Ruff Double Memory

What hit me first, even before the crawling chill making its way through the clothing layers since stopping, was a distinct memory, "I've been here before."

Déjà vu? 

No. Not at all.

I had been there. In the exact spot. It was December 1958 and in a light snow, with a very crisp chill in the air. Only then my feet were a size 6 boys and freezing like exposed chicken knuckles! At least now, my feet weren't freezing. But the blood laced adrenalin jitters were still there. And I loved it.

As I look down at the single ruffed grouse posing in 'la mort avec l'honneur' alongside my dad's old double-barrel shotgun, resting in the skiff of snow, I am launched back in time to my first grouse hunt on that cold December day in '58.

Dad came into my room well before light to wake me. But he didn't need to, I'd hardly slept all night. He barely got the door opened with I popped out of bed like the 20 gauge shells from dads old side-by-side.

"Well, aren't we perky?" He said with a big grin forming around the deep cleft in his chin. "Breakfast in 15. See you in the kitchen." "

Yes sir. Be right there.", I replied while jumping into my clothes.

A few splashes of water on my face brushed teeth and a token stroke of the comb and I was good-to-go.

Mom was just finishing the pancakes, oatmeal, cold raw milk and coffee when I slid into my chair.

"Say bud. 'Spose we could get this 'early rise and ready quick action to become a regular part of your morning ritual? Hmm?", she said, smiling in front the more serious suggestion.

I knew I was busted. So I tossed back a bit of humor hoping to get unhooked.

"Well, I guess I could if there was a hunting or fishing trip connected."

I attempted to slide that slick sales job by with a 'cute kid grin'. I lost. Oh, well, who cared. I was heading out to hunt with dad.

Breakfast is never better than those taken just before you head out afield or to the water with dad.

Odd?  The viewfinder on the camera fogged up just as I remembered that bit of history. 

As I waited for the fog to clear, I remembered the few moments before that first grouse bust out of the cover.

When I went with dad in the field and there was a gun present, I quartered dad on his left side like a shadow. Dad stood between 6'1" and 6'2" tall in a lean 175 pounds, framed in all muscle and sinew.

My Grandpa, always told dad this same thing; as well, me and my brother - that what we needed most was...'seasoning'. This was Grandpa's way of telling you to get back to work and toughen up. I don't believe Grandpa was much into fun. He was too busy being a drill sergeant in constant practice. As a result of many years of conditioning, dad was not easy to keep up with. But when we hunted in the woods, he was a lot easier to shadow. I was eager and he slowed down a bit. He enjoyed being in the woods and didn't want to loose any time of it. A great combo that worked to keep me from a constant, "Hey, keep up!" reminder.

I really enjoyed those times. Even more so now the older I get.

Well, of all things, this camera eyepiece keeps fogging up. Gotta wait for it to clear again.

Old Suzi, dad's 10-year-old Brittany spaniel, pushed ahead of us at a comfortable distance with her nose to the ground and one eye in the trees. She knew those birds sat in trees and she wasn't about to let one get by her. It didn't happen often either.

I was a chatter box as a kid, but I knew to keep my comments, questions, and musings to myself once we hit the trail. If I had a serious question, when I could get dad's attention, he'd gladly answer it. But I just knew that I really didn't want to over-use my 'field access'. So I learned to compartmentalize the questions and formulate them into as few as I could later on. A valuable lesson as I learned later on in life.

As I was doing some of this 'formulation', meaning I wasn't paying attention, dad pulled up, into an abrupt stop. Yep! I ran right into his left hip pocket. He didn't move but I bounced off. Dad looked over his shoulder with his finger to his lips, then reached down an helped me up. We had no sooner gotten regrouped when the grouse blasted from the bushes!

That bird scared the holy bejeebers outta me! That's for sure. But dad, he just went into one of the prettiest ballet's I'd ever witnessed to then ... and possibly since.

The grouse quartered left, dad was in full-sight-swing-and-follow-through when he squeezed off the left barrel. I just happened to be in the perfect line to see the entire scene. Dad, in swing, his squeeze of the trigger, flight of both bird and shot and the crumple of the grouse and Suzi in her trademark, hind-leg hop-n-point! Just before dad would shoot, she'd look more like Trigger under Roy Rogers than a Brittany on point.

Like it all happened seconds ago, I can still hear the sounds of the rustling leaves, the drum of the grouse's wings, dads wool clothing rotating on his body, his feet making a bit of a rotation-friction squeak, then the click of the hammer - then the entire world was encompassed in the blast! Man! for a 20 gauge shotgun, that gun could really make noise.
Well dogged! The viewfinder fogged up again. At this rate, I'll never get this thing photographed.

You know, I was surprised, when even through the racket, I never took my eye off that grouse. In mid-flight, one moment it was heading out of sight, then it just crumpled and fell in a rocketing arc, hit the ground and scooted into and under the leaves. Before we could flinch, Suzi was already on the bird, mouthed it and was in full-on happy-dog-return. I remember it was smaller than I'd thought. Beautiful. Soft. Limp. No longer flying. It was dead.

I had a sudden pang of conscience. I looked up at dad and asked, "Did we have to kill it?"

Dad looked back, put his hand on my shoulder and said, "No son, we didn't have to kill it. But we chose to. That one idea is the most important thing to learn about hunting. When you decide to take an animal's life, that decision will be a permanent choice. One that you can't undo. You cannot take back that decision. It is a natural part of life; taking an animal's life. But we must always do so being fully aware of the results of our decision. Something will die because of our choice. Never take that responsibility lightly. That's a big lesson for a little guy. But I believe you'll understand. If not now, then in time. Are you OK?"

I looked at him and then at the dead bird on the ground at his feet. It sure was pretty. I looked back up at him to say something about how 'pretty' the bird was. I remember noticing his eyes looked... 'moist'. I started to ask him, but he just smiled that wonderful smile that only my dad could give and said, "After all these years, I still take the responsibility seriously. Always remember that."

The camera lens fogged up again. Must be the cold temperature.

Memories are like that. I've never forgotten it. I pray I never do.

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View the print, Ruff Double Memory and the details for ordering a print.

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Streamside: A Freestone Mystery

”Yet, this type of ‘weirdness’ is the nature of such mystery.” story ©2010 Les Booth; painting, Streamside, ©2010 Diane Michelin

Freestone Palette Colors trace wild run Essence of time freely flows Life intensifies Freestone Mystery Penticton Herald, ePenticton Herald News Josh Mavenhome Penticton Herald / Saturday Edition 10/24/09
 

Many unsolved mysteries exist around the world, but the 1998 unexplained disappearance of a Victoria, BC woman still has people down in Keremos shaking their heads.

This clip, from the article, written by my uncle Thomas Mavenhome, about the 1998 cold case, fills in some background for those unfamiliar with the 11 year old mystery.

'Four weeks ago, Provincial Conservation Officer, Sarah Tumewatter, and BC Fisheries Biologist, Jon McCormick, stumbled upon a mystery on Bumblechoock Creek, north of Keremos, BC. The events of 23 September, 1998, still remain no closer to being resolved than they did on that fall Sunday afternoon, 4 weeks ago.

"We have no clues, other than the personal items and still alive brook trout, found, yesterday, on the banks of Bumblechook Creek. We are quite baffled. We simply have no idea where Jane Manson is today.", said officer Tumewatter in an interview on Friday; 23 October, 1998.

Jan Manson, well known Victoria resident, is an attractive 32 year old, red-haired, athlete, fly-fishing aficionado, respected outdoor artist and conservation advocate. Ms. Manson, single, went missing Sunday 23 September. The answers to her whereabouts are still a complete mystery.

Tumewatter and McCormick were conducting a 10-year stream assessment of Bumblechook Creek, along a remote stretch of water in the upper reaches of the rough country, north of Keremos, BC, when they came upon a very strange scene.

Tumewatter and McCormick rounded a bend on the creek to find, neatly laid out on the rocks beside the stream, a fly-rod and reel, a landing net and a very much alive, brook trout.

Officer Tumwatter said both she and McCormick spent over 2 hours combing the area, after placing a call to report the strange findings to the Penticton BCCO office. Within an hour after the phone call - they were joined by other BCCO personnel. BCCO carried on the search, around-the-clock, for the next 14 days.

By the time the official search was canceled, nothing had turned up. No prints. No clothing. No personal items. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

There were no shoe prints anywhere. None. No prints of any kind. Not along the creek; into the creek bed; nor back up into the woods. McCormick said it was as if Manson was,"... just transported away. Gone. Without a trace". '

Ms. Manson's 1998 2-dr GMC Jimmy, bearing the custom trademark of a - Screaming Brook Trout - located on both lower door panels and rear tailgate, was nowhere to be found in the vicinity. Despite extensive searches all across Canada, Alaska, the lower 48 United States and even into Mexico, no trace has been found.

Bumblchook Creek', is said to have more than the occasional black bear and a rare appearance of cougars. But neither animal is suspected to be involved in Manson's disappearance.

BC Conservation Officers identified the owner of the fly-rod, reel and landing net and therefore the missing person - as Ms. Manson - from the name, email address and drivers license number, marked on each item.

Many speculations have arisen over the years as to the whereabouts of Ms. Manson.

Some say Manson fell into Bumblechook Creek's icy waters, drowned and was swept downstream, over the 14 meter waterfall, downstream roughly 1/2 kilometer. But the water was thoroughly checked; above and below the falls. Nothing turned up. Most feel this was most unlikely.

Others say, she fell, suffered a concussion and amnesia then either staggered out of the area or was possibly lost and died of exposure. But that too, seems unlikely. The area was thoroughly searched; thousands of motorists and people in the area were canvased; nothing; not so much as a 'maybe', was uncovered.

One popular theory is that Manson, a very pretty 32 year old, was abducted and kidnapped by the fabled remnant of the Spanish conquistadors, said to be living in the wilderness around Bumblechook Creek. No one has officially documented the veracity of the claims as to whether these mythical residents really exist. But wild and fantastical stories abound. With many claiming to have had contact with them; and some even claiming to be descendants.

The list of speculations continue, and continue to grow. Many are fantastical enough to even make sense. But not seriously, unless you're under the influence of mind altering chemicals first.

Yet, this type of 'weirdness' is the nature of such mystery.

Maybe it's to be as Tumewatter said in an interview on the 5th anniversary of the unsolved missing person's file. "Some things just remain a mystery. Until something else shows up, that's how we'll have to look at this case."

Yes, maybe so.

For now we only have the image of the fly-rod, reel, landing net and a live brook trout to help us conjure up the actual events that have led to this mystery.