Fernando’s Serenade

In a small cabin at the Fisherman’s Cove Resort on Curlew Lake, eight men prepared for a week of deer hunting on Vulcan Mountain. This was the opening weekend.  This was the final weekend of the World Series and this was the year we witnessed “The Phantom.”

Fernando was a friend of mine from work. He was always laughing, always smiling, and was always the practical joker. I enjoyed all the men at our hunting cabin because we were on the same crew at work and we all looked out for each other. As with most our hunting trips, we would come back to camp at the end of each day skunked. You would think that out of eight guys we could get one deer.

It was a Saturday morning. I was on the mountain hunting by myself when I saw a group of does. I watched them for a while hoping a buck would appear. The does slowly disappeared over the edge of the wooded hillside. When I crept over to where they had stood and looked over the edge, I saw him. The biggest buck with the largest rack I had ever seen. I was standing on a log at the time and when I pulled up my rifle, I was not stable. I shot twice. Both shots missed. The Phantom disappeared into the woods with his harem.

That night, we all rolled into camp again without deer. It was the final game of the World Series. Fernando wanted to watch it and since there was no TV at Curlew Lake, I told him that I would drive him into the town of Republic so he could watch the game at a bar.

Fernando liked his alcohol. Following his pickup on the drive over the mountains, every twenty minutes the back windows on the cab would open and beer cans would be tossed into the bed. Every forty-five minutes, his truck would pull over so he and his rider could get out and empty the beer from their systems. It was a long trip.

At the time, the town of Republic had five taverns on the short Main Street. I parked and Fernando went into the first and ordered a drink while he watched the big screen TV. After twenty minutes he arose, went to the street, and entered the next bar at which he ordered a drink and watched the game. This same pattern continued through all five bars. After the fifth bar he got up to start all over again when I grabbed him by the arm.

“Come on Fernando. We have to get up early and I think you had enough to drink a long time ago,” I said.

By that time, he was unable to walk straight, so I got him into the truck and we drove back to the cabin.

When we entered, the rest of the men were asleep. Fernando’s wife had packed a jar of her homemade pepper sauce. It was pea green and when the lid was removed, the jar burped a green fog. Fernando, now deciding he was hungry, got a large can of shrimp from his pack and dumped it onto a plate. He then burped open the jar of green pepper sauce and ladled it over the shrimp.

Watching him eat it was something I had never witnessed before. He would put a fork full of the pepper-seasoned shrimp in his mouth and chew it up. Then he would start to perspire, his face turned red, his eyes bulged, and he would exhale in short bursts through puffed cheeks while making a “whoo, whoo” sound.  He did this for every bite and finished off the full plate. He then fell into bed.

Sometime around three in the morning we were awakened by the sound of screaming and moaning. Running to the bathroom we found Fernando lying on the floor with his head over the toilet bowl screaming, “Somebody kill me!”

With everyone now awake we started prepping lunches for the day and eating breakfast. Fernando, still lying on the bathroom floor moaned, “I don’t think I’m going to make it today boys.”

The boys, none too happy about the early morning toilet bowl reveille, responded with, “You’re going!”

We got him dressed and tossed him on the bed of a truck. I am sure the ride up Vulcan Mountain was bumpy, but at least he could sleep. It was during one of the pothole bumps that Fernando sat up and looked over the edge of the pickup and down the hillside. There, one hundred yards down the hill stood the Phantom. Fernando slapped the side of the truck for the driver to stop. The rest of the vehicles pulled alongside to see what he was so excited about. He climbed out loading his rifle although still very much inebriated.

“Don’t worry boys, I’ve got him.” He whispered. He stood aiming down the hill.

“Boom!”

A cloud of dust sprayed about fifteen feet to the right of the gigantic buck.

“I’ll take a Mulligan,” he said.

Now, all the crew was standing on the edge of the road watching. Fernando chambered another shell and fired. Closer, but to the left. The buck stood staring up the hill.

“Maybe I better shoot lying down,” he slurred. “Someone pass me my pack.” He laid down on the side of the road resting his rifle on his backpack to steady it. Loading another shell, he aimed for what seemed to be sixty seconds and then squeezed the trigger. The slug hit somewhere off in the woods below, not even close to the Phantom. The deer, then figuring he had given Fernando enough chances, walked slowly off into the woods. There would be no more shots for Fernando, for now Fernando lay fast asleep in the morning sun.

In the years since, Fernando has given up both hunting and strong drink. Continuing in his tradition, he has taken up golf.

“Don’t worry boys, I’ve got this.”

Swing! Slice!

“I’ll take a Mulligan on this one.”

Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes