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by Michael I. Hobbs  Dink and I had long ago heard tell of old abandoned houses, some haunted; good ponds for swimming and fishing along a six mile stretch of Crowley’s Ridge south of Bloomfield. Near the very end of this stretch of ridge, there were Indian burial mounds complete with a real Sioux Indian living near by. Admittedly we knew nothing for sure, no real facts. All the information we had was second, third or fourth hand, and some of the hands were a lot less dependable than the least dependable person you might be acquainted with. With no real direction, other than south, and with the lofty goals of locating Indian mounds and meeting a real Indian, we classified this trip as an expedition and had to plan accordingly. Doing the approximate twelve miles roundtrip would be a cakewalk, but just walking there and back in a day wouldn’t gain us anything more than getting tired. We had to plan on at least a full day to reach the site, allowing time to reconnoiter both sides of the gravel road. A full day would be needed at the Indian Mounds for excavation and exploring, plus making contact and talking to the Indian man. A day return trip would be required to look for a shorter passage and to revisit any interesting locations discovered on the first leg of the journey. Three days and two nights meant we had to make this first trip before school started in order to have the time required. If we waited until the school year began, we would have cold nights and cloudy heads from schoolwork, neither of which allowed concentration on important matters. This wouldn’t be the first time Dink and I had set off for places unknown knowing we would have to spend a night or two with little or no comforts. We had our field gear already consisting of WWII U.S. Army backpack, pistol belt, canteen with cup (mine was the WWI version and sometimes the canteen’s lid got stuck), entrenching shovel, and machete. In our backpacks we each had a compass, pocketknife, matches, binders twine, ground cloth, quilt, small iron skillet and small jar of lard, and salt and cornmeal. Our 22 rifles with ammunition made up the last of our gear. We went nowhere without our rifles. They were a must have for hunting, fishing, protection and fun. With just three days out during nice weather, no changes of clothes would be necessary. We’d take a sandwich for the first meal, but only a couple cans of Vienna sausages each for emergency rations if we were unable to shoot any game or fish. Some of what we’d do wasn’t completely legal, but you have to do what you have to do to eat.Dink’s home was only a short distance from the trailhead, actually a gravel road that ran south along the top of Crowley’s ridge. By a lot of standards it was just a trail that wasn’t traveled by many and not frequently by those who did. Our jumping off date was mid-August, on the day we felt like taking off for parts unknown. Exact dates were not something we wanted to get into at that point in our lives. That would come soon enough with adulthood. Once everything we needed was staged at Dink’s, we’d be ready to begin the jaunt south.By the middle of the second week of August, we were ready. Tomorrow morning, about mid morning, we would begin our latest adventure. I would tell mom I was at Dink’s and Dink would tell his mom he was at Mike’s. Both moms knew this could mean about anything and they had learned not to worry. They were pretty wise gals and also understood that trying to prevent or forbid our escapades just did not work! After a quick double check, we helped one another load and cinch up and fill the canteens with water. We were off. About a quarter mile up the hill east of Dink’s and then south through the cemetery and along the top of Crowley’s Ridge to new places. We would have to stop in the old section of the Bloomfield Cemetery to revisit several of the old stones, to look at names, dates, military units, etc. We were drawn to this place and there just didn’tt seem to be any way to pass by it without stopping. The walk around was much more brief than usual and the first couple of miles were uneventful, with the exception of a spread-adder, pronounced, “spreadnanner,” who made the mistake of trying to cross the road in front of us. After the first couple of miles, there were few occupied houses and no good fences to worry about crossing. Many of the old home places have fruit trees and wells with pitcher pumps so each must be visited. In one of the first old houses we visited, Dink found a WWII U.S. Army cartridge belt. Something good happening right out of the shute had to be a good omen. We rested at this old home place, about a half mile east of our route, for a while and ate our sandwiches. The decision now was to reconnoiter the area, hoping to find more treasures, like army cartridge belts, and locate a good spot to build a lean-to. The lean-to would provide us shelter while coming and going along this route.By the time we located the perfect spot for our structure, it was getting too late to begin if we were to have any chance of reaching our destination before dark. It seemed we had really miscalculated how much time would be needed for explorations along the way. After a little discussion, the goal no longer was reaching the Indian mounds today but putting up a simple lean-to. Normally, what