A NORTH COUNTRY TALE

A NORTH COUNTRY TALE November 3, 2009

We were up in the North Country last week and it was pretty nice as always. But one day was exceptional and will be the source of free beers in many a tavern for years to come. It may sound like a tall tale but since my reputation for truthful reporting is as solid as the New York Times and the Malone Evening Telegram then you will all know this is as close to the truth as I can get.

One sunny morning I got up really early and headed down to the nearby village to get a cup of coffee at the little store. My dear wife usually makes an excellent brew but I wanted to let her rest for a while since it was her vacation. I’m pretty much always on vacation so sleeping in is not such a luxury anymore. When I got to the store there were two old codgers standing around waiting for the girl at the deli counter to finish some sandwiches she was making for them. They were grizzled old guys, the kind that have made a hard living from that hard country. One of them was tall and wiry with a full beard and not many teeth. His friend was shorter and rounder but he still had an air of toughness along with a wicked long mustache. They were both dressed in heavy work clothes with the pants tucked inside old fashioned work boots that were laced up just below their knees. The tall one had on a Yankee ball cap and the other was wearing one of those dopy flannel hats with the ear flaps which were tied up on top of his head.

Since they were many years older than me I asked them what they were doing to pass the time on that day. Thinking they were both retired I figured they’d be doing some leisurely hunting, bird watching or other pleasant outdoor activity. But the tall guy, the one doing most of the talking, said that since the weather was still good they were going into the woods to cut a down a few trees. Then they were going to load the logs on their truck and drive them to the new Amish sawmill nearby. If they had time in the evening they were going to stop at a deer stand they had set up near the river and try to shoot a bear that was getting into the garbage at the cabins they lived in. He said that I was welcome to join them for the day. So I called my wife and told her my plans. She told me that if I came home with any injuries or in the back of a hearse she’d be very angry. I said that I could certainly take care of myself. Her reply was very positive. She said “Yeah right!”

The three of us went out to the big old flatbed truck, rigged up with some specialized logging equipment, and climbed up into the cab. The tall guy said that since we’d be together for the day that we should introduce ourselves. I told them my name and he said his name was Alvin and his friend was Jacques. I asked them how long they were retired and he said that they had never actually had jobs to retire from. They still worked when they needed money to buy supplies or when it was time to pay property taxes. We were soon barreling up a dirt road that wandered along the riverside gradually climbing up into a wilderness area. As we rode along the bumpy track I listened and learned as Alvin kept up a pretty constant monologue. I learned that Alvin was eighty three years old, had been married four times, had eleven children, made a trip to Hawaii a few years back, chewed tobacco, served with the Marines in Korea and never did care for raw fish. He didn’t tell me that he chewed tobacco. I discovered that little fact as he sprayed the inside of the windshield every time his toothless mouth said a word like ship or shoes or shiftless, or that four letter word he used as a punctuation mark in his narrative.

Alvin also told me that Jacques was seventy eight, had been married once for three weeks but his wife ran off with a traveling locksmith which caused a lifelong battle with depression, had once cut wood alongside Ronald Reagan and was a Methodist in spite of his French name. Jacques merely nodded in agreement.

Eventually we came to the wood lot that the men had been working for a couple of years. Alvin said that this lot, about a hundred acres, belonged to Jacques who had bought it back in 1965 from one of the Rockefellers. I asked which one of the Rockefellers and Alvin said it was the one that died in the saddle down in Albany. When I pressed him on that bit of information he refused to say more because he didn’t like to speak ill of the dead.

Jacques grabbed a huge chain saw from the tool box on the back of the truck and proceeded to get it started. Both he and Alvin eyed the trees carefully and finally agreed on a tall thin pine at the edge of the clearing. Alvin seemed to be more of a supervisor than a worker as he hollered directions to his partner. Within minutes that fifty foot pine tree was laying on the ground exactly where they predicted it would be. They went along like that for about an hour until there were six trees down. I had hoped to get involved as more than an observer but old Jacques seemed to have everything under control. After a brief break Alvin asked if I wanted to help trim the branches off the trees before they cut them into sections and loaded them on the truck. I said sure and he handed me a rusty old bow saw. He and Jacques grabbed two small chain saws and we all went to work trimming. I was feeling pretty good about my progress. I had used a bow saw many times in the past, usually when cutting down Christmas trees with about four inch diameter trunks. Cutting big branches from fifty or sixty foot trees is a different thing entirely. But I was moving right along when Alvin came up and said they were done with the other five trees and Jacques would finish up the one I had cut three branches from already. Ten minutes later the trimming was done.

