the trail. It didn't take long. One of the loggers, Phil, turned out to be an excellent tracker. The blood trail was heavy at times, and nonexistant at others. I learned tracking lessons that afternoon that have served me well all these many years. We found my buck 1/2 mile and 2 creek crossings later. Down, but very much alive. One more shot, and it was over. While my dad walked back and got a skidder, we field dressed him and shared the moment. The men who helped track him teased us on our marksmanship. We laughed at my "deer hunting naked" and shared the kinship of hunters. It was one of the proudest moments. Dad showed up and loaded my deer on the log skidder, and we all went home.

Andre left for good just after Thanksgiving. I got a Christmas card from him that included a photograph of an obviously drunk Brazilian wearing nothing but the skin of an Indiana fox squirrel. That picture is long gone, but I still have one to remind me of a special deer, a special hunt and a special pardner.

Maybe tonight I'll see if he is on Facebook.