Christian Creek Memoirs...

(This one is a little long. Sorry!)

I am from Montgomery, Alabama. That means something to me in a way that being from other places just simply can’t mean to other people. There really is something about Southern pride that will never cease to have a soft spot in my heart. But being from south Alabama means that I grew up doing things that other people in other parts of the country never did. One of them is hunting.

Now, before I start sounding as if I were some backwoods redneck who lives in a trailor and spends more on dip each month that insurance, you must understand that I am a city boy. But, even city boys have a love for hunting in Alabama. There is something truly remarkable about it in that way.

But really people do not hunt for the sake of hunting in Alabama—oh they might say they do, but they don’t. Perhaps there are a few lonely old men who hunt purely for the sake of hunting, but they are rare indeed; most hunt for other reasons. Some hunt because it is the only exciting and un-routine activity in their entire lives. Some hunt just to be outside and to see the beauty and simplicity and complexity of the woods (every single time being reminded of how breathtaking this world can be—I believe that it is impossible to remember what creation is like; it must be experienced again and again). And some hunt to have an excuse to get out of the city with a few buddies or family and forget that there is a world out there that wants nothing more than your very soul. That is why we hunt. I am truly convinced that we would still have hunted even if we never saw one deer.

“We” included me, Hunter Johnson, Scottie and Timothy Hatcher, Doug and Jason Killough, Trae Durden (our youth minister), at least one of Trae’s family members, and the occasional visitor (who mostly ended up being Jason Helton, Joey Hunt, or Mitchell Moore). The problem was that we only began to hunt a great deal together around the same time that Hunter and I went off to college. That meant that with the exception of the few times we hunted when Hunter and I got in from college at the same time, it seemed like we rarely got to hunt together. But the times we all did were truly fantastic.

We hunted on a rather large property around Greenville, Alabama. I don’t know if you saw that movie Sweet Home Alabama with Reese Witherspoon, but it was set there. (I have to tell you…it wasn’t the best representation I have ever seen of Greenville. In fact it was pretty much not like it at all. But, the name was the same, so I am sure that impresses someone.) Our hunting land was a few thousand acres that we leased under the guidance of Trae. I have no idea how he got a chance at that land, but he did. He told us some elaborate story involving smooth-talking and some overly generous paper company executives, but I’d imagine the truth lies somewhere only in the recesses of Trae’s memory. He lied so much over the years that I am not so sure that he retained any semblance of what actually happened in his life. But he told good lies. The kind that make you feel better when you have a bad day or that make large groups of people laugh so hard that they nearly stop breathing. In all fairness, I am not so sure I ever want to hear the truth behind so many of the stories that I hold so near and dear to my heart.

The property has two entrances, but really we only used one of them—the north gate. It was quite close to the interstate, and the road that it guarded was not too rough even on the weakest of vehicles. To get to it you have to go through a number of country roads that are littered with trailors and small, simple houses that typically house large families with even more animals than children. These people are wonderful people, but they live in a world that is looked down upon by virtually every single person who doesn’t live within it. They live on dirt roads far from cities and lights and are more content there than any of the people who feel as though a $500,000 mortgage is the pinnacle of human existence. While I would not say that I am lucky enough to be one of those people, I must admit that I like dealing with them. It keeps me real, and in my mind that is one of the nicest compliments I could pay to someone.

After you get off the paved road and start on the curvy dirt road through the houses and trailors, you soon come to the gate. It had a sign attached that read Christian Creek Hunting Club. It really should have read something like The Land to which the Men of Dalraida Church of Christ Come to Play. Immediately to the left of the gate is a small grassy trail that leads to an even smaller green field which houses one of our many stands. Many an hour has been wasted on that green field.

Passing through the gate, you begin the winding dirt road into the property itself. The road is sandy, and runs in between baby pines and brown grass that is as tall as most of us. It is not the typical landscape of south central Alabama, but it is pretty in its own way. The road is straight at the very beginning, though, and it runs parallel to the land of someone whom I am sure we never met but have accused of poaching and baiting more times than I can remember. And after a few hundred yards on that road it soon becomes evident that you are heading deep into a place that you can never forget.

The road forks once or twice but it is quite clear which side of the fork takes you to the main camp. Once you ride a mile or so, you see it. Our glorious camp. It was then that you noticed that the landscape had changed. The baby pines gave way to hardwoods. These are the kind of beautiful that Robert Frost wrote about. I doubt very seriously if my grandchildren will ever see anything as beautiful as a tall group of pine trees next to some big oak trees changing color in the fall. That is truly a shame.

Camp consists of a trailor that would have been condemned under more reasonable circumstances, a rack for cleaning deer, a couple of wooden shacks that were made to be practical but really just ended up being more hassle than they were help, and a small area designated for burning a fire—which we did on a regular basis. Beside the fire pit and in front of the trailor was the parking lot. From the backs of trucks many profound lies were told: bucks were killed, girls were swooned, deals were made, and many a man made the bold assertion that whatever form of authority or restriction might be in his life, it did not matter; hunting was the most important of things. Behind the camp was the ever-important trail that led to where the 4-wheelers were stored—this also doubled as the preferred crapping spot for the majority of our group, so one always wore his/her hunting boots when going to the 4-wheelers. From the main camp what seemed like a million dirt roads and hunting trails were formed. Camp was the heart and soul of that place.