Those two old men moved around the wood lot like little kids at play. They never tripped or stumbled even where the ground cover or trimmed branches easily tangled up my feet. When they cut the six trees into ten foot sections they moved like well oiled machines. My shoulder was already feeling the twinges from a half hour of using a little bow saw. To get the cut logs up on the flat bed truck Alvin directed Jacques to drag the cable from the winch device and wrap it and hook it around an appropriate spot. Then Alvin would turn on the winch and the log would be dragged up to the truck where, with a little muscular pushing and shoving, it would be loaded on the bed. By noon we were ready to head to the mill but first we got out our sandwiches for our nice picnic lunch.

I noticed that the two codgers had not bought any drinks at the store earlier so I was a little curious as to what they’d be washing down their foot long bologna subs with. My curiosity was soon satisfied when Alvin reached under the seat of the truck and pulled out a bottle filled with amber liquid labeled “Old Farmhand”. I didn’t think this was some new energy drink. The brand name was unfamiliar to me and I asked what kind of liquid refreshment they were enjoying. Alvin said it was a special blend found only in a few counties in that part of the state. He offered me a sip and I took it. As soon as I had finished coughing and choking I politely refused a second taste. There was no noticeable change in the speech, eye clarity or walking ability of either of my new friends after finishing their bottle and their sandwiches. There were several satisfied belches all around but I suspect that had little to do with the rot-gut whiskey.

It was with some hesitation that I got into the truck with Alvin and Jacques. They had consumed a bottle of whiskey and it was a long and winding road out of the mountains and down to the Amish mill. So I suggested that they let me drive. Alvin said sure. So I got behind the wheel. Now this was an old truck. It had a gear shift on the floor, three pedals, a steering wheel and not much else. I was looking around for the key so I could start up. Alvin noticed my confusion and said I needed to push the button all the way to the left of the dash. So I did and the truck rumbled to life. Alvin then proceeded to tell me that I should start out in second gear, double clutch to third while keeping the gas almost fully depressed, do the same thing into fourth except let the gas up a tad and then go into fifth for running on the paved road. He told me not to bother down-shifting because by the time I’d get through the procedure we’d be crashing into a tree or something. He told me to just use the brake and clutch, slow down to a near stop and shove the shifter into second and start over again. At that point I was ready to let Alvin take the wheel but I decided to give it a try. It only took about thirty miles and an hour of driving before I got the hang of it. By the time we were on the paved road Jacques gave me flicker of a smile and a nod. Alvin didn’t say anything because he was sleeping pretty soundly by then.

We got to the sawmill eventually. Alvin argued for about fifteen minutes with the mill owner about an agreeable price. When they finally made their deal a team of horses was brought up and the logs were dragged off the truck. The Amish guy laboriously counted out the cash into Alvin’s outstretched hand. Then we got back in the truck, with Alvin driving, and headed back into the woods. The nap Alvin took must have cleared whatever effect the whiskey caused because his driving and talking were as good ever.

Alvin talked about the history of the area, the unjust nature of hunting seasons, the negative effects of tourism on privacy, the nudist colony that had opened in 1976 and closed in 1978 due to cold weather, rain and mosquitoes. He talked about his most recent wife and her skills as a homemaker and volunteer firefighter. By the time we got to Jacques’ cabin I knew more about the people and places of northwest Franklin County than I ever thought possible. At the cabin, a modest but comfortable looking building, Jacques grabbed three rifles and a box of ammunition. I looked around outside his place and was surprised at the lack of derelict cars and old appliances that are a hallmark of landscaping in the area. We walked along a well beaten path, following the river for about a half mile, until we reached Alvin’s cabin. Alvin’s place was much more typical in the abundant use of old and rusty objects as lawn ornaments. There were washers, dryers, claw-foot bath tubs, toilets and large parts of a multitude of vehicles carefully placed around the grounds. Alvin proudly pointed out a few of the older pieces and tied them into his marital history.