we built was completely enclosed except for a small entrance and laced together with binders twine. They took some time to construct, and there was no time for that now, plus we also had to come up with something to cook for supper. Remember that the Vienna Sausages were emergency rations, only to be eaten if we were not able to kill something.We threw up the lean-to fairly quickly. All the material: saplings, vines to substitute for or binders twine, cedar branches and leaves were readily available and we had had plenty of practice building these things. Now time to get started hunting. Hunting when you need something to eat makes it all the more difficult. I think it’s natural to try too hard when you’re up against it. We searched, kicked out brush piles; checked under fishless creek bank overhangs, and came up with nothing. We had spent the afternoon on the east side of Crowley’s Ridge and had yet to venture over the crest to the west side. We crossed over the crown and almost immediately struck pay dirt. A large pond seemingly in the middle of nowhere and it was covered with ducks! The grass is greener on the other side of the hill!? Neither Dink nor I were duck hunters. Our expertise was rabbits, squirrels and any other fur-bearing mammal that got in our rifle sights! We didn’t know one kind of duck from another and at this moment it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. We picked out a couple close to us, figuring we needed two because we both wanted the white meat—not knowing duck’s don’t have any “white meat.. On the count of 3 we both opened fire. Dink’s rifle was a bolt-action repeater while mine was semi automatic, so between us we had over thirty rounds of ammunition . . . overkill, you bet! Once we started firing and the feathers started flying there was no stopping the carnage. It had gone from killing a couple of ducks for food to having one hell of a good time just blazing away. We stopped firing, saw only a couple of ducks floating, should have been many, and then looked at one another bewildered. What had happened to all the other birds? We both reloaded our rifles before determining which of us had to strip off and swim out to get our kill. But suddenly the now quiet setting was shattered by, “WHAT THE GODDAMN HELL ARE YOU BOYS DOING, THEMS MY DUCKS!” Damn, we had shot up some farmer’s duck pond and he was nearly on us! We both ran like the devil back east, back over the ridge crown, thinking there is no way this guy could catch us or have any chance of finding us once we reached the thick woods. Reaching the thicket was not to be. About the time it came into view, we heard a pickup crashing down an old logging road with the driver hanging out the window shouting obscenities—some new to us—and telling us what all he was going to do to our little asses when he caught us. He had us cut off from the cover of the woods, so our only alternative was to duck, still hate that word, into the fishless creek we had been up and down earlier. At least we were out of his sight and could keep moving. The creek did run east and then back north, so staying in it would keep us moving in the general directions of home and safety. Just as we made the turn north, our backs were to our chaser and evidently visible. We heard a couple of whizzes over our heads and then heard the report from the rifle. This guy was shooting at us! He must be crazy or a very serious lover of ducks! We both hit a little higher gear and got out of sight and hoped out of range. When it seemed safe enough, we stopped to catch our breath and make plans. Our plans weren’t plans but a plan—get home fast! While resting we heard his truck engine start and head back the way he had come. A little relief surged through us, both of us thinking he had given up. Following the sounds of the over revved engine, though, we knew he hadn’t quit but was attempting to cut us off again up ahead. That wouldn’t, couldn’t, happen. We were both tired enough and scratched up enough from running hell bent through the briars and the brambles that if caught there was going to be a shootout! No surrender to this nut was a consideration. We changed directions, headed due west back across the ridge and away from our pursuer. Our new objective, decided while on the move, was to reach highway 25, cross it, and make our way back to Bloomfield through less hostile territory. It worked. We didn’t cross a road or field without carefully looking and listening for several minutes. Exercising such caution made it a very slow, but safe process. We made it to Dink’s and safety well after dark. Dink fixed us a couple of bologna sandwiches and we spent the night in our clubhouse. Though very tired and pretty beat up, we slept little. We talked about what had happened, laughed about it now that we were safe, but took turns keeping guard that night. The next day was spent planning how we were to resume our interrupted trek south along Crowley’s Ridge. We made a plan, but that is another adventure.Michael I. Hobbs lives in Dexter, Missouri, and is completing a collection of essays. His work has appeared in each issue of Sweetgum Notes and his book, Through Eyes of Stone, a Vietnam memoir, was published by Sweetgum Press. (See Authors, this site.) Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.
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