outdoors

There are annual reports of sharks attacking surfers, divers and, as of late, the lethal attack of a triathlete-in- training. The following account took place 50 years ago in Southern California waters and helped launch today’s intensive research and in-depth studies in shark behavior. I first read of the attack back in the early-seventies, possibly in “Blue Meridian” or “Blue Water, White Death.” The details in that first account were much the same as in the documented report available today. The major difference being the book claimed the surviving diver was beneath the surface when the Great White first appeared.

In June of 1959, Robert Pamperin and Gerald Lehrer took their girlfriends to the beach at La Jolla Cove, California. The women stayed on the beach while their boyfriends went into the sea in search of abalone, an edible mollusk found in the Pacific. Pamperin, age 33, and Lehrer, age 30 were free diving – using only masks, fins and snorkels. They were without wet suits. The water was estimated between 30 – 40 feet deep. The depth indicates the men were exceptional skin-divers.    

In their quest for abalone the pair slowly drifted apart by 15 meters or more.

Lehrer was near the sea floor when a very large shadow passed at extremely close range, blocking out a good deal of the sunlight filtering down. Looking up, Lehrer saw a huge fish with a white underside. Its large tail sweeping from side to side, the fish kept going, disappearing into a dense stand of kelp. A bit unnerved, Lehrer was making up his mind whether to continue searching for abalone or alert his buddy and head for ashore. Before doing either, he needed air.

After Lehrer shot to the surface, he heard Pamperin shout for help. Thinking his friend might be having a leg cramp he turned in the direction of the shout and saw his companion with his head up and unusually high above the surface, minus his mask. In the next instant, he saw his friend disappear beneath the surface. Lehrer swam quickly toward where he last saw his companion, took a breath and dove. Twisting and turning in a sandy pocket on the bottom, was a large shark, estimated to be 7 meters (approx. 23 ft.) in length.   Pamperin was in the shark’s mouth, his legs not visible, and being violently shaken from side to side. The predator’s large, triangular teeth – firmly clamped around Pamerpin’s torso, told Lehrer the shark was a Great White.   

After surfacing for air, Lehrer reportedly dove again, approached the shark and began waving his arms in a desperate and futile attempt to frighten it off.

Realizing there was nothing he could do, Lehrer swam toward shore. About fifteen yards from the beach he was met by an onlooker who had come to help. William Abitz had been standing on an elevated rocky point overlooking the attack sight. “He (Pamperin) was thrashing his arms and looked to be running from something. Then he went under,” said Abitz.

Within the hour a scuba diver dispatched from nearby Scripp’s Institute of Oceanography combed the sea floor and found no trace of the victim.

Further investigation revealed three events may have aroused the Great White.

Prior to Lehrer’s and Pamperin’s arrival at the cove, several fish had been taken by spearfishermen. Distress signals given off by speared fish may have been an attractant. Secondly, not far from La Jolla Cove was a harbor seal rookery, known prey of Great Whites. Lastly, and perhaps most significant, the previous evening a dead whale had washed up on the beach at La Jolla Shores, about a half-mile away. Currents and winds likely created a natural chum slick or “odor corridor” attracting the shark.        

Is the shark’s notoriety warranted? Do they swim about, endlessly looking to devour anything in their path?  

I’ve seen recent footage where a team of divers – one by one - exited a shark cage and swam among multiple Great Whites. The sharks, ranging in size from fourteen to sixteen feet, made what appeared to be curious, non-aggressive passes. Two of the divers actually placed their hands against the shark’s flanks as the big fish swam past.

Like any wild creature, sharks are unpredictable. And we play the percentages whenever we enter their realm.

At the conclusion of Monday’s post, Walter Maxwell and his fishing companions watched in disbelief as a monster tiger shark swam off with their homemade gaff. The shark came away the victor after an hour-long battle at the Cherry Grove, South Carolina pier. Down but not deterred, the trio spent the rest of that day and the entire evening fishing from the pier.

 At daybreak on Sunday, June 14^th, 1964 the anglers caught several skates – small rays – and rigged them on large hooks. Using a row boat, one of Maxwell’s companions took the skates a considerable distance from the pier and dropped them over the side. The only action early on came from smaller sharks which persisted in picking up the baits and running for a short distance before dropping them. Eventually a group of larger sharks moved into the area, one of which inhaled a skate, ran with it a short distance before cutting through the line. Not long afterward, while watching one of his friends fight a rather large shark, another fish took Maxwell’s bait. The fish was about thirty yards from the end of the pier when it jumped clear of the water. The noise made by the gargantuan fish as it landed back on the surface startled the anglers as well as the spectators that had gathered. As this was taking place, the aforementioned school of large sharks began inhaling the other baits. This resulted in more chaos – and broken lines.              

During all the fuss and ado, Walter Maxwell’s line was sizzling once again, and he jammed the butt of his fishing rod into the belly plate of his shoulder harness. Tightening the drag, he was instantly pulled against the pier railing and knocked off his feet. Struggling to stand, Maxwell had all he could do to control his fishing rod as it bucked and lurched. Moments later onlookers gasped as the shark once again breached the surface, this time 500 feet from the pier.

The shark then began a line-sizzling run to the northeast, in the process nearly stripping all 1400 yards of 130 lb. test line from Maxwell’s reel. At this point his friends began pouring water onto the scorching reel.  The giant shark was nearly ¾ of a mile from the pier before Maxwell was able to finally halt its run. The reprieve was momentary, however, as the shark began another powerful run, this time heading southeast. To everyone’s relief, with but a few yards of line left on the spool, rather than swim out to sea, the fish began swimming parallel to the beach.

 As the fight neared the five hour mark, Maxwell brought the leviathan alongside the pier. By this time it was after 6 p.m. It wasn’t until the next morning when the shark was weighed on government certified scales. With overnight temperatures in the 80’s, it was estimated the shark lost 10% of its body weight due to dehydration. Nonetheless, it still pushed the scales to the 1780 lbs. mark.

Eleven years after Maxwell brought his big “tiger” alongside the pier, big sharks hit the silver screen.  In the years immediately after Steven Spielberg’s epic “Jaws”, shark mania was at an all time high. Even today shark fishing became the rage on many fronts, with weekend shark tournaments being held up and down both coasts. From Martha’s Vineyard to Miami, from Port Hueneme to San Diego, teams of shark hunters head offshore in search of monster fish.

Despite the influx of shark fishermen and their state-of-the-art equipment, Walter Maxwell’s tiger shark remains the all-tackle world record for the species. His record catch came long before the shark gained such widespread notoriety. And he wasn’t fishing for a record. Nor was he looking to pad his wallet - he and his buddies went down to the Cherry Grove Pier just to fish on their day off. 

NOTE: This was the second in a three-part series on sharks. Friday’s post will feature a seldom told account, a catalyst behind the shark’s notoriety

Hi everyone! My name is Tasia and I currently live in Batavia. I am an undergraduate  student at SUNY Brockport majoring in journalism. For the next four months I am going to be doing an internship with The Batavian and am very excited to get to know the community better.

 I enjoy spending time with my husband and my puppy, Jake. I love being outdoors and can not wait for summer time. I hope to have a novel published someday and I am always jotting things down in a notebook.

I am excited to cover the area's school districts and be an active positive voice in our community.

The largest game fish are oceanic giants, often pushing the scales past the thousand pound mark. With little to fear, they swim about their cobalt-blue world in an endless search for food. The blue marlin, the swordfish, the giant blue fin tuna and the big sharks - the Mako and the Great White – are at the top of the food chain. For the most part, the only predator they need fear are sea-going fishermen, those willing to travel offshore in the hope of sampling their awesome power. The International Game Fishing Association’s record books are filled with outstanding catches of giant bill fish, huge tuna and mammoth sharks. Oftentimes, even more incredible is the story behind the catch. One such record belongs to Walter Maxwell and his story is quite unique when compared to the rest. Because it has withstood the test of time, in order to take a look at his accomplishment, we need to go back some 45 years.

 Walter Maxwell was a blue collar type, a fisherman without sponsors. Neither did he possess a sleek and speedy sea-going vessel in which to enjoy his pastime. He was, you might say, a weekend warrior, able to fish only when his schedule allowed. And needless to say, such a fisherman does not wet a line in pursuit of world records.