From Alvin’s place we hiked again along a path that followed the river in an upstream direction. Everyone was quiet. The old guys were being quiet because that’s how they hike on a hunt. I was being quiet because I needed to conserve all the oxygen I could so that I could keep up with them and not fall over dead. Eventually we got to the deer stand. This structure was built high above the ground, attached in ingenious ways to four trees that formed an irregular rectangle. A wooden ladder served as a staircase and we clambered up to the platform about twenty feet in the air. The blind had three walls about waist high and some old plastic chairs scattered around. There was a camp stove and a lantern next to one wall. And in one corner there was an artistic display of about fifty empty “Old Farmhand” bottles.

I knew hunting season was open I but didn’t have a license. Alvin said that he still had a couple tags left on his, one for bear and one for deer. But he said that the ground they were on was legally a farm and they were entitled to shoot a nuisance animal without using up their tags. I wasn’t sure about the statutes he was citing but since he was much older and wiser in the ways of the woods I deferred to him. Besides I always wanted to see if I could kill a big game animal in a manly and woodsman-like way.

So we settled down to wait as the sun began its slow descent. Alvin and Jacques seemed to locate a full bottle of their favorite refreshment and politely offered to share but I respectfully declined. I wanted a clear head if I had an opportunity to shoot. We were very quiet. The woods were full of the soothing sounds of a late fall day. The river gurgled along about fifty yards in front of us. We watched.

When I first spotted the bear my jaw dropped with amazement. It was much bigger than I had imagined. Jacques made a gesture, grabbing his crotch, to indicate that the bear was a male. Then he pointed to me and mimed shooting to indicate that I should take the first shot. As I peered over the wall and pushed the safety release I realized that I had never fired this rifle before. Years ago I had done some competition shooting and was familiar with firearms but I knew that a cold shot with a borrowed weapon was pretty likely to be bad. But that bear was a big target and my pride was as aroused as my blood lust. I remembered all the things that I had been trained to do all those years ago; three deep cleansing breaths, sight in on both the front and rear sights, relax, exhale and squeeze the trigger slowly and firmly. The rifle shot blasted the stillness. The bear turned and looked up our way. I was jacking another shell into the chamber and looking to see what the other guys were doing. What I saw was two guys just smiling at me and pointing at me to shoot again. So I turned my attention to the bear that had decided to investigate the source of the noise and was now slowly lumbering our way. I readied myself for the next shot knowing I couldn’t possibly miss again, especially at the now much closer range. The rifle rang out again as I carefully pulled the trigger. The bear stopped. He then rose up on his hind legs and looked right at the stand. He must have weighed eight hundred pounds and was standing about seven feet tall. I looked over and noticed that both of the old codgers were laughing, Alvin loudly and Jacques quietly. Jacques held up the box of ammunition and pointed to the label that clearly, in large letters, said “BLANKS”.

I said something. It wasn’t nice and I won’t be repeating it here. I looked down to see the bear just below the tree stand looking up expectantly. We were about to be attacked and I was trying to decide which one of the old men I would push down for the bear to eat first. Then I saw Jacques reaching into his voluminous pockets and pulling out candy bars which he started unwrapping. He tossed a couple of them down to the bear who seemed to be in on the joke. Jacques handed Alvin and me several of the bars each. They seemed to be mostly Bit-O-Honey and Clark bars. We all tossed them down. The bear ate them methodically. Then Alvin said “That’s it George!” And the huge black bear headed off into the woods.

As dark worked its way into the woods we hiked back to the cabins. Alvin told me how he and Jacques had rescued a bear cub about twelve years ago. He told me that although they had released the cub into the wild it had never strayed far from the cabins. It may have been enticed to stay by the regular feeding that the old men had been doing all these years. But they had played their little “let’s shoot the bear” joke on many unsuspecting idiots over the years. Alvin didn’t say I was an idiot. In fact he said I was a pretty good sport and would be welcome to help them with logging or bear feeding at any time.

Alvin and Jacques gave me a ride back to the little store where I had left my car. I bought them dinner; foot long bologna sub sandwiches. They supplied their own beverage. When I got home my wife carefully checked me for injuries and ticks. I didn’t tell her about the bear hunt. She doesn’t think people should kill animals. Or feed them candy.

Have a fine day.