FAMOUS IN COOPERSTOWN
The only connection I kept in NYC was my column at PAPER. I didn't play music anymore. I didn't show in art galleries, nor do churches or curate. All my energy was devoted to working for A&A, trying my damndest to stay married and renovate these two old buildings. More and more, when I wrote my column I wrote about this life style of hunting and woodstoves and foot shuffling hillbillys, who wouldn't know a Klub Kid if they hit 'em with the pickup truck. The editors were starting to distance themselves. Izzy and and I were still friends, but i could tell my days were numbered. The day i submitted my deer huinting story in Cooperstown sealed my fate. You may have heard it before.
Ray Key lives on the farm that his grandfather, and his grandfather before him lived on. He, his wife, kids and grandkids care for about 100 head of milk cows, work in the bank, drive the school bus, run a trap line for fur, and keep the skunks and bats of Cooperstown at bay, as the area's prime nuisance trapper. When Ray's not doing one of his many jobs he's hunting. He can see a bedded down deer a mile away and hear a turkey gobble in the next county. When I started hunting again Ray became my mentor.
"Buddy, you take the low spot. We'll put Davey up high and let the city boy go down the middle." Ray instructed, driving a pickup truck filled with slug guns and hunters about to make the afternoon drive above lake Otsego. "Whatever you do, don't go down towards the river." Buddy added for my benefit, as we lined up with our guns and radios, about to drive the woods towards the sitting old timers. I nodded and knocked the snow off my hat. Five minutes later the radio crackled. "Let's go. Over."
It was the last Sunday of the season. I hadn't even seen a buck all season and wasn't too convident I'd see one now, as i picked my way over deadfalls and across half frozen puddles. The snow was coming down wet and heavy. I heard a shot up ahead and stopped in my tracks, scanning the woods. A red fox bolted across my path, causing me to tense up. I continued down the ridge slowly. Then I saw a flash of brown. The snow stopped for a minute and the sun came out long enough to light the deer better than a Hollywood director. Light glinted off his antlers. I raised the gun and fired. He bolted and I shot again. He hunched and kept going. A third shot never touched him. Of course he headed right for the lake.
By the time i had followed the bloody tracks under a swingset and into a motel parking lot, the deer was already in the water. From high on the bank I could see that big rack heading for the other side. I was crestfallen. I drug my sorry ass down the bank to the shore and watched in silence. Then, just as i was ready to head back to the other hunters, I spied a boat and oars. I had two shells left.
"Who's that asshole out fishing in a snowstorm?" one of the hunters asked as they followed the lake road, looking for me. "That asshole's Christmo." Ray said pulling the truck over. For the next two hours the hunters and anyone who happened to be driving along Lake Otsego that Sunday watched as i chased that deer across the lake (and back). I didn't know deer floated when killed, so was trying to herd him to land before taking a shot. "City boy's not too smart, is he?" Ray commented later.
As the sun began to sink and the wind kicked up, blowing the snow across the rocking bow of the boat, I knew it was now or never. I tried to steady my gun on my knee and squeezed the trigger. A water spout shot up 100 yards out. Missed. I had one shot left. I didn't wait. pumping another shell in the chamber, i lowered the sights down the deer's back and shot again. Another water spout. I was sick. Missed again? But then the deer's antlers tipped into the water. I had caught him in the back of the head. An inch higher and I would've missed. Still fearing the deer would sink i rowed franticly to the dead animal and wrapped a rope around his antler's and towed him in to the cheering hunters and horn blowing tourists on the road. We got the hell out of there and drove back to the Key farm jubilent. Ray turned to my old man in the truck. "You teach that boy to hunt? At least he had a length of rope. May be hope for him yet."
PAPER fired me a year later without even a gold watch.
Ray Key lives on the farm that his grandfather, and his grandfather before him lived on. He, his wife, kids and grandkids care for about 100 head of milk cows, work in the bank, drive the school bus, run a trap line for fur, and keep the skunks and bats of Cooperstown at bay, as the area's prime nuisance trapper. When Ray's not doing one of his many jobs he's hunting. He can see a bedded down deer a mile away and hear a turkey gobble in the next county. When I started hunting again Ray became my mentor.
"Buddy, you take the low spot. We'll put Davey up high and let the city boy go down the middle." Ray instructed, driving a pickup truck filled with slug guns and hunters about to make the afternoon drive above lake Otsego. "Whatever you do, don't go down towards the river." Buddy added for my benefit, as we lined up with our guns and radios, about to drive the woods towards the sitting old timers. I nodded and knocked the snow off my hat. Five minutes later the radio crackled. "Let's go. Over."
It was the last Sunday of the season. I hadn't even seen a buck all season and wasn't too convident I'd see one now, as i picked my way over deadfalls and across half frozen puddles. The snow was coming down wet and heavy. I heard a shot up ahead and stopped in my tracks, scanning the woods. A red fox bolted across my path, causing me to tense up. I continued down the ridge slowly. Then I saw a flash of brown. The snow stopped for a minute and the sun came out long enough to light the deer better than a Hollywood director. Light glinted off his antlers. I raised the gun and fired. He bolted and I shot again. He hunched and kept going. A third shot never touched him. Of course he headed right for the lake.
By the time i had followed the bloody tracks under a swingset and into a motel parking lot, the deer was already in the water. From high on the bank I could see that big rack heading for the other side. I was crestfallen. I drug my sorry ass down the bank to the shore and watched in silence. Then, just as i was ready to head back to the other hunters, I spied a boat and oars. I had two shells left.
"Who's that asshole out fishing in a snowstorm?" one of the hunters asked as they followed the lake road, looking for me. "That asshole's Christmo." Ray said pulling the truck over. For the next two hours the hunters and anyone who happened to be driving along Lake Otsego that Sunday watched as i chased that deer across the lake (and back). I didn't know deer floated when killed, so was trying to herd him to land before taking a shot. "City boy's not too smart, is he?" Ray commented later.
As the sun began to sink and the wind kicked up, blowing the snow across the rocking bow of the boat, I knew it was now or never. I tried to steady my gun on my knee and squeezed the trigger. A water spout shot up 100 yards out. Missed. I had one shot left. I didn't wait. pumping another shell in the chamber, i lowered the sights down the deer's back and shot again. Another water spout. I was sick. Missed again? But then the deer's antlers tipped into the water. I had caught him in the back of the head. An inch higher and I would've missed. Still fearing the deer would sink i rowed franticly to the dead animal and wrapped a rope around his antler's and towed him in to the cheering hunters and horn blowing tourists on the road. We got the hell out of there and drove back to the Key farm jubilent. Ray turned to my old man in the truck. "You teach that boy to hunt? At least he had a length of rope. May be hope for him yet."
PAPER fired me a year later without even a gold watch.
posted by mike osterhout at 9:25 AM
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