PINEY CREEKS WMA -- Last Sunday was an ordinary morning in the Ozark National Forest until I looked behind me.
Ahead, to the north, was a mixed pine and hardwood forest glowing in the soft morning light. Visibility was clear, and the foliage was bright, full and green.
I pivoted to find Paul Crutchfield, one of my hunting partners, and the image made me catch my breath. A thick morning fog still enveloped the hills to the south, and it shattered the sunlight into a billion crystal shards. Crutchfield, who trailed far behind, emerged from the fog, shotgun in hand, scanning the trees over a deep hollow.
For once, the photos I shot actually did justice to reality. Henceforth, I shall call this place the Cathedral of the Sun.
It was the last day of the annual Crutchfield Family Squirrel Hunt, hosted by Wayne Crutchfield and his cousin Paul Crutchfield, both of Prattsville. Bryan Couch of Malvern and his father Jimmy Couch are regulars, as well.
This tradition was established decades ago, and I am honored to be a part of it since 2005. That's the year I introduced everyone to my loose grasp of distance by taking them on a "short" walk down a fire trail to a place called the Spurgeon-Warren House.
It turned out to be a half-day death march straight down a mountain. That part wasn't so bad. It was the straight up return trip that put everyone into such foul humor, and they haven't forgotten it.
This annual adventure is more than a mere hunting trip. It is a celebration of friendship and fellowship. It is a chance to eat some good food and unwind with people who genuinely like each other.
It is also a small snapshot of changing lives and times. For my first few years, our sons and nephews dominated the affair with their youthful energy. The all-night wrestling free-for-all between my son Ethan and the Crutchfield boys in 2005 becomes more rambunctious in its retelling every year. They were all battered, scratched and bruised from the affair, and Ethan just last week declared it the most fun he'd ever had.
Truth be told, the boys also did most of the hunting. Wayne, Paul and I hunted together casually, confident that the boys would get more than enough squirrels to compensate for all those we didn't.
One by one, the boys became men, and they drifted away to other pursuits. Austin Crutchfield, Wayne's son, was the last to attend in 2012.
That was also the first year my oldest daughter Amy, now 17, attended. Sidney Crutchfield, Paul's daughter, became a regular the next year, and it became as much a girls weekend as a men's retreat. At least one of my other daughters wants to come next year, and Wayne Crutchfield said he'll bring some of his grandchildren.
The circle comes full, and the world is young again.
We arrived Friday just in time for Wayne's incomparable baked chicken and diced potatoes. We sat by the fire catching up on each others' year until nearly 1 a.m.
We spent Saturday driving around the mountains looking for places to hunt. We seldom see many squirrels, and it's become a standing joke.
Part of that journey included a stop at Hankins Store at Pelsor, at the junction of Arkansas 7, 16 and 123. A black and white photo taken inside the store in the 1940s once appeared in the Arkansas chapter of the World Book Encyclopedia. I haven't seen a World Book in ages, so it still might, for all I know. The lady at the counter was not the least impressed with this nugget of trivia.
Then we stopped at a nearby cemetery that caught our attention because of its brilliant splash of color.
"I've never seen so many flowers in a cemetery," Wayne said.
It's a small cemetery, with headstones dating back as far as the mid-1800s. Many graves are designated with simple white, unmarked stones. A schematic in the pavilion shows who's buried where. Many plots in the schematic are marked "UNKNOWN." One is marked, "LOST."
It seems sad in a way to rest unknown, but even those graves bear fresh flowers.
Signs on the fence say that burials without permission from the cemetery board of directors are prohibited.
"I just don't think that's something I'd consider doing without permission," Bryan Couch said dryly.
Our forays down rough dirt roads didn't reveal much prime squirrel hunting territory, but they showed me many new places to fish. I intend to visit them before winter, and I'm sure those visits will show me many new places beyond.
Then came Sunday. We planned to be in the woods at sunrise, but only Wayne rose to the occasion. I heard him talking with Jimmy Couch outside my camper at about 7 a.m., so I thrashed into my hunting clothes, stepped outside and asked, "We 'bout ready to go?"
Wayne's stare registered amused dismay.
We ended up in a familiar spot, on a remote trail that winds around a mountain bench. One side drops into a deep hollow. The other side rises almost vertically. The hillside above is an impenetrable tangle of undergrowth that is reaching its prime for wild turkey nesting habitat. Results were audible in the poult clucks I heard above camp for two days.
There should be squirrels here. Acorns fell like rain, and the hickory trees were loaded. We saw cut hickory nuts, as we do every year, but we seldom see the squirrels that cut them.
We slinked up the trail, listening closely for the raspy grinding of squirrels cutting nuts, rustling leaves and "Donald Duck" accent of barking squirrels.
Wayne, who ranged far ahead, struck first. His 12-gauge Benelli Nova thundered across the hollow, but Paul and I did not hear the telltale thump of a squirrel hitting the ground.
We heard that shortly after with a second shot. Paul kindly retrieved the squirrel with a steep descent into the hollow. That's the downside of hunting in the mountains. The squirrels you see are in the treetops 15-20 feet above, but the base of the trees are 40-50 feet down. That's why I always look uphill.
Paul put one on the ground shortly after with one shot from his SKB XL900 20-gauge. After his retrieval hike, we convened to strategize. The fog was gone, it was getting hot, and the woods had gone silent.
"All that's left is for Hendricks to get one," Paul said.
I was at that moment scrolling through the photos I'd snapped in the Cathedral of the Sun. I looked up and said, "It won't hurt my feelings if I don't."
I did not fire my shotgun that morning, but I got the finest shots of all.
Sports on 10/09/2016