Since I no longer ride, here is

a different story. Maybe all of our resident hunters out there might appreciate it.

Long ago, Hunting Mr. Bushy Tail

It was 1943, the War Years. Dad, my mentor, had long since stopped hunting because of his health.
I had inherited his Model 69 Winchester with the Lyman 438 scope. It was Saturday, the paper route was done for the day and it was time to go hunting the fox squirrel. It was 6AM.

I used the sling to put the .22 Winchester over my shoulder as I straddled my Schwinn Henderson bicycle. I checked my pocket, sure enough, I had 10 Remington Clean Bore .22 long rifle cartridges, more than enough for a limit of five fox squirrels. Dad had taught me right, one shot, one squirrel. A bottle of citronella for the mosquitoes although it didn't do much.

I left the outskirts of Ft. Wayne and pedaled out on Wayne Trace going east to my relation's farm, the Saalfranks. Wayne Trace was narrow then, (still is) and as I pedalled around a curve I was met by a military jeep with red lights. I stopped as the tank destroyer that the jeep was leading, went past. There was a prisoner-of-war camp not too far from that part of Wayne Trace and I wondered if that was where it was heading. In any case, it was big!

Another six miles and I arrived at the Saalfranks. I checked in with Mr. Saalfrank to let him know I would be hunting in his woods but also to check to see where his bull was. It was tied in the barn. I felt relieved as this bull was so ornery that the farmer would round him up on his tractor.

I opened the gate, closed it behind me, and walked about a quarter mile on the lane back to the woods and found that the mosquitoes were waiting for me. Dousing myself generously with citronella (didn't help much) I walked a short distance into the woods and found a nice comfortable maple to sit up against. Across from me and about 25 yards, was a gnarled old hickory tree, the branches had seen a big share of squirrels and I had collected a few there.

It took about 30 minutes of holding perfectly still before all the activities started. Mice under the leaves, blue jays squawking, and finally the pissed off chatter of a big fox squirrel. It didn't take long to find him as he was raising hell with the crow that dared to light in his hickory tree. A nice bead on his head and the Winchester came through. The first one for the homemade bag that my Mom had made for me. The denim bag had room for exactly five fat fox squirrels, with maybe a few pesky red squirrels thrown in.

Close to noon, I had four in the bag and was ready to call it a day,mainly because of the mosquitoes.
I had just about forgotten my lunch. I had to remove it from the squirrel bag to make room for bushy tail. A nice Campbells bean sandwich along with a half pint whiskey bottle curved to fit the hip and filled with coffee. The bottle was wrapped in a newspaper (no thermos bottle, couldn't buy one).

A very relaxing morning in the woods (except for those worthless little stingers). The day was warming up and so was the humidity. I walked out of the woods, checked the lane for Mr. Toro (he wasn't there) and headed back to my bike

The ride back was uneventful. Riding through Ft. Wayne with my .22 rifle over my shoulder attracted no attention.

I was to return to that woods many time, an easier time with a Whizzer motor between the frame of the Henderson, and later, even better, a Matchless 500 thumper. Now, it's motorcycle related.

As Archie Bunker said “Those were the Days” although I never owned a LaSalle.

Wayne, Solo1