By Tim King
Some people go to great lengths to keep squirrels out of their bird feeders. We enjoy them. After all, during the winter, all the other rodents who entertain us, like chipmunks, hibernate. I wouldn’t go so far as to call squirrels loyal; reliable, perhaps. We can count on them being outside the window in January when we spread sunflower seeds about. We even name them. Mama Mittens, for example. She has white forefeet and ear tips.
I’ve always liked squirrels but as a boy my appreciation took the form of hunting them in the fall. I have hunted squirrels alone but they were too smart for me. The best way to hunt them is with two or three people. After most of the leaves had fallen we would identify a good stand of oaks - something that produced acorns.
Two or three of us would form a line with each of us 40 or 50 feet apart. The object was to move forward, holding that line, and sweep the woods for any squirrels that were on the ground. We’d never see any that were already in a tree but if we flushed one on the ground it would scamper away at high speed. Then, one of us would yell, “there’s one!” And then sprint after the bushy-tailed rodent. The object of the foot race was to keep your eye on the squirrel and tree it as soon as possible, all the while safely carrying a 22-caliber rifle.
Once the squirrel was treed, the running hunter arrived right behind it and started searching for it 30 or 40 feet up in the tree. That was usually futile because the squirrel would simply scoot to the opposite side of the tree trunk from the hunter. It might poke its cute little face around just to see what that first hunter was doing. Cute or not, we were heartless.
When the second hunter arrived he’d position himself on the other side of the tree. If there was a third, he’d position himself between the two of us. With everybody in position we’d start moving in tandem, bit by bit, around the tree. Each of us, as we moved in our hunters dance around the tree, kept our eyes peering upwards looking for the slightest squirrel movement.
The lucky rodents were those that lost their nerve and started racing through the tree tops, bushy tail flying, until they reached the big hollow in the craggy mother oak. That old oak had protected and fed generations of squirrels and today she provided shelter for another. I am certain that, on that warm and golden autumn afternoon, the squirrel thanked Mother Oak and whispered to her that he would plant at least 500 acorns on her behalf.
My brother and I often hunted together. Our mentor, and occasional fellow hunter, was a former US Army cook. Ray cooked for a lot of soldiers in Germany during World War II. By the War’s final days, and the early occupation, there wasn’t much to eat in German pantries. Ray told us that he would occasionally sneak a little food from his well-stocked larder to the starving German citizens.
Ray’s generosity brought him in contact with the German people a bit more than the average GI. In his visits with them he met Ann, a young woman trying to support her child. Ultimately Ray and Ann were married, and with their daughter, moved to Long Prairie. They often hunted and fished together. On occasion, Ann would join us to make a foursome of squirrel hunters. She was a crack shot and enjoyed hiking through the woods.
Not surprisingly, the two of them deplored waste. They taught us to shoot a squirrel only if it could be done quickly and with one shot. There’s not much meat on a squirrel so they showed how to be sure not to waste any of it. Ray showed us how to field dress a dead squirrel immediately after it was shot. That way nothing spoiled. He even saved the beautiful fluffy tails which he salted, dried, and sold to a company that made fishing flies with them.
Over the brief years of our youth, each of those outings with Ray and Ann were treasures. Then, on some sharply cold January day, after one of seemingly endless school days, we’d come in the door and Mom would say, “Ann called and you’re invited for dinner tomorrow.”
Most people think that there’s nothing to eat on a squirrel. That may be true for most people but Ann took those little creatures, simmered them in a rich gravy, and made of each one a feast to remember for decades. I expect Ray may have provided us boys with a bit of his elderberry wine and, afterwards, we would have set around the table discussing old woodsman like Ernest Thompson Seton.
I do thank the squirrels for such fine memories.
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