The Old Guys

By Rod Davis

I was trying hard to fall asleep, really I was. No kidding. It’s really hard to doze off when you are 12 years old and staying with the “men” at CAMP. The flickering fire cast shadows on the wall that were comforting. The men in the room were snoring loudly. I was tucked into a sleeping bag on a bunk bed in the corner lying near my Dad.

In a few short hours, was the season opener of Trout Season in West Virginia!. How was I supposed to go to sleep?!!

Being 12, without a care in the world, without a guilty conscience and without regrets about life, eventually I would indeed drift off to sleep, only to be awakened by my Dad, before the dawn, to make ready for the task at hand.

The smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying was heady to a young lad. Something is different about men’s cooking as opposed to Mom’s cooking. Things never look, smell, or taste as good when a man makes I and it usually is a bit greasy.

Thus fortified, we made off into the night when the stars were still out to be at a certain stretch of lakeshore or stream bank, ready to make that all important, first cast at precisely 6:00AM.

It was early April in the mountains which usually meant cold clear weather. My Dad made sure I was wrapped in some sort of jacket and gloves. I had some thick socks on , in my galoshes, which passed for waders at my age, knowing full well, that before lunch I would probably fall in the creek and need to dry out in the truck!

Up and down the creeks, the Old Guys were laughing when they were biting, serious business when they weren’t. These guys were masters of their little stretch or river and this was indeed, serious business. It made a huge impact on me to be around these guys. I thought they were all heroes and gods until later in life when I saw their frailties and attended the funerals of many of them.

This day could just as easily have been the season opener of squirrel season or deer season. The “feeling” was the same. Everything was fresh, new, crisp and cold. It was heaven to a young boy.

Like many young boys starting out in the world of hunting and fishing, I was heavily influenced by a crew of “Old Guys” who hunted and fished with my Dad and who, for better or worse, rubbed off on me.

Now bear in mind, these “Old Guys” were probably not that old when I started out, early to mid-forties maybe, but that seemed plenty old to me. It’s peculiar that doesn’t seem so old anymore.

Some of my earliest recollections involve my Dad going off to “Camp” with some men he worked with or otherwise had a relationship. “Camp” was a 24’ x 30’ cinderblock house on the banks of the Greenbrier River in Pocahontas County, West Virginia. At that time, in the sixties and early seventies, you had to travel to the remote Potomac Highlands to get a glimpse of a deer or a turkey in West Virginia. They were scarce or non-existent in most parts of the state.

Thanks to the DNR’s successful stocking programs, you can hunt deer, bear, and turkeys all over West Virginia, with your backyard a good place to start. But not back in the day…

My Dad was a sheet metal worker. He started in WWII repairing the skins of B-17s while stationed in Florida and Texas. When he returned home he went to work in the construction business building new post war homes that sold for $3995.00 in Charleston West Virginia. Through a church acquaintance, he gravitated into the sheet metal, roofing, and heating and air conditioning business. He eventually owned his own company, started in 1967, which I operate today.

During this time in the 1950s and 1960s, my Dad met some guys who would become lifetime friends and hunting companions. These guys and their lifestyles would impact our family and build relationships that exist today, two generations removed.

My Dad’s best friend and hunting companion, was a guy, who if described as colorful, would not do him justice. His name was Ernest Frederick Harless. I grew up knowing him as Harless, Ernie, Fred, Donkey Head, etc. (They all had nicknames for each other.) Harless was a lifetime co-worker of my Dad, and eventually worked for my Dad until his retirement and subsequent move to Florida.

I can’t describe what an unusual character that Harless was, so I won’t even try. He was above all things, comical, and a hunter and a fisherman.

Harless owned the “Camp” along with his brother-in-law, Ronald Garrett, known simply as Garrett or Doc. Dad and I were regular guests with this band of miscreants. I have many memories of hunting with Harless and my Dad that stay with me until this day. Like when Harless shot the heads off two hen turkeys on Middle Mountain with his iron sighted .35 Remington Pump gun. These old guys were WWII veterans and knew how to shoot.

Garrett had a male friend who looked after him following the death of his wife and only child. This guy’s name was Freddie Heater, a confirmed bachelor. Freddie took a lot of heat from the guys. He was what some folks would call “persnickety” about certain things. He kept the camp spotless when he was there and was an incredible cook. Freddie and Harless, however were often like oil and water.

Once Freddie removed his contact lenses, carefully wrapping them in a tissue and laying them on the mantle over the fireplace. The next morning came chilly, with a hard frost. Old man Harless started to build a fire and lo and behold, here’s a handy tissue to start it with. A little later when Freddie needed his contacts to start breakfast, there arose a bit of a “hissy fit”. Of course Harless was accused of burning the contacts on purpose!

Most of the time, if I was there, it was just with my Dad and Harless. I learned the right way to drag an aluminum boat up and down riverbanks in the dark. I learned how to cast a Jitterbug bass lure in complete darkness without getting into the trees. Mostly I learned a love for the Greenbrier River that lasts till this day. That stream is the last river in West Virginia that is un-dammed and free-flowing, which causes some concern in times of heavy rains. I have seen Harless’s camp almost completely underwater at times and helped scrub it out after these episodes.

Old Man Ronald Garrett was a bit of an enigma to me growing up. I did not see him much at camp, even though he was part owner. When there, he slept a lot. In later years I figured out that Ronald slept, because he drank. A wife dead in her 40’s and a boy killed in an auto accident within two years, would cause most men to drink, so no one judged him.

Years later, Ronald put down the bottle and came out of his room and proved to be a delightful old gentleman until kidney failure took him at the age of 80. Strangely enough, Ronald was a chain-smoker who even smoked in the shower, but that did not kill him! (Don’t believe everything the tobacco Nazis tell you)

Bryce DeBord was another old codger that Dad hunted with at Camp. He was amazing in that in 25 years of deer hunting, he never killed a deer! Mostly that was because he never sat still in the woods more than 5 minutes. Once while hunting on Garrett’s farm, he shot a goat, thinking it was deer, but it got away. He told my Dad he had shot a “spike” but could not find it. Dad had seen the goat limp by earlier, but would never tell him the truth so as not to embarrass him. I had no such scruples.

I was sworn to secrecy by Dad and Garrett that until their deaths, I would not tell the other guys, so they would not needle Bryce about the goat. Garrett died 4 years after Dad.

I told all the guys at the funeral about the goat….

There were others, in and out of the camp from time to time: Bill Walker who I enjoy seeing to this day. He killed the first turkey I ever saw with his 16ga Remington 1100….in flight!

There was Ricky Charles and Ronnie Harless. These guys cracked me up!

While they could recite a poem on the back of a pint whiskey bottle from memory, Harless said they could not tell you who the president was at the time!

The Old Guys were the hunters and sportsmen of their generation. They came out of WWII with a little prosperity, a little free time and a camaraderie that lasted a lifetime with each other.

I have many, many hunting friends, some new, some old, but it seems the kind or relationships the old guys had is hard to find these days.

What I would not give to lie near my Dad again, hearing the fire “pop” and seeing it flicker, waiting on another adventure to start.