How many names can one man have, one may ask?

Jim.

Pecker.

Papa.

Mr. Snell.

Or as Fred frequently referred to him, “You asshole.”  Actually, that’s how they referred to each other.

Jim passed away on March 31st of last year.  I was proud to be an honorary pallbearer at the memorial held for him at a National Cemetery.  He was a veteran of the U.S. Navy, National Guard and the Army Reserves.

I met Jim in November of 1997 when I was invited by my brother Darin to be a last minute fill-in on a two or three day deer hunt in Stigler, Oklahoma.  At the time, Darin was sending employees down to a ranch for these hosted hunts as a reward for jobs well done, but luckily for me, an employee had to back out, so Darin gave me a call.  A few minutes later, I was using airline miles to grab a flight to Dallas, which was where Darin was living at the time.  Fast forward a few weeks and we were heading northwest on Route 75 en route to the Sooner state.  We made a brief stop at the first Walmart we spotted after crossing into Oklahoma for our licenses and eventually pulled into Stigler around dinnertime. We checked into Don’s Motel, and followed that with an entirely forgettable meal in Don’s restaurant.

The ranch belonged to the father of one of Darin’s employees and during deer season served as deer camp for a group of local hunters.  We met Lonnie Tate early the next morning in a parking lot a little further into town and introduced ourselves.  It was most apparent that Mr. Tate had very little regard for yankees; even less for yankees he didn’t know; and likely none for the one with a diamond stud in his left ear.  He didn’t have much to say other than telling us to follow him back to his house.

“Friendly guy, huh?”  Darin smiled as he said it, once we were back in the truck.

After trailing Lonnie’s tail lights for 10 miles or so, we parked in his driveway and exited the truck.  Lonnie sat in his vehicle, engine running and lights still on, appearing to have no intention of getting out of his pickup.  Darin and I shrugged at each other and eventually tapped on Lonnie’s driver side window.  He rolled the window down and we wordlessly looked back and forth amongst our group of three.  Finally, Lonnie muttered, “Get in my truck so I can show you where you’ll be hunting.”  We dutifully circled around to the passenger side as Lonnie rolled his window back up.

Just as Darin was opening the passenger door I snickered, “Friendly guy, huh?”

It was clear as he drove us around that Lonnie was enjoying himself, believing he was confusing a couple of snownecks in the pitch black.  It became a game to him as he circled and backtracked around the ranch.  He would occasionally point into the dark hardwoods and say, “That’s a good spot,” as he grinned to himself, making it painfully obvious he was trying to confuse us.  It’s not an uncommon perception that all New Yorkers live on concrete, particularly of those folks who have never visited the Empire State.  After entertaining himself for about thirty minutes or so, which included me getting out to open and close every gate (much to Lonnie’s glee), he broke the silence when he said, “I’ll take you back to your truck so you can get started.”

I looked at Darin and then turned back to our tour guide.  I did my best to temper my sarcasm when I answered, “Well then, you’d better turn around and head back that way,” as I pointed behind us.

I could see the smile on his face, illuminated by the dashboard lighting.  I had passed his little test.  More approval followed when he questioned us about licenses.  “I don’t suppose you bought yourselves a hunting license?” he said with a little exasperation.  I pulled the permit out of my pocket and held it up.  I’m sure that some of the previous hunters got all the way to the camp, forgetting to buy their non-resident permit prior to their arrival.

“Oh, good,” he said with a hint of surprise in his tone, “Good, good, that’s good,” while nodding.  Maybe we weren’t typical yankees after all.

Darin and I hunted through the entire morning.  He was glassing some big fields while I still-hunted.  There was a maze of dry creek beds throughout the woods with some as deep as a man is tall.  I would slowly course through the dried waterways and then periodically stick my head up and peek over the edge of the bed.  I was, essentially, unseen in the woods and it almost paid off.  After hearing some rustling in the leaves, I took a peek and saw a beautiful ten pointer standing about thirty yards away – but all I could see was his head and rack.  His body was concealed by a large oak blowdown.  Since I was effectively underground, I had no option to stand or reposition myself and I watched his rack disappear further into the woodlot.  And while I was frustrated at the lack of a shot opportunity, I was thrilled to have seen the buck.  It was the largest deer I had ever seen while hunting.

We met Lonnie at lunchtime and he passed us some sandwiches and bottles of water.  The plan was for him to show us more of the ranch (in the daylight this time) so we could expand our hunting territory that afternoon.  As he drove us around, he asked if we had seen anything and I passed on my morning’s experience to him.  I could tell by his reaction that he knew of the deer I saw.  I could also tell that the yankee stereotype was slowly melting away, although I still noticed him gazing at my earring a couple of times.

