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I have hunted squirrels for over half a century and over those scores of seasons, I can probably count on one hand the times I’ve brought home a limit. Frankly, I don’t remember the last time I did. I’ve hunted squirrels a long time and have taken my share to the point that bagging a limit would be nice but not necessary. I just enjoy the experience. Period.
I found something I had written 20 or so years ago about one Saturday when squirrel season began under less than ideal conditions. The thermometer read 70 degrees before dawn when I left home for the camp. Crawling in my truck for the drive to the spot I’d chosen to hunt, my windshield wipers slapped away a light but steady rain. Warm weather coupled with rain does not bode well for successful squirrel hunting. Oh, one other thing; when I checked in my hunting vest at the camp, I found I had only 10 shotgun shells.
Feeling I was working under a handicap, I resolved to just enjoy the hunt but to do something my dad had drilled me on as a young hunter. “Make every shot count,” he had told me time and time again. My goal was to use my ammo supply conservatively; one shot; one squirrel.
The soft rain turned out to be a blessing. It stopped after an hour, just long enough to soften the leaves on the ground, making it easy to stalk. Around 7:00 that morning, the first squirrel stopped long enough for me to drop him. One shot; one squirrel; nine shotgun shells left.
Twenty minutes later, the second squirrel was cooling in my hunting vest; two shots; two squirrels; eight shells left. By the time I’d reached the end of the woods I’d planned to hunt, I had bagged two more, each with one shot. That was four-for-four and I was feeling good. Had I not seen another squirrel, this would have been a successful hunt.
On my return trip to the truck, I made a loop so as not to cover the same ground I’d just hunted. I’d moved fifty yards or so when I saw a squirrel move in a beech. As I began stalking the squirrel, I saw another in the beech; then another and incredibly, another. Four squirrels were whacking away at beech mast in the same tree.
I did a quick bit of ciphering. I had four squirrels in the bag. Up there in that beech was the rest of my limit. Truth to tell, I got a little excited at the prospects. One of the squirrels presented himself and BOOM…he was on the ground. There went another one and…BOOM, he tumbled out. Then the third squirrel ran up a limb and stopped, offering me a clean shot. BOOM, and he’s down.
Now, I’m really excited. I have pulled the trigger seven times and had seven in the bag and there’s number eight up there overhead. My dad would have been proud.
Standing quietly for a few minutes, I watched as my “limit” squirrel resumed feeding. What are my chances of this, I ponder? I’m on the verge of bagging a limit of eight squirrels with eight shots.
It was something like a major league pitcher working on a perfect game. He’s down to the bottom of the ninth; two out. Here’s the wind-up; the pitch…..and the batter bloops a single into left field. Game won but perfect game spoiled.
I rushed the shot and the squirrel scampered away. Dang! I sat awhile, pondering what almost was, concluding that it had been a fine hunt anyhow and I would be content to drive into camp with seven squirrels.
I could see my truck 100 yards away, and would you believe it…one more squirrel decided to make a move and I rolled him. That’s my limit of eight squirrels with nine shots. Not a perfect performance but I felt good, sensing that somewhere up there, my old dad was smiling. “Way to go son,” I imagined him saying. “Not perfect….but not bad.”
