Wild Life in the Ozarks

American Black Bear

aka Big Varmint

(Image from Wikipedia)

Uncle Cran again regales us with his wild, wild life, which reminds me of a Talking Heads song . . . for no substantive reason that I can imagine.

Anyway, my uncle begin with his usual insults about my blog:

Jeffery, your blog seems to be losing it's oomph, and some aren't attracting many responses.

Let's 'translate' this insult into standard English:

Jeffery, your blog seems to be losing its oomph, and some entries aren't attracting many responses.

Now that we know what Uncle Cran is talking about, we can retort, "What are you talking about?!" No responses? I get thousands of responses every day, most of which I immediately delete from the comments section because the majority of my readers are interested neither in removing inches from their waistlines nor in adding inches to their elsewheres. As for losing "oomph" . . . well, I've little interest in some ill-defined something-or-other that moves at "double-aught mph." Twice as fast as zero is still zero. Ask a mathematician if you doubt my word.

Anyway, Uncle Cran claims to have another story:

Perhaps another true, accurate, honest (and any other apt descriptions one might add), story, could give you another opportunity to attack my veracity, intellect, and ability to recall incidents in my past. I DO HAVE A 'PAST,' BUT THAT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!

Yes, we know all about your wild youth, Uncle Cran, for you've made it our business, but let's not go there. Rather, let us continue your story of another sort of wild life:

May JK . . . join you as you disect my story, and point out my flaws.

Regular reader JK will undoubtedly thank you for this invitation and pleasantly offer what you've called his "polite sarcasm," but stop digressing, learn the difference between "bisect" and dissect," and get on with your story:

A Fish, a Fire, a Dog, and a Bear

I remember it as though it were yesterday!!!!! Which is strange, because I have trouble remembering what happened yesterday, or even early today.This was about my 13th birthday. (Notice the "about")? There is your opening, Jeff!

I never need an "opening," Uncle Cran, but since you've offered me one, I will note that you're again falling into that "weakly rambling" habit that you yourself have contrasted with Cousin Bill's more gripping "Weekly Ramblings." But back to your story:

One fine late summer afternoon the urge to go fishing again won over my normal desire to read and laze around on the front porch. I told mom I was going fishing, and [would] stay after dark, because that's when the catfish seemed to be easiest to catch. In my worn overalls, barefooted, cane pole in hand, can of worms, {which I shouldn't mention because nephew Jeffery always wants to open such with his incisive sarcasm},

-- Uncle Cran, I would never interrupt a story already in progress --

some matches, my genuine imitation Barlow knife, stringer, and accompanied by my faithful young dog (a mixed breed female that exhibited qualities of a shepherd {similar to a collie}), I was on my way.

This time the goal was to try the "Evans Hole." This was a unique spot. There was a shallow entry to this favorite swimming hole, about 3 feet deep, that gradually reached a depth of over six feet, then getting shallower on down to a gravel bar . . . [where it] was only a foot or so deep (foot here = 12"). The pool was about 30 feet across at the widest point. The entry was a 10-foot-long and 4-feet-high rock platform, and another the same size, just right to sit and take your clothes off before swimming. This swimming hole was probably 50 feet long.

It was nearing dusk and getting cool, so I gathered up leaves, brush, and short pieces of logs, built a fire, and began fishing, my dog "Shep" nestled at my feet. Fishing was slow, but I did manage to catch a few small perch and catfish. It was really dark by now, as clouds began to obscure the sky, and a light misty rain began falling.

Suddenly, my dog began to growl, and crowded right against my feet, shivering with fear. Then across the creek, I heard something moving toward us! It was BIG, as I could hear it pushing its way through the thick brush, getting closer and closer. It was moving slowly and deliberately toward us, and fear thrilled through my body. It came right to the edge of the water across from me, the bank was steep there and whatever it was was silently observing me. My imagination ran through all the possibilities: A cougar (mountain lion, or panther, as the locals called them),or perhaps a bear, as more were being seen in our area.

I could only think of one thing to do. I picked a stick about two feet long and perhaps four inches thick, that was blazing and with live coals on it, and hurled it toward the creature! It turned and started to run. When it did, it's foot slipped into the water with a loud "plunk," then I heard it crashing through the brush and out of hearing.

Now what should I do? I picked up my fish, threw the worms into the creek, gathered my other gear, all this in my left hand, and picked up another burning stick and headed home, all the time waving it around and around as I walked home, my faithful, cowardly dog right at my heels. My dog didn't understand she was supposed to be like "Old Shep" in the movies, and defend me to the death. Somehow in her doggie mind, the roles were reversed. But we made it home safely.

Talking to my folks, we decided it was one of the black bears that the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission had turned loose.

Well, Uncle Cran, that story was actually rather gripping, even more enthralling than Cousin Bill's ramble across state lines. I especially liked the part where you courageously threw those worms into the creek and . . . . Oh, wait, there's more to this story:

This reminds me of another bear story, you might want to put into the blog.

Oh, it's a different story. Are you rambling again?

It is a true story.

Naturally. No one would ever doubt your true stories.

One of our neighbors about this time saw a bear by his barn. He shot it, then loaded it into the back of his pickup, and took it to town to show everybody. Unfortunately for him, two game wardens were there, and arrested him for shooting this (at the time protected from hunting) animal. There was to be a trial a couple of weeks later.

By then all the neighbors were up in arms (LITERALLY!). On the day of the trial the square around the Salem, AR courthouse was full of pickup trucks, and one of the biggest crowds of angry farmers seen for a while. They had their guns in the rack across the back window of their trucks. The game wardens wisely left the area.

The judge talked to the man, and said, "Mr Brown, since you didn't know these animals had been stocked by the AGFC people, no notice had been given to the public, I am going to let you go. Can you promise you won't shoot another bear?"

Mr. Brown said, "Your honor, if I ever see another one, and shoot it, no one will know except me and the bear."

And I swear that everything here recorded is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as in all my stories.

Uncle Cran, I've never doubted that a word you've written is precisely a word that you've written, and the words above are precisely as you've written them.

You can be proud of your words, too, for they are even now being read by individuals the world over . . . individuals who were, perhaps, initially interested either in removing inches from their waistlines or in adding inches to their elsewheres but who have now ascended to higher things because of your uplifting stories.