A Lifetime Love for the Outdoors
When I was growing up I had a love of being outdoors. Fresh air and open space called to me with an irresistible pull that seemed wired into my very DNA. My mom says as a baby I would scoot my walker over to the screen door and say, "Side! Side!" demanding to allowed outside where I much preferred to be. Outdoors represented freedom, adventure, and possibility. It didn't even take much to entertain me outside. I'm told my mom would sit me in the pea gravel driveway with a Coke bottle and I would fill it up with pea gravel one rock at a time, then empty it out and fill it up again. This would keep me occupied for some time.
As a young boy, I had a Western Flyer bicycle, red of course, as red is my favorite color. That bicycle was my gateway to independence, my ticket to adventure, my passport to a world that extended far beyond the boundaries of our front yard. My friends and I would ride the neighborhood all day, from sunrise to the moment our mothers' voices echoed through the streets calling us home for dinner. We were modern-day explorers conquering new territories one block at a time, mapping out secret routes and discovering hidden treasures. We knew every shortcut, every hill worth racing down, where to find refreshments, which was either the Handy-Stop out by the highway, or the coke machine in the driveway of the lady who taught a dance class from her home. We knew how to get to the house where there was supposed to be a monkey in the back yard, though I can't remember if I ever saw a monkey there, but road over many times to look for it.
But we weren't content with simple exploration, we craved danger and excitement. We would build rickety ramps with scrap lumber, engineering marvels that would have horrified any adult who saw the hastily assembled collections of boards and bricks that somehow held together long enough to launch us into brief moments of airborne glory. We would hit maximum speed from down the block, pedaling with everything we had, hearts pounding with anticipation, then launch ourselves off these homemade ramps to see how far we could fly, experiencing the pure exhilaration of defying gravity. The stories I could tell about broken bikes, scraped knees, having a power wire knock my hat off, and the occasional spectacular crash that left us laughing despite the pain.
When I was out riding solo, my imagination would completely transform reality. My red Western Flyer wasn't just a bicycle, it became a motorcycle, its engine roaring in my mind as I leaned into every turn. I was an ex-gang member living on the edge, constantly on the run from both my former crew who wanted me dead and the police who wanted me behind bars. Every pedal stroke was a desperate escape, weaving fast and evasively through every narrow alley and forgotten back path I could discover, always one step ahead of danger. This was the 1970s, with no video games to steal a boy's imagination, so my bicycle and the open road became my entertainment.
At the age of ten, my dad sized up two large pecan trees on our property which were about twelve feet apart and thought, "This would be the perfect place for a tree house." He invited me to join in our first construction project together, what would turn out to be something that would make the Swiss Family Robinsons proud. He measured, leveled and nailed two long two-by-tens to either side of the pair of trees to support the floor joists, then plywood for the floor. We cut a trap door opening centered on one tree end hinged a door over it. He taught me how to build a stud wall around the perimeter and we attached paneling to the outside he had scavenged from some paper mill crates, but only half way up so you could look over the side. A flat plywood roof layered with canvas for waterproofing topped it off, and canvas flaps for the upper half of the wall so we could close it in when we wanted to. For access to the trap door we hand made a rope ladder that we could pull up with us to keep others out. At some point, my church best friend, who also lived across the street, joined in on the fun and my dad stepped away to let us create as we wished. There was a doorway on one tree side that opened onto a patio, which was probably only three feet by four feet, but big enough to launch ourselves onto the one inch diameter cotton rope for climbing up and down. The other side provided a narrow opening with a convenient limb configuration to be able to climb up to the flat roof. Since a flat surface twenty feet off the ground wasn't entirely safe, we installed railing and a pitched roof creating a second floor to the tree house. From the second floor we had a large limb we could shimmy out on as a high lookout point with a perch about thirty feet from the ground. For about five years this tree house was a refuge, a retreat, and place of adventure and solace. We spent most nights of the summer and school breaks in the tree. Even cold nights were no match for a sleeping bag and coffee can heater. Oh, yes, the coffee can heater, which was a roll of toilet paper dropped into a metal coffee can, drenched with rubbing alcohol, and lit on fire. In my adult reminiscence I have often wondered why my parents didn't forbid me to have a can of burning alcohol in a wooden tree house. It was a different time for sure.
One time we discovered neighborhood boys had been climbing up the tree and, since the trap door had a pad lock on it, grabbed the edge of the patio and pulled themselves into the side entrance. We couldn't have uninvited intruders having their way with our property, so we nailed barbed wire to the edge of the patio. This became an effective deterrent. Eventually, though, the tree house adventures couldn't compete with the next phase of growing up, getting a driver's license and a car. I still think fondly of the adventures in that tree house and lament the realization that I do not have one single photo of it. When you are immersed in adventure and creativity as a kid, you aren't thinking about preserving the moment forever.
For many in the south, outdoor activity usually involves hunting and fishing. My dad was an avid outdoor sportsmen, so these activities were in no short supply. There were many fishing adventures to be told. One day my dad and I went to a pond to fish. The pond was maybe three or four acres so you could easily see across. I made my way to the opposite side and was standing on the bank, which was about 3 feet above the water level. As my minnow wiggled on the hook making the cork slightly bob, something caught my eye in my peripheral vision making an s-shaped ripple in the water. I turned my head to see a Cottonmouth Water Moccasin swimming toward my cork. The first thought that came to mind was, "I wonder if I can catch it." So I lifted my line up and let the minnow dangle above the water. The snake positioned itself to provide stability as it lifted itself out of the water. I didn't know until then that a water moccasin can elevate a foot or so out of the water. After teasing it a bit, I lowered the minnow within reach and it took the bait. I started reeling in my catch and just before I got it to shore it let go. I went through the same motions and got it on the line again. As I was lifting it up it let go again. I didn't this three or four times and the moccasin got weary of the game and swam off. I was really excited about my experience, so with adrenaline running high I ran around to the other side and told my dad the whole story. You might expect a father to severely scold a boy for such a reckless attempt to catch a snake of such a vicious an poisonous nature. Instead he just looked at me squarely and asked, "What would you have done if you would have caught it?" I had not thought of that! My mind instantly imagined the scenario of trying to get the snake off the hook, a very mean and mad snake.
Living in the Mississippi Delta, in Eastern Louisiana, much activity revolved around the trapped waterways near the river. In flood season, mid spring, we would run trot lines and yo-yo's on the flooded bayou. The places we boated is dry land most of the year, but when the river gets high from melted snow up north, the low lands flood and you are boating literally in the tree tops. It was common to see snakes coiled in the branches of the trees to stay out of the water. It was prudent to avoid floating under branches without first checking what may be hanging above. One time a sizable Cottonmouth fell from its perch and landed across the side wall rim of the aluminum boat my friend and I were in. The moccasin draped across the edge, half in and half out, and for a moment we didn't know what was about to transpire. Suddenly, I will say by the grace of God, the snake chose to slide water side and not into the boat. I think back on what a ruckus that would have been had the snake landed inside the boat and two boys trying to defend themselves with only boat paddles.
Most of my memories of deer hunting seem to be of sitting on a deer stand freezing, and hoping my dad would come get me soon. First my feet would get cold and it was all down hill from there. One deer hunt is most memorable. My dad and I, and one other, were walking down a road beside a bean field toward our respective deer stands. It was just before sun up, but the sky had started to lighten up. As we gazed across the field, a trophy buck and several doe were making their way across the field. My dad took aim with his 30-06 rifle and squeezed the trigger. The reaction of the buck indicated a hit, but it did not drop, instead heading toward the fence and a stand of trees. We waited until light and walked to where we saw the deer head into the forest. There was blood on and around were it had crossed the fence. The three of us started tracking the wounded animal, following drops of blood, sometimes scouring the ground for a single drop on a leaf while on hands and knees. This buck did not need to get away. We tracked and traced for eight hours that day until finally catching up with it and finishing the job. My dad had the deer head mounted and it is in my office to this day to remember the day of a great adventure.
I did enjoy squirrel hunting, though, as we would slink through the woods quietly, eyes fixed in the treetops, watching for movement. We would walk heel to toe through the leaves, making no sound, and get into position to bag the prey. One time I retrieved the downed squirrel and slipped it into my game vest, which had a big pocket on the back of the vest to deposit the fallen quarry, and apparently I had only stunned him, or he was just playing dead. The squirrel sprung to life as if Jesus had commanded Lazarus to come forth, and scurried up my back, onto my shoulder, and off to safety. I was too stunned to react.
