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It was one of those early warm days during summer vacation  when this eight
year old got the urge to take a walk to the Fleming farm wood land. It was
a very long walk and getting up early was a necessity to making  such a
journey. Getting up early was an art which I had perfected. Day light was
very precious to me and I seemed to have the gift of awakening at the crack
of dawn as though I had an alarm clock in my head.Dawn in the summer was when my dad got up because he had to work the day shift in the coal mines; and many times I enjoyed sitting on his knee drinking coffee and eating a piece of toast. The strength and protection he made me feel, as he held me, I can remember as though it were only yesterday. These were moments when no one else was up and I could talk to my dad about little boy things without anyone else hearing me. We would talk about the mine and what it looked like and how careful he would have to be. I, in turn, would tell him where I was going to journey and I too would promise to be careful and not to worry my mother. My father would leave about 6 A.M. and many times I would wave at him as my dog and I walked out the wagon road towards the farm lands......waving, waving until he drifted out of sight. Walking the wagon road was always a good feeling to me. It meant I was on my own and soon I would smell the aroma of the farmers hay barn  and his
fresh cut hay. I would hear the sounds of the horses moving around in their
stalls and see the chickens scurrying about, cows milling around the
watering trough and the distant squeals of the farmer's pigs. The
temptation to stay a while was always great, so I made sure I paid a visit
to each before I went on my way.The farmer was also a coal miner and he just like my dad was up at the crack of dawn. He would let me help him feed the chickens and horses.....this was a big thing to me. Having made my stop at the barn, and said my good-byes to the farmer, I would cross through the barn and out the back door. The privilege of getting to go through the barn to the back door was considered a real short cut because around front the cows would make a big mess around  the watering
trough and I would get my toes full of muddy cow poop. I did have to
promise to lock the back door because that was where his sister, Margaret,
milked the cows. It was getting by the cows without getting kicked that
bothered me, for they knew me quit well for my little tricks. I guess I had
a little guilty conscious: milking them for a drink some times, trying to
ride them, and playing cowboys with them. They seem to always get fidgety
and start to move around when I would try to pass to the door so as I passed
I would hug the wooden barn wall. In all of those years, I never got kicked
but it wasn't because they didn't try.Now the horses were a little different. They tried to bite me when I attempted to climb the ladder into the hay loft. Their heads would stick out of the stalls far enough that I had to distract them by giving them extra oats in their feeders and then run and jump for my life up the ladder. My shirt got nipped a few times but none of them were quick enough to get a good hold of me. They knew me for my cowboy rides, which I would ride them until they were lathered up like someone had taken a bar of soap to them. The horses had a memory like an elephant. When John Ice plowed my dad's garden, many times they refused to plow until I was out of  sight. John was
a very kind person and when it came time to drag and smooth the plow
furrows, he would let me ride the drag. This provided more weight for
breaking up the large clods the plow had made earlier that morning. It was
during these rides the horses got even with me. When they saw me coming,
even though they wore side blinders, they started to stomp their feet and
when they would pull the drag, they would pass the most terrible stinkers I
ever smelled. I guess this was a horse's way of expressing, sweet revenge.
