Being clumsy, so long as one is as protected as well as I am, does have its advantages. I have squatters rights on several thousand acres of prime grouse, turkey and deer habitat. On at least one parcel of ground, my claim is so solid that even the deed holder of the land recognizes my claim. I began to lay claim on this particular piece of ground as I helped fellow editor Ross Wallingford erect a treestand on a 5 acre patch of hillside. I'll never forget it. It was a cool Saturday afternoon in late September. The leaves were just starting to turn and the ground was just moist enough to hide the sound of carefully placed footsteps. We were dragging the first of two eight foot locust logs down the hill when WHUMP, I hit the ground and go sliding down the hill. My partner, concerned about my safety, immediately rushes over to me and says, "You sure fell on your ass!". He is a scientist, so his powers of observation are expected to be sharp. Ten minutes later we were dragging the second log down the hill. The leaves had been worn from the spot of my fall, so as I near it I think, "Be careful, it'll be slicker this . . ." WHUMP! I fall again. This time, Ross has no sympathy and accuses me of laziness.

       Two weeks later, Ross and I head down the same hill in the wee hours of the morning. It's the first day of bow season and we're going to our stands. Ross is leading the way. He does a Tom Cruise-like slide down my man-made depression, whirls around, shines a light on the offending spot and hisses, "Don't fall, you'll scare the deer!" I give him the secret hand signal that all hunters give their buddies to indicate that all is well, when, WHUMP, there I go again. When I recover, I see his light fading in the distance. Two hours later when we meet up at the top of the hill my concerned friend says, "If you ever need reconstructive surgery on your ass, I know where we can make the mold!".

       It gets better. Two days later on an afternoon hunt, he warns me that he is going to follow me so he can have the pleasure of watching me fall in the exact same spot. I assured him that he wasn't Lucy nor was I Charlie Brown and that Louisiana would be frozen solid in July before it happened again. Did I mention that Louisiana gets six inches of snow in the summer?

       Such ability does not come by talent alone. I was well practiced in my not-so-graceful art before Ross was forced to deed me his property. I had been trained by a secret order of evil old men whose job it was to see exactly what a young boy would do just so he would be allowed to tag along while hunting some variety of small game. It would generally go something like this: "Boy, the beagle hounds are at the bottom of the strip mine slope. Go gettum."

       "O. K."

       That doesn't sound too bad if you've never been on a strip mine slope. These things are so steep, they will guarantee a fall. You quickly learn that if you are to live to the next hunting trip, the only safe way down is to slide on your rear. The only way to get back up is to grab handfuls of thick, shrubby, waist high serecia. Usually by the time I got back to the top, the dogs had begun another rabbit race. Not infrequently, I would hear a gun bark before I got to the top. A member of the secret order of evil old men would meet me as I reached the apex of the slope. He, of course, would be holding a dead rabbit.

       "Put this in your vest boy. My back is hurting me."

       Part of the secret order of evil old men charter is to make sure that you have at least one good spill every other hunting trip. On more than one occasion, while trying to scramble up a shale slope after rounding up the beagles, I made the mistake of stopping to rest. I would stand, heaving for air, while keeping my balance with the butt of my unloaded shotgun resting on shale. As if on cue an old man would appear at the rim and growl, "Boy, your Daddy paid a lot of money for that gun. Get that sumbitch off the ground!" My immediate reaction would be to quickly pick the gun up. In so doing, I would invariably shift my weight to the down-hill foot and that in turn would cause me to rapidly slide. My instincts, as you might expect, would cause me to plop down on my rear and slide safely the rest of the way down. As I would bounce down the slope like a human luge, the sound of "Haw, haw, the boy is as clumsy as a little cubby bear!" would ring in my ears.

       As my lodge of secret order of evil old men became too infirm or too dead to continue my training, I began grouse hunting, usually by myself and always behind fairly decent English Setters. Grouse hunting the Appalachians often lends itself to spectacular slips. This is particularly true when hunting the hemlock and laurel choked gorges of Kentucky's Daniel Boone National Forrest. One must carefully choose where he falls here. Swift streams pour out of the mountains, cutting swaths through the humus and into the limestone base laying shallowly underneath. A fall here can sprain an ankle making for a long, one-legged, trek back to the truck, all the while hacking at your Setter to keep her from going on point. I know from experience that this takes all the fun out of hunting.

       More dangerous still is to stumble onto heavy, thick secondary growth, prime grouse cover, and be unaware of a gorge ledge hidden within. More than one hunter or his dog have toppled over the sheer limestone cliffs to their demise.

       Recently, I had the pleasure of involving my current grouse dog, Nick, in one of my tumbles. We were hunting one side of a steep hollow just after a rain. The ground was saturated and the thick layer of leaves covering it made things slicker still. Nick was getting birdy about 75 yards ahead when he disappeared down a ravine. As I approached the ledge, I saw Nick below me on point. I heard the bird flush but couldn't see it. Nick, being staunch, remained on point. I cursed myself for this extra bit of training. I knew I had to get to Nick to release him, so I started to side step down the ravine hoping to avoid a fall. Obviously, it didn't work or I wouldn't be writing about this. What was interesting is that as I slid down the bank on my butt, I knocked Nick right into my lap. So here we go, a man with a dog and a gun in his lap sliding at 40 miles per hour down a mud bank. When we finally stopped at the bottom, Nick gave me the most baleful look I have ever seen. He was either embarrassed by my clumsiness or thinking about how he lucked onto me, or both. To Nick's credit, later that day, he did point and hold a grouse until I could shoot it.

Sometimes, a wandering mind is very bad for traction. I had just bought a Parker Reproduction DHE 20 ga. and had gotten the nerve up to take it into the grouse thickets. I was plodding along, admiring the fit, finish and the gorgeous marble cake in the walnut. I remember thinking how much more contrast was visible in the wood when exposed to natural light when the toe of my boot caught a grape vine. I fell headlong with the gun cradled across my chest. The barrels caught a small sapling on one side, while the stock caught another sapling on the other. Both saplings whipped down, then recoiled, flinging me onto my rump. I sat there dazed for a moment looking at my gun for damage. My hunting partner, Mike Hearn, saw all this and yelled, "You all right?". I must stop here and explain that Mike is my most recent hunting partner so it explains my shock at what transpired.

"Yeah," I replied, "the gun’s O. K." Given my experience with evil old men (and Wallingford, for that matter), I knew, even in my mildly dazed state, he meant the gun.

To my surprise, Mike snorted, "I didn’t ask about the gun!" Sadly, Mike had shown his lack of upbringing and, consequently, I haven’t been hunting with him since.