It was Sunday, June 14^th, 1964, when Maxwell managed to raise a few eyebrows among saltwater anglers when he landed a world record tiger shark. What made the feat remarkable was, unlike other salt water big game fishing records, Maxwell made his historic catch from a pier. Strange as it may seem, he nearly did it twice in a 24 hour period. The day prior to his record catch, he latched onto an even bigger tiger shark, only to lose it at the edge of the pier.     

On Saturday, June 13^th, the beach at Cherry Grove South Carolina was bustling with vacationers, probably none of which paid any mind to three anglers out on the pier. (Photo: Cherry Grove Pier)

At about 2 pm line began slowly peeling out of Maxwell’s large saltwater reel. He slipped on his shoulder harness and braced himself before rearing back on the rod, setting the hooks. The battle was underway.

The initial run was strong and steady as the fish took out several hundred yards of line, indicative of a very big fish. Maxwell knew then the fish on the end of his line was not your garden variety man-eater. During the next hour the shark made several more line-sizzling runs. A stone mason by trade, the muscular Maxwell was able to bring the big tiger shark alongside the pier. He was about to discover one hour is insufficient time to tire a shark of such proportions.

Their gaff consisted of a fiberglass vaulting pole with a stainless steel hook attached on the end. When one of Maxwell’s companions leaned over the railing and sunk the gaff hook into the tiger’s mouth, he was immediately slammed into the railing. Feeling the fish’s ferocity, he knew at once he wouldn’t be able to hold the monster that was thrashing violently in the waves ten feet below.

In the next instant Maxwell’s hooks came free and his buddy was left holding the gaff. The big fish then dropped into a trough between ocean swells and the gaff was yanked from his hands. The big shark swam seaward, the gaff protruding above the waves. How big was the shark? One of Maxwell’s companions said it looked like a heifer wallowing in the ocean swells. They estimated the fish to be eighteen feet in length and weigh in excess of two thousand pounds.

The following day Maxwell and his friends were at it again, this time with different results.  

NOTE: This is the first in a three part series on sharks. Wednesday we’ll wrap up Maxwell’s big catch before shifting gears somewhat, looking at sharks from an altogether different angle on Friday.  

All was quiet out at the Lazy Redneck Ranch this winter morning. Maybe you could have heard the sound of the sparrows tweeting and flitting up in the hayloft of the horse barn. Maybe the cats will chase the dog around the kitchen again. Maybe the grandkids are due for a visit. Soon enough, though, the ice will thaw and the endless work on the house that hometown tenacity built will begain again anew.

More than four years have passed since the excavator pulled up front of the Falker-Crandall homestead to dig the foundation for their new home (that's it up there). Since then, plenty of folks with the last name Falker or Crandall and plenty others, too, have visited that plot of land along Lockport Road in Oakfield, where a husband and wife decided that they weren't going to pay someone else to build their home. Nah. They would do it themselves.

You could see that house, too, standing proud, quite handsome, proof that as long as you've got the desire, the know-how and a few carpenters for relatives nothing can keep you from building your own home. Not that it's finished. Not by a long shot. Mark and Barb Falker-Crandall talk about their "expansion" plans with that audacity in their voice that lets you know they mean to keep on going, adding this, remodeling that, until they migrate to the big ranch in the sky.

"It will be one of those things that I'll work on until I can't pick up a hammer no more," says Mark. I can see him, too, decades from now, grizzled and grey, still swinging the ball-peen, tweaking this, patching that. It's his home, literally. Barb's too. They built it with their bare hands... and "with a little help from good friends and God," as Barb likes to say, they got it done.

Let's back up a little, though, back to that day the excavator arrived. It was August. Sunny and warm. Mark was stoked. He thought he was going to have off work a few months to lay the foundation and maybe even get up the walls of his new house. They would be out of the trailer in no time... Then the phone rang, and Mark was packing for Binghamton that same afternoon.

So he put in the call to his old school chum Wayne Shamblin, who was out at the site as soon as the plot had been dug. Wayne had the block all laid by the time Mark was home from Binghamton that weekend, and just like that, the Falker-Crandalls had a foundation.

That was how it went for the next couple years. They did what they could when they could and got help when they couldn't. Mark worked on the place mostly on weekends, until he started a night shift the following spring. Barb was going to school full-time and working full-time, plus the internship. "It was crazy," she admits.