Between me and those two horses, Dick and Jack, all things seem to
balance.Closing and locking the barn's back door, it was time for me to cross the meadow to a well-beaten cow path. This crossing was relatively easy, but when you are bare footed you must chose your route very carefully. Margaret's cows were never very particular where they did their business in the field. Across the meadow, I would run like a footfall player dodging and weaving; catching up with my dog Boy. I would then slow down and catch my breath. We were now at a slow walk and entering an area near a deep ravine where the farmers had dug an old coal bank. We normally stopped here to get a cool drink of water from a stone cow trough and then eased our way up to the base of the Second Hill. It was around this hill's meadow, that a narrow path was etched by the horses who traveled it to get to a large shady hickory tree. Passing through the very steep hill side meadow was always fun. The hay was waist deep, turtles were in abundance, blue birds would fly out of the path, and an occasional rabbit distracted my dog. As we cleared the midway point, the end of the field, the large hickory and the beginning of a dense woods was visible. I always got down in an almost crawl, and then peeked up to see what was in store for me. Sometimes horses were there and some times a ground hog. Both were fair game for me to ride or chase. Today was the trip into the Fleming's woodland and it would be necessary for my dog and me to be as stealthy as possible. Paying no attention to the horses, we would crawl under the barb wire fence which led to Fleming's woodland. Just getting down on our bellies and crawling would set a tone of excitement. This was an area of virgin oak trees and deep ravines. It was an area that had an old grave yard, dating back to the late 1700's, and an old coal mine called devils point. All of these were exciting places to visit. However, the main place today was the large oak tree area with deep ravines. It was here that some of the worlds largest ground hogs roamed. They were large  because they had the opportunity to grow to full maturity. The deep ravines
with finger like projections from the hill above gave them a good lookout
site and made it difficult for a dog to reach them before they got into
their dens. So to get a Fleming's hog was a real trophy and a feather in
the best hunter's hat.What one has to remember, my dog was not just any dog, he was "BOY THE GROUND HOG DOG." Many times, Boy had made attempts at these hogs and many times, had come up short. As with any good hunter, he became smarter with time and had developed a stealth sneak attack technique. He would enter the bushy Hawthorn woods, take a detour to the right through the grave yard, and pretty much crawl on his stomach through old field and then pounce down the steep bank into the big woods. It was on this day as I was still trying to walk down the hill to the top of the ravine when I heard not a bark but a terrible commotion. There were tree limbs breaking, rocks rolling, dust bellowing in the air and the roar of animal growls. As I ran down the hill, what I thought I saw at first glance was a large bear rolling down into the ravine with my dog Boy. Without hesitation, I ran down the steep slope and found my dog in moral combat with the biggest ground hog that I had ever seen. Boy had the perfect hold on the hog and was not about to let loose. In order for him to have gotten that hold, Boy must have surprise him as he slept at the mouth of his burrow. It's teeth were three inches long and his hair had turned a shiny gray. I was only eight years old, down in a deep ravine and for the life of me, wondered how I was going to get that hog home. Boy had knocked the hog out but was not about to let go of it. Trying to get that ground hog out of that ravine was going to be real tricky. I would take 5 steps and my dog would grab it and drag me and the hog back down into that ravine. After about an hour of this, he and I got so wore out, we both laid down and rested. For some reason after the rest, we started pulling together and drug it up the ravine and onto a level place. Once on top, I got two bean poles from an old woodpile, some fresh grape vines and wove a mesh-like bed between the poles. This was an old Indian technique for hauling deer kills. It took me nearly an hour to drag that hog to the farmer's wagon road where the going was a lot easier. When some of the children saw me coming, they started walking towards me, and met about half way out the wagon road. They were still several feet from me and could not figure out what I was carrying on my Indian sled. They began to yell to their parents that I had killed a bear and to come see it. I can still hear their shouts: "Hey what you got there? Is that a bear?" "Well," I exclaimed, "it might as well be one. It's big enough to be a bear." The folks were really surprised to see such a large hog and then the questions started faster than I could answer. They ask over and over again, "Where did you get him? How did you catch such a large hog?" Now a good hunter doesn't tell all of his secrets so I just pointed at my dog, BOY. With that, they all started petting my dog and telling him what a great dog he was and how proud they were of him. By this time, word had spread throughout the community and about 25 people had assembled around us. All asking the same basic questions of who, what and where. Some of the local hunters had arrived and were showing an intense interest in knowing if there were other hogs that size. I told them a story about a hidden ravine that I had stumbled across and yes their were many others that size. I told them a story that led them away from my hunting place to somewhere near the old Wright's Homestead on the Buffalo Creek. Now, I thought, that should take them far enough away and keep them busy looking else where. As with every big catch, whether it be fish, deer, or ground hog, the hunters were never satisfied and wanted to know just how much it weighed. So with mothers permission, they gave me and BOY a ride to the old Conaway Feed Store and weighed it on the feed scales. I can still remember the gentleman who weighed it for me. When he got the final weight, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "41 pounds!!!" The crowd of hunters seemed to fall back as he yelled the weight once again. Then they all crowded around to get a better look at the scales. Now, that must be a world's record! World's record, yes a world record, no doubt about it. The hunters continued to say world's record until the shock wore off. Over the years, living in the little town of Barrackville, many  hunts took
place; but to my knowledge none have matched the ‘Fleming Woods Hog'. This
story will allow Boy's great battle to be known throughout the hills and for
all to know his hunting skills were never equaled. He was my best friend,
playmate and hunting partner and now he can also be a part of your memories
and be known as "BOY THE GREAT GROUND HOG DOG". |
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