Autumn, Durfee and Buck Hill

I haven’t written much in a while. I suppose that’s due to work and running out of subjects that charm me.



Fall is here in spades though. In the past few days I’ve been seeing more V formations of geese heading out of here. One time a while back I saw them flying at night which I thought they never did. That night I heard that honking noise, I looked up and saw the under lit bellies of the birds flying south. Observing nature can be improved by city light pollution! I’ve been told they “fly south” for the winter but where in the South? Probably some golf course in Hilton Head?


Here’s a thought that just popped into my head about autumn. I used to hunt with a friend a long, long time ago up in northwestern RI. We used to go for pheasant and anything else that moved. We weren’t seasoned hunters by a long shot. We were city boys who managed to pass the State’s Hunter Safety course and didn’t get lost in the wilds.


Our first “hunt” was at a place called Durfee Hill management area in Glocester. After we signed in to DEM’s hunting station, another hunter passed us who asked: “Do you have dogs?” Mark and I answered no and the guy told us we weren’t getting anything whatsoever. He didn’t have a dog to sniff and scare out the pheasants and warned us we were about to waste our time. Mark and I didn’t listen. This was our first hunt and we were ready to go.


We spent about four hours by the marshes watching those with dogs bag bird after bird. All I got was frosted fingers and muddy feet. I suggested to Mark we hike up into the deeper woods to find out if there was anything up there. We found nothing.


So, we became bored and hunted trees for a bit.


We were both itching to fire Mark’s shotguns. Both were 12 gauges. One was cheap with a steel butt plate, the other a hoity-toity Remington 870 with a fat recoil pad. Mark, being the generous prick that he was, lent me the cheap one. If you’ve never fired a light weight 12 gauge, the entire recoil hit travels right into your shoulder. If you want a comparison, just have some one ball up their fist and punch you in that shoulder pocket where you would place the butt of the gun.


I burned off a box of 25 Remington Nitro Express shotshells. We both were blasting bark off of trees and I noticed that my entire shoulder was becoming pretty sore. When I got home, I found it was bruised.


When you check into DEM’s hunting station, you’re also supposed to check out and fess up to what you bagged. We go in and this officer asks us did we get anything. I tell him no, nothing at all due to not having trained beagles to find the quarry. He then mentions he heard a lot of firing a mile east on the ridge and asks again. I tell him we “missed.” He then, in disgust, stamps the book and sends us on our way.


We “hunted” for one season only. The only things I managed to get was guff from local Burrilville hunters who regarded us Pawtucket city boys as carpetbaggers and a nice little autumn tour of the hills of RI. Oh, and we both bagged a bevy of oak trees.