William Marvel: Hunting Davis Hill

In the late autumns of the 1950s, it seemed that my father’s best opportunities for employment conflicted with the times I most wanted him to take me hunting. Seldom could he take a day off during the week, and on weekends when the weather was good, he always had endless winterizing chores around this house and at my grandmother’s, just down the road. Sometimes he would come home a couple of hours early and take me down to the head of that slope toward the swamp. Raking up fallen leaves, we would make a nest for ourselves between that oak tree and the ash, which already towered over the new growth from a 1940 logging operation. There we would watch for deer ranging up from the swamp.

Hunting was then the only activity that interested me enough to lure me away from my books and toy soldiers. I suppose the chance to carry a loaded rifle beyond the rule-heavy confines of our target range formed part of the attraction. So, too, did the opportunity to go deeper into the woods than I was allowed to go on my own — at least after that solo snowshoe trek in which I lost my way in the dusk, forcing the old man to come wallowing after me as the mercury plunged. I also relished the feeling of being surrounded by woodland creatures I could not see, for even as a child I preferred most animals to most people.