"There wasn't a lot of sleep going on at that time," says Mark. He brags that the excavator work was the only part of the job that they didn't do themselves... with a little help from friends and family, of course. That's no exaggeration. They did the plumbing, the electrical, the drywall, all the structural work. Mark built a kitchen counter with a bar. Barb sewed the curtains and the doilies. Mark borrowed an aluminum break from one friend and got another friend to bend all the ductwork for the heating system.

When the trusses were ready to go up, Barb got together a bunch of folks from their church. Husbands and wives came out. They brought food. "It was like a good old Amish barn raising," says Barb. They raised the roof in a day.

What's more: they did it all with local goods.

Mark got the trusses from Potter Lumber Co. in Corfu. Most of the rest of the lumber, they had delivered by Trathen Logging Co. Windows and doors were got from Millwork Solutions in Batavia, where they scored an incredible deal on French doors for the back of the house. Their kitchen cupboards came from a shop in Indian Falls. Everything was local, got from hometown businesses, from people they knew who knew how to cut a deal. Heck, Mark even bought their furnace—brand new, mind you—at a garage sale.

Mark and Barb don't have the kind of spic and span credit that gets you a bankroll no questions asked. Like most of us. So they worked deals, borrowed from friends, even bartered. Once the trailer was hauled off the property, they sold that to pay for the insulation. When they needed dirt for fill—they also built the horse barn next to the house... from scratch—Barb negotiated with the construction crews who were then redoing the roads in Oakfield. She made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

"Twenty-two loads," she says, "and all it cost me was two homemade apple pies."

They got that raw, cabin-style look by going with rough cut lumber, as opposed to finished siding. That also saved them considerably. Aesthetics + cash in pocket = a job well done. "People tell us: 'Your place looks so nice. It looks like the little house on the prarie,'" says Barb.

Well, that's not exactly the name they went with.

"You want to know what we call it?" asks Mark. "We call it the Lazy Redneck Ranch." According to a sibling who shall remain nameless, Mark explains that he's been dubbed the lazy one—so lazy he built himself a house—and Barb's the redneck.

A redneck who knits doilies? "Yes," she says. "I play in the mud. I'll play tackle football, ride a horse, get out the four-wheeler... and... I like my guns."

She's also known to spoil a grandchild every now and then.

West Jackson Corners is a small village built by members of East Shelby Community Bible Church.  A namesake of the original settlement, it comes complete with a town hall, general store, water wheel, black smith shop, open hearth and much more.

            In the north east corner of West Jackson Corners sits an oversized tepee. Hanging above the tepee entrance is a sign reading “Swamp Stories.” The tepee was built by Charlie Ralph and during church festivities like “Old Tyme Days held in July or December’s “Christmas at West Jackson Corners,” Charlie can be found inside the tepee, probably warming his hands over a fire and more than willing to share local swamp lore with those who enter.

            Charlie grew up in the Alabama swamp, his homestead was in the area now occupied by the Swallow Hollow foot trail on the Iroquois National Wildlife Refuge. Charlie’ father also farmed a small parcel of their land, but only after clearing the standing timber. Charlie and his father began by cutting down large trees then using their team of Clydesdales to pull the stumps from the ground.

            In his youth Charlie and friends swam in the waters of Oak Orchard Creek just down the road from his home. On those outings they brought along a jar of salt – for the removal of leeches.   

            Generating income was tough in swamp country, so when a city fellow offered to pay Charlie and his friends for any water snakes they caught, they were happy to oblige.  Charlie never did find out what the man did with the snakes, only that he was willing to pay for them.

            In his early years Charlie traipsed around the swamp with a fellow he knew as “Trapper Jim.” Originally a cook on a Great Lakes tug boat, Trapper Jim took Charlie under his wing while he made the rounds along his trap line and also while acting as caretaker for a group of duck hunters from Buffalo who at the time owned a large tract of the vast wetland.

A mantle of ice lines a stretch of Oak Orchard Creek. This is the same stretch where Charlie Ralph used to swim in his youth. It is still a popular embarking point to access the swamp’s interior.

Several weeks from now, when thousands of waterfowl descend on the swamp, this empty nesting box will house a clutch of ducklings.  

One of the many species of fur bearers inhabiting the swamp, this fox emerges from cover.

