Wild Varden

Fall is my second favorite season. Leaves are turning orange, yellow, brown, and all shades of reddish orange. The more they fall, the closer old man winter approaches. Cooler weather means hunting in Alabama.

When asked do I hunt and fish, I say that I am not a hunter. The are shocked. Most of the time I converse with those that do like I do hunt. Not that I lie. Here is what happens. One time I headed to our farm at Sugar Ridge in Jemison, Alabama from Linden for the purpose of cutting grass and weed eating.

I stopped in the College Town of Marion at the Chinese Restaurant for dinner (noontime in Alabama). I wore a pair of Turkey Federation camouflaged Liberty overalls that had purchased at Wall Mart. They were on sale, left over from the hunting season. They were not thick and heavy like the denim ones, and they were 4X and were comfortable. I loved them and wore them to where my wife Lisa could nor repair. I wore them in the restaurant.

It was turkey season, and some hunters were enjoying Chinese as I was. I asked them if they had good luck that morning. They told they had not. They asked how I did. I replied that I had not seen any turkeys. The said too windy for them. I agreed with them and as they asked questions I answered. My answers were truthful, but I had not hunted. They assumed I had.

Again, when asked if I hunt and fish, I say I’m not a hunter and fisherman, but a killer and catcher. We raised pigs, chickens, and beef cows. At an early age daddy appointed me the task of killing them for slaughter. I tell hunters that want to belittle my hunting that I have killed more meat than they have. That usually ends the conversation.

I did hunt in my youthful years. Dad gave me a 410 shotgun when I was twelve. I hunted quail, doves, squirrels, and rabbits with my trusty 410. I still use it to kill varmints any thing else that needs it.

One cold and sleety day after school I decide to go squirrel hunting where momma could cook squirrel stew and dumplings. I crossed the electric fence that corralled the pigs and headed to the woods. Our bore hog, affectionally named Varden for daddy’s co-worker that sold Varden to us, decided to go with me. Varden was almost a pet, but the older he got the ornerier he got. He was black with white strip and had some very long and sharp tusks.

I waved him back. I heard him again getting closer. He was smacking his lips together and white foam sprayed toward me. This time I broke off the top of a small pine tree and ran him back to spend time with the sows. I took a few more steps and here he came again only faster. I did not to turn my back to him, so I reached behind me to break another pine top.

I stumbled and fell on my back. Varden lunged at me and tried his best to use his long tusks to rip out my guts. His white slobber raked across my jacket. I threw up my feet and 410 and pushed him. When he cleared the barrel, I unloaded the squirrel shot into his left shoulder.

I had one shot, but it was effective. He ran limping back toward the barn. I was scared and the adrenaline was sky high. That was the only this 125-pound boy pushed 300-pound Varden away for the shot. If I missed, I was dead.

I did not go squirrel hunting after that. I called daddy at his work. He was on second shift. I said, “Daddy I had to shoot Varden. He ain’t dead, but he has a shoulder full of squirrel shot.”  Daddy asked me if I was okay and told him I was.

Varden limped for a while. That did not tame him, but we did our first dental work removing Varden’s tusks and removing his manhood he was gentler. Months later I had the pleasure of shooting Varden. We slaughtered him and momma made some great sausage. The left Boston Butt was full of squirrel shot that we surgically removed before processing. Each time I hold my 410, I think of almost being devoured by the beast that we named Varden. I think of it each time I read I Peter 5:8 in the KJV version of the Bible.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: