 My daughter and I first met Samuel B. Rourk outside our leased cow pasture the day after we moved to South Carolina. Our animals were due to arrive, and "Buck,” the farmer who leased the pasture previously, was out of town, as was his key to the gate. Buck arranged for "S.B.,” the pasture manager, to give us a spare key.
The three of us chatted for a while, and as is inevitable, I bragged about my daughter's archery skills and our mutual love of hunting. S.B. then told us he was president of the club just down the road, the Community Hunting Club of Elloree. I asked what the membership fees were, and he told us the cost, but then added, "Ladies are free! Come join us any Saturday morning you want!" I was taken aback by the generous show of hospitality, but then again, this is the South, so I need not have been surprised. I teased, "Are you sure that's a good idea? We're pretty good shots!" He repeated the invitation, and said he'd love to have us. What a great place this would be to live! Only one day here, and we've already been invited on a hunt!
Finding the time to hunt would be another story entirely. Our cattle would be staying near Elloree, our goats would stay with a fellow near Santee, I still had to return to Pennsylvania for settlement and drive back with my husband, then the next three months would be spent going back and forth between my parents' house north of Lake Marion and a tiny condominium at Myrtle Beach. My husband's health was poor, and the ocean air was just what the doctor ordered. Besides, my children had never seen the ocean, and the off season rent was much cheaper than anything we could find in Santee. During that time, we had to purchase land, I had to shop for and order a manufactured home, care for the animals, and arrange for all necessary permits. When I did manage to get out on one hunt at a friend's farm, I saw nothing. The long season was quickly coming to a close and I was empty-handed.
I had put off the invitation to hunt with the club because of some prejudices I had about their style of hunting. Too bad it was a dog drive with shotguns and buckshot, I thought to myself. “Can't be much fun in that . . . not very sporting.” Up north, I hunted by sneaking, stalking, and sitting along likely trails, pitting my senses against the deer's superior senses and instincts. However, my newly purchased little 16 acre lot held no opportunity for that strategy, and I was getting very hungry for venison. A friend of mine from the WomenHunters™ site urged me not to dismiss the invitation; a dog drive is simply another way to hunt deer. So, on New Year's Eve morning, I showed up at the club and announced, "I'm not sure I belong here, but S.B. told me to come sometime, so here I am!"
I have always believed that some of the best company is to be found among sportsmen, especially Southern ones. My beliefs were strengthened that morning. You would have thought I was a long lost cousin! S.B. looked up from his cooking, came from the kitchen, and announced my presence to the growing group of sportsmen. Several came over and introduced themselves to me, one saying, "There are no strangers here! Welcome!" I began to see what was meant by "Southern Hospitality.” I was truly among friends.
After the drivers and the club officers went over some topo maps and planned where to release the dogs and place the standers, S.B. rang a bell and called us all to order in outside the clubhouse. After going over some important safety rules and hunting etiquette, S.B. announced, "We like to keep doe numbers high, so the hunt is for bucks only, except that women and youth may shoot does!" Some numbered metal tags were placed in a tin cup, which was passed around for each to draw a stand. Then hunters were sent out in groups according to the area hunted.
I went with an older gentleman named John. S.B. had told him to take good care of Judy, since "She is used to hunting with a high-powered rifle, not a shotgun." Little did they know that I shot my first two deer with buckshot over two decades ago! I was quite comfortable with it. Still, the special treatment was really nice. How often does a lady get such consideration these days?
The morning hunt was uneventful for me, but the stander nearest to me did get a buck. After a couple hours, John came by in his truck and we went to join the hunters back at the clubhouse. I watched as a few young fellows quickly skinned and quartered the deer harvested in the morning, then we went in for dinner.
John told me to be sure to get some black-eyed peas and collard greens for good luck for the New Year. After all were seated, a preacher in the group stood up and led us all in prayer. I found this to be particularly refreshing! How many other social groups do this in these secular times? Not one hunter objected, or claimed his "civil rights" were violated. Yes, these were my kind of folks!
I was just about to head home for the afternoon and accept a deer-less year when another elderly man, Don, asked me if I was joining them for the hunt. "We're hunting again? I wouldn't miss it!" I exclaimed. S.B. rang the bell and we all drew tags. I happened to draw a tag for a cypress swamp not far from my home. I was with Don's group, and he drove me and another "ex-Yankee" to our stands. Don told me exactly where to sit, and as John had done in the morning, he let me use his portable chair.
I listened for the dogs to start baying, and saw a few of them criss-cross through the swamp and head into a brushy field nearby. Nothing much happened at first, but then the dogs got really excited, and I got ready. I heard the telltale sound of four hooves approaching. I had to make a quick decision when I saw the antlerless deer coming at a lope. Was it big enough? S.B. would fine us for anything under 65 lbs. I am used to figuring the weight on dairy goat kids, and this was definitely over the lower limit, so I shot. He broke into a run, I swung on him and shot again. He was down! But wait, the head came up. No way would I let my prize go off into a swamp and be lost . . . I aimed high so as not to hurt the meat. I went over to see my deer. It was a buck after all! I felt good that I did not take a doe so close to my home . . . more chances for deer the following year, I figured. The dogs caught up to my deer and sniffed him. I was crying tears of joy, and thanked the hard-working creatures for my prize.
Don heard the shots, drove over right away, and came into the swamp to retrieve my deer so the dogs wouldn't eat him. He laughed and said, "You got a buck, but you shot the antler off! Go ahead and sit back down. You can still get any deer you see. S.B. will count this as a buck." I did sit back down, but saw nothing. I didn't care. I had my deer, and that one was enough to call the year a success. It was exactly one year prior to this that I had gotten a 115 lb. button buck with my flintlock in western PA, and I thought back to the joy of that hunt shared with a good friend. How I missed him! I rejoiced in the fortune of finding new hunting friends after my world changed so much with our move. Wherever there are true sportsmen, there are friends.
Back at the clubhouse, S.B. awaited my arrival. He teased me about shooting the antler off my deer. Then he sat me down for a traditional initiation. One of the fellows cleaning my deer came over and smeared my face, while one of the ladies in the group took a picture. I protested that this was not my first deer, but they said, "It is your first one HERE!" No doubt some folks would find this vulgar, but I just saw it as a simple "redneck" celebration. I was in the South, after all, and I had just taken part in a deep-rooted tradition, the dog drive. There was no pretense in these folks, just a love of hunting, an appreciation for good meat, good friends, and good fun.
I saw S.B. again at the club's annual pig roast that they offer free to the entire community of Elloree. He sat across from me and pulled a photo out of his pocket. It was a slightly red-faced lady who had just gotten her first South Carolina deer. He teased me again about shooting off the antler. That was the last time I saw my new friend. When I showed up to hunt with the club this year, he was no longer in the kitchen. The fellow taking names said he had died a few months before. I could not help crying. Every time we lose a person as wonderful as that, a piece of our hunting tradition dies as well.
I missed out on S.B.'s invitation to membership due to my prejudices against dog hunts. Ladies are no longer free, but I plan to save my money for next year, as the five hunts per season allowed for visitors is not enough for me. These folks are no less sportsmen just because they use dogs. They put safety first. They have a heart for conservation, and a respect for the deer. Their hunting is by no means a "sure thing.” Those deer can go just about anywhere undetected, slipping past driver and stander alike. I will be proud to be a member of the Community Hunting Club......if they will have me!
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