The swamp has become popular with outdoor enthusiasts over the years. Birdwatchers, canoeists, kayakers, hunters, fishermen, hikers and nature photographers frequent the area. Come winter, the area takes on a different look. While somewhat desolate at this time of year, the swamp is perhaps more picturesque, and on calm, windless days, certainly quieter. But a couple months from now, in late winter or early spring, the spring peepers will make their presence known by celebrating the spring rain. Dormant for months, their nighttime chorus will herald the change of seasons. Soon afterward the swamp will once again be bustling with activity. 

Joe Lawrence grew up in the Town of Batavia countryside where the Tonawanda Creek flowed along the edge of the family property. As might be expected, he became a fisherman at an early age. It was in that same time frame, and under the watchful eye of his father, Bob Lawrence, when the hunting phase of his life began.

           Much of what Joe learned from his father has been passed on. Expeditions to Black Lake and the pursuit of bass, walleye and crappie have become yearly events for the Lawrence family and their friends.   

            Taking to the outdoors since the fifties, Joe Lawrence has no doubt stashed away plenty of fond memories, a good number being of the father & son variety.

            The younger Lawrence, son John, has developed into quite an outdoor tactician. Be it fly-rod, shot gun, or bow, John obviously paid attention during early years afield with his father. With the elder Lawrence as his mentor, John Lawrence mastered trap shooting relatively early in life, garnering All American honors by the age of fifteen. He would duplicate the feat three years later.

            While there have been many high points for the father and son tandem over the years, in speaking with John recently, it seems this autumn will be ranked among his favorites.            

            John put venison in the freezer early on in the bow season, bagging a very nice 8 pt. in October. For those who know John, that’s not so much of a surprise as it is his custom. Filling an archery tag early on enabled him hunt waterfowl and pursue pheasants  with Kaylee, his two year old Vizsla.

 And while John doesn’t take outdoor moments for granted, it was the season finale which had him buzzing. John and Joe Lawrence were deer hunting with friends Andy Webster and the Ficarella brothers, Billy and Jimmy. It was the tail end of the muzzle loader season and the group was hunting a parcel of land they own in north central Genesee County.   

            It seems fitting that, while in the company of his son and good friends, Joe Lawrence closed out the deer season in grand fashion. His hunting and fishing adventures have spanned six decades, yet it was on this outing last week when Joe took the biggest deer of his life, a brute whitetail sporting nine points, an inside spread topping 22 inches and main beams stretching 27inches. Early estimates put the deer well over 140 points on the Boone & Crockett scoring system. If so, Joe Lawrence will be listed in the annals of the New York State Big Buck Club. 

            Being able to share such a moment with his son and friends only enhanced the experience. What a great way to wrap up the season.  

Reynolds Game Farm is closing down after 81 years of operation, the Binghamton Press reports.

The farm is a victim of state budget cuts, according to the article. No word on the immediate fate of pheasants still on the farm.

The farm has been in various administrations' crosshairs for decades. In fact, if memory serves, the state sought to turn the Reynolds farm over to Cornell University to be used as a wildlife rehab facility in the early 1990s. The news leaked to the Conservation Council and some quick maneuvering and brokering -- ostensibly involving a license fee increase -- saved the farm at that point.

The state consolidated the pheasant program in 1999 when it closed and sold the White Farm in Batavia and moved all the equipment, etc. to Reynolds.

The fate of the pheasant program is still unknown. Commissioner Grannis had expressed in the fact that pheasants could be purchased for the program at far less expense than it took for the Reynolds farm to raise them. Maybe this means the program will continue.

          Yesterday I hauled the canoes away from the creek bank. They’ll spend the winter nestled up against the garage.

              Having looked forward to the autumn for so long, how could it have passed so quickly? There’s a month left before the winter solstice, yet Mother Nature closed the door somewhat abruptly. I don’t mind the snow, but I could do without the prolonged cold snap that comes with it.

              Once the first snows cover the countryside, I find it hard not to think about Christmas. Remembering a cluster of bittersweet I came across during the archery season, I returned to fetch some for my wife. Minus the foliage, Claudia likes to use the vine with its red and yellow berries for Christmas decoration.        

            While snipping sections of vine I could hear geese honking, but the surrounding cover was so dense not much of the sky was visible. Looking up, I had no clue where they were.  

            After exiting the woods and loading the bittersweet into the back of the pickup I could see geese all over the sky. While the honkers flew about in all directions, the northwest sky became dark gray. Minutes later it began snowing once again. The snow intensified, and despite the squall, geese were still flying. One sizeable flock was landing in a grain field. With wings cupped and locked, they dropped lower to the ground in a driving snow.

            Watching the geese negotiating the elements, I thought of Zeke Kehlenbeck and his retrievers. I know he would have appreciated seeing those honkers in the snow. At the time those geese were touching down, Zeke was probably deer hunting with his dad, Aaron, and brothers, Tyler and A.J.

 In recent years we’ve crafted a corn stalk tepee for our grandsons. Seeing it cloaked in white tells me it’s nearly time to put up the Christmas tree - all three of them!     

Genesee County Sheriff Gary Maha issued the following press release today:

Sheriff Gary T. Maha cautions hunters not to hunt or stray on property of the Tonawanda Indian Reservation in the town of Alabama. "It is the hunter's responsibility to know where they are," Sheriff Maha said. Hunting or fishing on the Reservation by a non-Indian is prohibited.

Hunters who hunt or stray on Indian Land may be subject to Tribal Law, which could involve having their guns seized and heavy fines assessed by Reservation Chiefs or Indian Marshals. Law enforcement cannot help in these situations, except by keeping the peace. "The Tonawanda Indian Reservation is a Sovereign Nation and we have to recognize that," the Sheriff said.

Recent meetings have been held between representatives from the Tonawanda Indian Nation, the U.S. Attorney's Office, New York State Police, New York State Department of Environmental Conservation Police and the Sheriff's Office to discuss this issue. Nation Chiefs have the right to enforce their laws on Reservation property.

Over the past couple of years there have been incidents involving the seizure of firearms from hunters who have strayed onto the Tonawanda Reservation and the Chiefs have imposed fines. Members of the Tonawanda Nation and law enforcement wish to avoid any confrontations in such cases and wish to educate the public of the possible consequences of hunting on Indian land.

It was in the late forties when Walt & Dean Briggs were looking for a place to hunt deer. The brothers happened into a southern tier farmer who was looking to hunt pheasants and a deal was struck. Six decades later, I’m sitting in a tree stand, overlooking what was once the deer hunting realm of Walt and Dean.

               It’s the middle of the first week of bow season and on this day the woodland was damp and wet. It also made for silent footing. For that reason the doe was within twenty-five yards before I was aware of her presence. Trying not to make eye contact, I noticed her tongue was protruding from the side of her mouth. I also thought I heard her grunt. Then I heard a stick snap and the buck bounded from the foliage behind her. His antlers were unique, reaching upward rather than protruding around and outside the ears. I could see why the doe’s tongue was hanging out. Intent on breeding, he had obviously been dogging her for some time. She may have been approaching estrus but was neither ready nor willing at the time. The doe kept moving, the buck right on her tail. They exited the woods, entered a clover field and were soon out of sight.

            The next day was almost balmy by comparison, and the deer activity had slowed considerably. The whitetails may have been absent, but the woodland floor was alive with small rodents. Gray squirrels, red squirrels and chipmunks were running about gathering and stashing hickory nuts. Though they are in the squirrel family, a red squirrel’s behavior is sometimes akin to that of a weasel in that they are small and feisty. This day, on two separate instances, I watched a red squirrel in close pursuit of its larger cousin, the gray squirrel.

            In my fifty-eight years I had never seen so much squirrel activity in one location. It came as no surprise when I was told one of the locals keeps a pot of Brunswick stew simmering on the stove from October 1 to the end of deer season. 

            Nearly five hours after I first climbed into my stand, the coyotes began singing. I’ve heard coyotes before, but always at night. On this day they began their serenade before the sun touched the horizon - and it was in stereo. It sounded like there were at least three howling in unison, maybe more. And they weren’t far away.

             That evening an owl made its presence known. And unlike the coyotes, he was on schedule. With stars illuminating the nighttime sky, the hooter called out from a tree just the other side of the narrow stream which flows past the camp. The owl’s call was always the same, a single note, deep and sonorous. 

              On my first overnight to the cabin thirty-eight years ago, I remember the sound of flying squirrels scurrying across the tin roof at night. Walt, Dean and a few friends built that first cabin way back when, working with the materials available. Since that time the cabin has been enlarged, a deck has been added and a new roof put on. You don’t hear the flying squirrels on the roof any more. I’m sure they are still around and I’d be willing to bet the owl knows where to find them. 

             Walt & Dean have both passed on, but the tradition continues.

            The clearing where the cabin sits is now called Whitetail Hollow. As it was in Walt and Dean’s day it serves as a base camp and the numerous antlers and whitetail mounts adorning the cabins interior will attest to decades of memorable hunts.

            I’ve enjoyed the times spent at the Hollow, but not for the hunting alone. The football tradition here is storied as its deer hunting history.

             The five people who now own the property are also the core group of hunters at the Hollow. And they were, for me, the face of high school football in the sixties.

            The Briggs brothers, Jim and Tom, captained two of Danny Van Detta’s Blue Devil juggernauts. Tom in ’64 and Jimmy in ’68. 

              Buddy Houseknect, who won’t be in camp until mid-November, was recently elected to the Blue Devil Athletic Hall of Fame. Bud captained the ’67 Batavia grid squad.

            Playing our home games on Friday nights, we were able to watch Notre Dame High play on Saturday afternoons. On a Saturday afternoon in the autumn of ’66 I saw a halfback wearing number 23 sprint through defenders for a long touchdown. That is my earliest recollection of Jim “Gramps” Fanara. He captained the Little Irish the following year.

           Bayne Johnson was both quarterback and captain for the Little Irish in 1959. Bayne went on to quarterback the LeRoy town team of the early sixties. Like Jimmy Briggs, Bayne went on to become a highly successful football coach. Both were elected to the Section V Football Hall of Fame.

            Stepping back even further in time, Walt Briggs was no stranger to the grid iron. He too played for Danny Van Detta before going on to excel for the Batavia Essos, a local semi-pro team.

            I’ve barely scratched the surface here. But the next time I’m at the Hollow, We’ll throw another log in the wood burning stove, kick back and talk about one of our favorite topics - Pigskins & Whitetails. 

          For several minutes we sat in brushy overgrowth, listening to ducks calling in the distance and the whistling of wings as waterfowl passed overhead. With the crescent moon still in the eastern sky, the horizon below grew brighter. Soon Andy Webster, Aaron Green, John Lawrence and I were able to see myriad waterfowl passing overhead. Legal shooting time, however, was yet minutes away.

            When our watches read 7: 10 a.m. John and Aaron touched off the morning’s initial burst and three ducks fell from the sky.

John had placed us in a waterfowler’s dream. Our location couldn’t have been better. We were hunkered down on a narrow spit of land with open water to the north and south. The ducks, consisting mainly of northern shovelers and a few mallards, approached from all directions.

            As a small flock of geese came into view, John began calling. Moments later the flock flew off in disarray, minus one goose. 

           Despite what turned out to be a blue bird morning, the action never slowed down. As the sun climbed above the horizon, many made aerial maneuvers, tilting and veering as the shotguns discharged. Others seemed to make a sudden upward surge in an attempting to gain altitude. It was a tactic that worked for some, but not all.

          All too soon it was time to go. By then the ducks were no longer silhouettes. The sun was high enough to detail entire flocks of waterfowl, their breast feathers shining white against the blue morning sky.

RITES OF AUTUMN

          Come autumn, fishing on Tonawanda Creek tends to heat up, particularly the month of October. As the water begins to cool and clear up, both smallmouth bass and northern pike become active. In recent weeks we’ve managed to take a few bass and one big northern. Some years the pike fishing is extremely good right into early November.

            In addition to great angling, the high school grid season has been nothing short of spectacular. Ditto the autumn countryside. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen such vivid red and orange hillsides. The hickory trees in our back yard are tinted bright yellow and the foliage along the creek bank has made for enjoyable evening canoe rides.

            If the current autumn trend continues, the bow season could be exceptional.

            Saturday marks the beginning of the archery big game season and, with the exception of our canoes, it will be time to stow the fishing gear.              

            In past years the bow season opened on the 15^th. Recently the powers that be saw fit to give us an extra three days to fling practice arrows. That’s okay – some of us need it. I’ve been shooting my Bill Moon longbow for the past month. The bow is ten years old and still a smooth-shooting piece of equipment. The same can be said for the arrows – wooden shafts with turkey quill fletching also crafted by Bill.

            It’s going to be a fun season. Thanks Bill!