My friend and I would like to go on unsanctioned bird hunts. When I say "bird" I mean just random birds. With my dad I had hunted dove and quail, but this was more like black birds, which our area had by the millions, or sparrows, and even robins. I wasn't thinking about the legality of it all, it was just being outdoors. We didn't just kill them and leave them. We collected what we shot, plucked them, and fried them in a good ole black skillet. My mom would leave, as she wanted nothing to do with this feast. She did, however, teach me how to make brown gravy, but I thoroughly misunderstood the amount of flour she instructed, and instead of gravy we had what I called "gravy loaf." "Hey! Slice me off a piece of that gravy, will ya!"
One time I acquired some steel traps and thought I would do some trapping. I found out I could get six dollars per fur, and being an enterprising young man I decided to be a fur trapper. I gained permission to trap in an area that had plenty of neutria, which are like beavers without the flat tail, so day after day I ran my traps, skinned the hides and sold them for six bucks. I would set traps along trails to the water. One day, after I set the trap on a stream, I jumped over the stream to go to the next trap when I lost my balance. I was falling back and quickly reached out to the tree in front of me and grabbed it tightly. Pain shot through the palm of my hand and I realized I had grabbed a hold of a honey locust tree. If you don't know what that is you will want to look it up to appreciate the story. A honey locust has long thorns up and down the trunk of the tree. On of these three inch thorns pierced straight into the palm of my hand. My instinctive reaction was to jerk my hand away, and when I did the thorn broke off, buried in the middle of my hand. When I got home, my dad helped me by digging it out with his pocket knife. Trapping was a great experience, and fulfilled my love of outdoors, but after a while it got arduous having to run the traps before and after school, twice a day.
We got into duck hunting a few years. One adventure with two of my friends involved boating in an aluminum boat down a bayou where ducks often flew through the waterway. I got out of the boat on one side of the bayou, and my two friends stayed in the boat and positioned themselves exactly opposite of me, about forty yards on the other side of the bayou. As the sun began to rise, the birds began to fly, down the bayou they would come. Our ambush plan had one flaw. I was shooting toward my friends, and they were shooting toward me, albeit point slightly up and not directly at one another. As they would shoot, I would duck my head as the shot would rain down around me. Then I would shoot and hear, "ting ting ting," as the shot would rain down on the boat they were in. I don't remember how many ducks we brought home that day, but it is a fun memory for sure.
The down side to duck hunting is, it usually takes place when the weather is cold. I'm not a big fan of freezing. My dad and I, along with some others, went on a duck hunt one very frigid day. I was positioned in a blind on a beaver dam and the temperature was maybe in the teens, with drizzling rain coming down. It was dark, and as I waited for the sun to rise and the ducks to fly all I could think about was being cold. I was facing east, the direction of the sunrise, and as the sun peeked over the horizon a ray of light, a single sunbeam, shined on the tip of my gun and I saw an icicle had formed on the end of the gun barrel about 3 inches long. I said these words out loud, "Keith, you're an idiot." That was the last time I went duck hunting.
Over time, and as a home owner, I found a lot of comfort in flower beds and landscaping. Digging in the dirt, planting shrubs and flowers and even mowing grass is a great way to spend time outside. I also like outdoor building projects. I've built a fourteen foot tall windmill tower and installed a metal windmill kit on top, I built an 850 square foot patio with finished concrete and a pergola over half of it that I designed from photos I found. Projects for the outdoors brings much satisfaction.
With the grand kids getting older it was time they had their very own treehouse. One giant pine in the back yard seemed perfect for the centerpiece, so we laid out a plan and started to build over many summers. We have spent ours building together and playing games in the tree. Once we get a roof over it we have plans to spend nights together in the treehouse, making memories and sharing stories. Kids these days seem to struggle more with outdoor activities with the pull of video games beckoning at them to stay glued to a screen. So it makes my heart full to have them here, running through our three acre yard, swinging, riding bikes, and playing in the treehouse. Maybe some day they will share stories with their children about a Kpaw who loved to be outdoors with them.