Squirrel heritage
For many youngsters, it all started with deer, doves or ducks. For me, hunting began with squirrels -- thick fox squirrels that were either too lazy or too dumb to make a run for it when they heard the pitter-pat of small feet rustling in the leaves beneath them.
I can recall lots of childhood hunting trips, but the memory of one of my earliest remains so vivid I can still see the scene when I crept upon a fuzzy, red fox squirrel on a frosty, winter morning.
I was only 10, but I was deadly with the 20-gauge Winchester my dad bought me for my eighth birthday. At least I thought I was, anyway.
It was Christmas Day, and our family had gathered well before daylight at my grandparent's small farm house off Dublin Road in Collin County. The presents were all open and breakfast wouldn't be ready for at least an hour. In my book, that meant plenty of time to slip down the white rock lane past the old barn that sat on a small hill overlooking the big woods.
I hadn't gone far past the barn when I saw the thick, red tail dart across the dim trail. I watched as the squirrel bounded through the scattered underbrush, then stopped at the base of a big oak tree. The squirrel stood on its haunches and looked my way a second or two, then scampered up the tree and disappeared.
I stood beneath the tree and looked up. Nothing was there. I walked to the opposite side and scanned every limb and fork for signs of a foot, ear or hair. But again, nothing.
Then I remembered an old trick my brother-in-law had told me about. Often times, when a squirrel detects danger on one side of a tree, it will hug the opposite side and stay still until it thinks the coast is clear.
Hoping to outsmart the squirrel, I picked up a stick and tossed it to the opposite of the tree while I maintained my post. The idea was to create some racket to make the squirrel think the danger had swapped sides.
Sure enough, the trick it worked. Like clockwork, the squirrel came shuffling around to my side of the tree. I was ready, too. The No. 4s found the mark and the squirrel came tumbling down in a fine mist of shredded tree bark.
The ol' fox squirrel was well above average, quite possibly the biggest one that had ever been killed at my grandparent's farm. My older cousin confirmed the suspicion the moment I walked through the front door with my record bushytail in hand.
"Look, Matt's done gone and killed somebody's house cat," he joked. "That thing is huge."
The squirrel was large, indeed. The big boar weighed three pounds if it weighed one. The meat was tough as a boot, too, but I ate it for lunch. Every bite. I was proud of that squirrel, and no one was stealing my thunder.
Not many kids get the opportunity to experience the thrill of squirrel hunting anymore. That's sad. Especially when you consider how popular a pastime it once was, particularly in East Texas.
For nearly a century, squirrels were king in the Pineywoods and parts of the Post Oak belt, especially during the fall. Squirrels and squirrel hunting were the foundations upon which families -- generations of them -- and groups of friends came together, so they could immerse themselves in nature by day and socialize at night, usually around a steaming pot of squirrel backs and hindquarters left to simmer in a rich, brown gravy until the meat fell off the bone.
Years ago, squirrels were among the main topics discussed around evening campfires just about everywhere east of the Trinity River. But not anymore. Like 22-cent gasoline and 10-cent hamburgers, the "squirrel camp," as many of our ancestors once knew it, is pretty much a thing of the past.
To hear the old timers tell it, the tradition began to wane about the same time that Lyndon B. Johnson took office and whitetail deer populations began to rebound across the region. As deer numbers increased throughout the 1960s and '70s, more and more hunters began turning their attention to antlers.
That factor, combined with changing land-use practices, the construction of several large reservoirs that decimated thousands of acres of prime squirrel habitat, and the allure of big city life for many East Texas natives, took a considerable toll on the popularity of squirrel hunting in the years that followed.
The proof of this is plain to see in the numbers.
According to surveys conducted by the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, the number of squirrel hunters in East Texas has declined rapidly over the last three decades. If the trend continues, fewer than 70,000 hunters will grab a shotgun or .22 rifle and try to bag a few squirrels for the skillet this season. Compared to the more than 230,000 hunters who hunted squirrels the same year I started college (1981), the decrease has been nothing shy of drastic.
Is there hope for the resurrection of what appears to be a dying heritage in a region of the state where it was once at the epicenter of hunting camps?
Probably not. And that's sad.
Squirrel hunting is a fascinating facet of the hunting tradition that can be enjoyed by all ages, one that has captured the hearts of some and helped hone the woodsmanship skills of many.
Some of my dearest squirrel hunting memories were logged at a remote hunting camp located along the western edge of Tyler County. The camp was owned by the late Chuck Davis. He named it the Sugar Creek Hilton.
Davis was a jolly soul who liked a stiff toddy, but loved his family, friends and squirrel hunting even more. I don't recall Chuck being a particularly good shot, but he had access to one whale of a squirrel dog in ol' Tiger.
Tiger was a short hair feist/fox terrier mix that belonged to a fellow named John Stanley of Zavalla. Like Davis, Tiger was a rare breed who rarely met an enemy. He would hunt for anybody who was willing to take him.
The black-white dog weighed about 20 pounds, and he carried it well -- thick chested with narrow hips and a wide head capped by perked ears that rarely seemed to relax.
Tiger was a natural in the squirrel woods. He had a nose like a red bone, but Joe T. Rogers contends to this day that Tiger hunted with his eyes and ears more than anything else. I should say something about heart, too, for 'ol Tiger's was the size of Texas.
Joe T. is the man who introduced me to a side of squirrel hunting I knew nothing about until the late 1980s. In fact, I hold him personally responsible for the pack of Jack Russell terriers that have since taken up residence at 1070 County Rd. 719.
There are five of them in all. Only two of them hunt, but neither is half as good as Tiger was.
That's partly my fault. The only way to make a good squirrel dog is to take him. I haven't carried mine to the woods in two seasons. It's time to reconnect with the past.
• Matt Williams' e-mail address is mattwilliams@netdot.com.
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