Fishing the Bay with Builder Bob--Day One

There's a Thanksgiving tradition 'round these parts. A group of men with places in Kilmarnock head down for the weekend to fish and drink something stronger than their wives' insipid iced tea. Sometimes they stay at home for the holiday dinner, and sometimes not, depending on how relations are going with the missus. This year, Dad and I were invited by Builder Bob to join his crew. We initially thought it was owing to our sunny dispositions...turns out we just add more rockfish to the boat's limit...

Captain Bob

Thursday and Friday brought bad weather on the Bay, so we postponed departure until Friday evening. Saturday, we were on the water early enough and cleared Indian Creek in plenty of time to watch the sunrise over Windmill Point. A day of trolling never got the skunk out of the boat, so it was back early for dinner in Kilmarnock and some passing of George (Dickel) and lies around the table. Then off to bed, hoping for better luck in the morning.....

Sunup Over Windmill Point

Lines Out West of the Ship Channel

Needed Some Time Outdoors--November 7, 2009

This is the first of a series of posts recreated from photos, memories, and my written journals. On this day, I had just left Cris and Christiane's side and Cris was having a pretty rough day. We knew the end was near, and I just needed to get off by myself. I drove home, hastily gathered some gear and the dog, and drove over to the Bibb place for a hour before sunset. It was a surreal afternoon. My hunting pal lay dying as I sat in the field with one hand on the warm back of my dog, the other on the cold steel of my shotgun. I tried to maintain my composure as I carried on a one way conversation with a Labrador.

Every Day's a Good Day to Flip

At first I couldn't think of taking a life while Cris was fighting for breath in a dark room thirty miles north, but things came naturally as birds began to fly, and I knew Cris would want me to quit sulking and shoot. We took a few birds; Flip, as always, was on his game and made picture perfect retrieves. 

As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and I walked back to the truck shivering and wiping a few tears as I put the gear up with the dog.

Sunset in Louisa

Cris

Cris passed away yesterday evening while at home with Christiane and sleeping quietly. He drew one final breath and simply stopped. The cancer he'd held at bay for a year and a half finally took him. His final weeks had been tough ones for Cris and his family, although he rallied somewhat last week and was able to smile and carry on conversations, giving everyone around him a final memory of the old Cris. During those moments he chided Christiane, kidded Dad, spoke to Harry, and groused with his nurses. For a few days his blue eyes sparkled, then in his final few days he lapsed into a peaceful sleep.

In a fashion typical of Cris, he directed that there be no memorial service or funeral. The man who didn’t want people singing in restaurants on his birthday for fear of drawing unnecessary attention to himself wished to go out of this world without fanfare. Cris is being cremated, and his ashes will be spread in a favorite trout stream high up in the Blue Ridge, from where all of us that loved him can look West and see him. It's a favorite, secret fishing spot of his and his father's...a fitting spot to rest.

We had years of great times together..hunts long remembered, Harry growing up, state skeet tournaments so hot you could fry eggs on the gun barrel, and just plain shooting the bull over a taste of whiskey. Last year's final duck hunt proved his last...so glad it was a good hunt. Even after he got sick, Cris never gave up living, loving, hunting, laughing. They gave him a couple of months and he took a year and a half...some of the best living of his life.

Raise your glass and toast Cris. So long buddy. We'll sorely miss you.

And So Another Season Begins

September 5, 2009

Dad bushogged the church field and around the pond this week. The sunflowers were a dismal failure; Short, stubby, tiny seedheads, and choked with weeds. We made a few mistakes this year; no fertilizer, no herbicide; just tilled and planted. Oh well.

It was a weird opening day. The birds seemed to have moved out of the area ahead of a front earlier in the week. Nobody has birds near us. Even with the sunflower failure, there's plenty of weed seed in the field, but still no birds. Should've brought our fishing rods.

Cris and Christiane came down from Madison; so did Jay, Kathy and Larry. Harry took a break and drove up from Ashland, and Kurt came over from Harrisonburg. We still had fun getting together, despite the lack of birds...good excuse to hunt up all the gear and work the dogs anyway. Croc and Flip were well behaved and ready to hunt.

The story of the day: Cris was the only one to shoot a dove, the only one to even pop a cap. Poor little bird didn't stand a chance...I'll let Cris tell the tale on himself...if he wants to.

Last Ducks This Season

Saturday, January 24

There's been just enough thaw to open a little patch up the creek...moving into place through the darkness the only sound is cold water flowing over the beaver dam thirty yards on our left. The temperature's comfortable and dull clouds overhead seem to muffle all sounds...skating on waders I work to the open water and set up the Mojo and a couple of black decoys. Cris and Christiane have joined us for this, the last morning of the duck season. Still trying to balance my way across the ice, dodging the dog who's skittering ahead, then underfoot, behind me I hear a thud and a curse. Cris has tumbled over his dove stool backwards into the mud. He flails for a minute like a junebug on its back before righting himself onto the stool. I hear giggles from behind gloved hands, first Christiane, then Dad....

Flip and I set up on the left, Dad on the right, Cris and Christiane in between...and we wait. This is the quiet, expectant time...each of us knit together as hunters have been for thousands of years, and also alone with our thoughts. This time before the light, before the ducks and guns, is calm, thoughtful, and comfortable. It's one of those parts of hunting I can't explain to the uninitiated, and wouldn't really care to try if I could. Just before legal time I hear the first circling quacks and chuckles. The first group of four or five pitches in just after legal...I take one fat greenhead and Flip makes a quick retrieve. By now we're covered in ducks. Threes, tens, big groups all pile in without regard for the splashing dog and wading handler. Cris puts one in the thicket behind me, then two more out front. Dad another, and we have four down nearly at once, all drakes. Flip does his job like the thoroughbred he is.

After working Flip on the birds I end up near Cris and squat in front on the ice as another bunch works its way in. As they flare, Cris kills one more, a funky hybrid of some sort that none of us can identify.

Then, as quickly as it began, it's over. If we were ballplayers, we'd be high fiving like crazy over the shooting we just shared....but we're not ballplayers...we're hunters, so we stand and savor the moment as we watch the light fill the swamp and warm the ice. Christiane's popped her first caps at ducks....cool! I pick up Mr. Mojo for the last time and begin to contemplate breakfast and benelli cleaning. What a great day! What great friends to share it with!

jts

The Mob after the Hunt

Was That Fun, or What?

Oh Vanna....!

Tres Hombres Benelli....Ole!

What a Great Day!

Yep, M. R. Ducks

Ducks with the Lindsays

Saturday, January 3





Cris is one of the original Benelli brothers, the Super Black Eagle toting gang of four: Mike, Cris, Dad, and me. Part skeet coach, part hunting buddy, Felix to my Oscar in the RV, one hundred percent confidante and friend, Cris is exactly halfway between Dad and me in age, and equally at ease with either in the duck blind. We've hunted some pea soup foggy mornings when the ducks floated in like shadowy ghosts and crisp mornings when they were silhouetted against the bright white of snow squalls, way up in the swamp and down in the blinds. We've had some great hunts; two of Goldmine's ducks hang in Cris' den, a black duck and gadwall.

There was the day five geese that came straight in to the big blind like they were on a string, setting wings two hundred yards out and dumping air to coast toward us ten feet above the water....we up, guns up, wait, wait, wait.......NOW! Bang, bang, bang, four geese on the water and Dad purely sheepish after dropping the hammer on an empty chamber. Cris coined the moniker "Click Schick" for Dad, who will never forget to load the gun again.

Other times we hunted at Uncle Newt's up at Brandy Station. There's something extra special about hunting divers on a farm pond haunted by the silent spirits of men who fought their Yankee brothers and bled into the ground over which we hunted.

Once, when Harry was a young freckle faced boy of ten or twelve, we took him hunting in the beaver swamp. One of my favorite all time images is Cris, stools, guns, shells, and gear under one arm, Harry under the other as they crossed the creek....you see, Harry had no waders. Later that morning the early hour of their rising caught up with Harry and he curled at Cris' feet and napped.

Now Cris has another best friend to join the hunts. Last year we took wife Christiane, but lacking gear and duck stamps she huddled a few yards away and watched the men. Fully outfitted (and legal) this year she joins us as one of the team. The year of aught eight's been a tough one....it's nice to be in the swamp, ready for the big morning flight I scouted this week.



In early, we broke ice for decoys and set up to wait. Just at legal time, Cris took a hen from the first flight. Flip chased her down and made a good retrieve. We had beaucoups ducks working for fifteen minutes, but none in to the decoys after that bunch. As usual, within a half hour it was all over. That's OK.....Christiane got in her first real hunt; we saw plenty of birds; the sunrise was beautiful....all in all a fine morning...next stop, Innwood for breakfast.