We passed a parked pickup truck and Lonnie told us that it belonged to a fella named Bobby, also known as Hippy.  “He’s a good guy.  He’s got long hair, but he’s okay,” he stated, as if trying to convince us that long-haired folks were usually impugned in these parts with Hippy being the rare exception.  Lonnie was again eyeing up my earring and when I caught him staring, he quickly looked away.

“Why don’t y’all come to the camp for dinner tonight?  After you get out of the woods, I’ll drive you over and then you can meet some of the fellas that hunt here.”

“Thanks, Lonnie, but I think we’ll just head back to the motel and have some of that great food at Don’s,” Darin bantered.

“C’mon, let’s get you out to camp, we’ve got fried catfish for dinner and then the boys usually play cards.  Come on out and say hello,” Lonnie returned.  Darin looked to me and I shrugged, “Alright, Lonnie.  You’re on.”  If long hair was an issue down here, I could only imagine what these boys would think of the stud in my ear.  My pessimism surfaced, as I thought we were possibly being invited to serve as a form of entertainment.

“Oh, and if you have any alcohol with you, leave it in your truck.  It’s a dry camp.”

So, at dark with the temperature dropping faster than the sun, Darin and I exited the woods and found Lonnie waiting for us in his pickup.  He drove us around and about the ranch again, through numerous gates, finally pulling up to a bunch of parked trucks and a couple large green army tents.  One tent was lifeless, the other awake with light and voices within.

As we entered the canvas shelter, I was immediately overwhelmed by a few things;  the warmth that was given off by the barrel stove was inviting; the hint of the smoke from the oak burning inside it; the smell of the cowboy coffee that was percolating on the gas stove; and the aroma of deep-fried fish.

There were cots with sleeping bags scattered about, surrounding a table which served food or cards, depending upon the evening hour.  Each cot was paired with a duffle bag and a rifle.

But the most obvious presence of all was the camaraderie, evidenced by the din of multiple conversations amongst the tent’s occupants; a group of men, sharing a common belief system in pursuit of their happiness.  It was blatant.

So this is what a hunting camp is like!  Hook, line, sinker…

It was then that I noticed the steady low-grade hissing of the two Coleman gas lanterns as they emitted a glow across the interior of the tent.  With the absence of voices, it was the only sound that pierced the sudden silence as eight or ten sets of eyes were cast upon us as we entered.  Lonnie introduced us, “Boys, these are the fellas hunting near my house.  This is my son’s employer Darin and his brother George.”

Handshakes, nods and names were briefly exchanged and then the quiet returned.  Out of the group, there were four who immediately made a lasting impression in my mind.  Hippy was the first because of Lonnie’s description earlier in the day; next was Fred in his ubiquitous overalls with a ready smile on his face; then there was Kenny with a quiet politeness as he said, “It’s nice to meet you boys;” and lastly, Jim Snell.

“Jim Snell,” he stated as he shook my hand.  He was neither impressed nor annoyed.  His facial expression did not betray his thoughts, not a smile nor a scowl.

But it was his eyes that really caught my attention.  They were a hard and steeled blue.  They were piercing and serious.

And that was all.  Two words.  He had no interest in a conversation.  He went back to his previous activity, which was procuring a fresh plug of Red Man and inserting it within his cheek.  He would periodically look around the room as he observed the two new faces interacting with the familiar ones.  He would occasionally spit into a red Solo cup with a folded paper towel in its bottom serving as his spittoon.

The banter in the room was slowly returning, although there remained some level of awkwardness.  The token “where are you from” and “what do you do” conversations dotted the tent’s atmosphere.  Remember, my brother had been sending employees down to the camp for a couple of years and it was the hunting club membership’s responsibility to host those guests.  They prepared and shared their food with them; they shared their hunting grounds, blinds and stands with them; they shared their tent with them.  That was what they were required to do in exchange for the hunting rights to the ranch.  Each man paid $250 a year to retain his membership in the club in addition to his sweat equity in planting food plots, hanging stands and setting up and breaking down the camp.  We were just two more strangers, part of the weekly outsider roster change in their camp.  And we were yankees to boot.

Jim & Fred

Fred and Jim had returned to the stove where they were cooking the catfish and hush puppies.  I wandered over in that direction to see if I could score a mug of the coffee I could smell upon my entry into the tent.

Fred asked, “What are you huntin’?”

“A coffee cup,” I replied.

“Do you want just the cup or do you want to put somethin’ in it?”  He smiled as he said it.

I smiled back, “I’ll take both if you’re offering.”

“Well, let me make you a fresh pot.  There’s hardly enough left in there to fill your cup.  Jim, you watch the stove.”

“I am watchin’ the stove.  Why the hell do you think I’m standing here?”

“You asshole,” Fred muttered as he went to fetch some coffee grinds.

Jim’s expression never altered during their exchange.  An awkward silence appeared again between us as I awaited Fred’s return.  I made a few attempts to generate a rapport but only received short-worded answers and that was only when a head nod or shake wouldn’t suffice.

I then asked, “Who caught the catfish?”

I saw, just barely, a slight smile come to his face.  “Fred and I did.  We set out trotlines every April on the upper end of Kerr Lake.”  Jim, I would learn, loved to fish more than he loved to hunt.  By a lot.

He proceeded to explain what a trotline was when he saw the puzzled look on my face.  I took the unsolicited explanation as a positive sign, maybe a slight cracking of the ice.  But just as the pause in our discussion was about to become pregnant again, Fred returned and offered his take on their annual exercise in stocking the freezer with Flatheads, Blues and Channel cats.  They usually stopped after catching about a thousand pounds as their freezers would be full, Fred informed me, but one year they had caught over 3500 pounds.

Jim had nothing else to offer.  Back to square one.

“Dinner’s ready!  Get you a plate and grab somethin’ to eat,” Fred commanded everyone.

After following his directive, we all sat around the table in the middle of the tent.  Kenny said a prayer, and then we dove into our meal.  The comfort level with one another was improving with every mouthful of fried catfish.  As the food disappeared, so did the awkwardness of “visiting” with new acquaintances.  When Fred opened the barrel stove’s door to throw in another stick of wood, I felt it’s warmth and could smell it’s smoke again.  I was feeling comfortable and welcomed.

Then, as can happen in deer camp, someone farted at the table, followed by sophomoric giggling.  Jim uttered two words.  “That’s rude.”  The laughter picked up in its intensity in response to his humorous editorial.  Brevity is truly the soul of wit.

The ball busting was now on full display as it became a friendly game of poking fun along the lines of north and south:

Hippy asked, “What’s up with that earring?  Real men who live in Oklahoma don’t wear jewelry in their ears.”

“What is the deal with your hair?” I calmly responded.  More laughter, but Hippy wasn’t letting the north versus south thing go.

“Did you say y’all came all the way down here just to shoot a deer?  Can yankees even shoot straight?”

“First of all, ‘y’all’ is not a word.  Secondly, we won the war, didn’t we?” I deadpanned back.  Everyone feigned insult, followed by more laughter.  Throughout the entire exercise though, I had noticed that Jim seem to be avoiding direct participation in the back-and-forth, good-natured harassment.  He was smiling at our verbal parries, but didn’t say much, less his two word commentary on dinner table flatulence.  Everyone else was in full ball-breaking mode.

Fred leaned over when he saw my plate emptied of its contents.  “Go get you some more,” he said with a nod towards the stove.  “There’s plenty.”

I thanked him and made my way to the stove and filled my plate for round two.  It was the first time I had eaten fried catfish breaded with crushed Saltines and it was outstanding.  It was also the first time I had seen, let alone eaten, a hush puppy.  I was questioning myself as to why I had waited thirty-something years to try this southern classic when one particular, formerly quiet, voice raised above the din of the room.

“George!” Jim barked out.

I froze.  I immediately thought maybe I had unwittingly broken some unwritten protocol of their deer camp.  My eyes met with his hardened gaze, and a hush came over the tent.  For a brief second or two, all that was heard was the propane burning in the lamps and the groan of the woodstove.  All eyes were on me.

“Would you like some tartar sauce to put on your catfish?” he politely asked.

I felt immediate relief that I hadn’t offended him, nor anyone else in the tent.  It didn’t register in my mind that smiles and smirks were starting to form on the faces of the tent’s inhabitants as I answered enthusiastically, “Jim, I would love some tartar sauce!”  I was completely blind to what was happening.  From my perspective, here was this man who hadn’t said much at all the entire night, even as the rest of us let our respective guards down, offering me something that would make my fantastic dinner taste exceptional.  He had just said more words than he had uttered over the last hour, all for the betterment of my experience.  I hesitated, eagerly anticipating directions from Jim as to where I could find said tartar sauce.  But they never came.

“So would I!” he roared sarcastically, implying that there wasn’t a damn lick of tartar sauce within fifteen miles of the tent.  His eyes got big when he laughed.  Everyone saw it coming.  Everyone, that is, but me.  Laughter filled our dimly lit space and I stood there, smiling and laughing, shaking my head as I looked down at the ground.

Before I returned to the table, I stopped for a moment to quietly appreciate where I was and to remind myself to savor it, because I would be back in New York in what would seem like no time.  I felt the warmth of the room from both the woodstove and the newfound kinship.  I listened to the lamps burning overhead.  I could smell the wood burning and the coffee on the stove.

I didn’t want to leave.