It almost always happened like this: Caleb, Trae’s younger brother, would be living in the trailor. He was supposed to either be in Florida with his family, at college, or working, but he rarely did any of those things. He just lived out in the woods. He didn’t bathe for days at a time, and got fat off of canned chili and coke. I swear he weighed 300 lbs. He played video games in the trailor at night and would go days without speaking to one single person. While I am constantly finding new ways to be disgusted by that boy, I can’t help but admit that I like him. He leads an existence that is completely foreign even to mine, and I can’t help but find it intriguing—albeit blatantly lethargic.

We almost always would arrive in the afternoon. We quit lying to ourselves years ago and virtually gave up trying to drive the hour-long misery ride from Montgomery to Christian Creek before daylight. It became our unspoken understanding that we would bypass morning hunts on days we woke up in Montgomery, and would concentrate on hunting in the afternoons. We would show up far too late to actually do any real hunting, and would hop into the stands about 2 hours before twilight—just enough time to convince ourselves that it was worth the drive. We would come back to camp about 15 minutes after dark, and would lie to ourselves and to one another saying that we heard something, but couldn’t get a glimpse of it before dark. Perhaps someone ought to return to that stand the next day with the hopes of seeing the illustrious deer.

Then someone would ask the question that was really on all of our minds the whole time: so are we going to stand around all night like idiots or are we going to ride 4-wheelers? Now, there is a possibility that you do not know much about hunting, so let me let you in on a little secret: it is a very bad idea to ride 4-wheelers around your hunting trails a few short hours before you plan to hunt on them. In fact, that is probably one of the best ways to scare away every single deer that had ever even thought of coming out that night. But we didn’t care. We would put on about 14 layers of clothes and would hop on top of those glorious death machines (sometimes 2-3 people per ATV), and would ride up and down the roads in the cold night air and would race one another and scream at one another and call each other names and would feel completely and utterly alive.

We would return to camp after our noses and knuckles could simply take no more of the cold night wind. We went straight for the fire where we stayed for hours and hours. We would eat and fart and make fun of one another. We talked about the things that you would expect at any gathering of men of that age and background: we caught up on what was going on with each of us (we were separated by time, distance, and girls—if there were ever 3 things that ruined friendships, these were them), we talked about hunting, we talked about the future, we talked about girls, we talked about friends, and we always talked about God.

I cannot spend this time telling you about this place that has meant so much to me and not tell you a story that illustrates the kind of place it was.

This sticks in my mind like it were made of duct tape (I would use a more sophisticated type of adhesive to illustrate my point, but I am not so sure it would do my memory or Christian Creek justice). Trae had volunteered Christian Creek to host a program directed by the Alabama Wildlife Federation called Wheeling Sportsmen. It is a rather respectable program that took handicapped people from all over the state and gave them opportunities to hunt. I say that the program was respectable in a feeble attempt to counteract the absolutely hilarious shame that was to proceed. Trae told us that the man who was coming out to hunt did not have any arms, and that he used prosthetic limbs. Trae nicknamed him “Hooks” before we even met him. While I must admit that this name was in every possible way a shame both to us and to the church we represented, and while I would like to say that Trae was the only one who called him that, I truthfully cannot remember the poor man’s name. He will forever be burned into my memory as Hooks. I might go to hell for that.

There were several guys there this weekend; all the regulars came and I believe there were some more of us. It didn’t matter: we had plenty of land. Trae and I went the afternoon that Hooks and his friend got there and we set them up in a deer blind out in the middle of a barren clear cut that was more depressing than anything. There was not a shot in hell that they were going to see any life whatsoever out there—it was right on the road and you could see for thousands of yards in all directions. They were right in the middle where every animal in Butler County could see them. It was a pathetic excuse for a stand, but it made Trae feel like he had done his good deed for the day.

Needless to say, several hunts had passed and Hooks and his friend had not seen anything. We picked them up at their stand after every hunt and listened to them fumble over the lies that would elevate them to the status of warrior over a campfire. They too had heard something they could only explain as a big buck wandering around looking for food or sex. They too were men.

On the second day of our charitable hunting trip we decided that we would go on an afternoon 4-wheeler ride—I am sure we told each other that we wanted to check a stand or trail, but really we just wanted another excuse to ride around yet again. As we were returning to camp, we noticed something moving around in the bushes beside the road. We kept riding along and were startled by a large white creature that came barreling out at us in the middle of the road. It didn’t take us long to figure out what had happened. Mitchell had gotten himself a full-body lamb suit, complete with a bushy tail and 2 perfectly fluffy little ears that stuck up from his head as if to say that he had lost every ounce of pride that he would ever hope of having. We laughed until we were weak.

We went back to camp and began the preparations for the events of the next day. We all got our fresh camo ready and for some reason unknown to me told every person in the trailor what we would wear the next day. It was then Mitchell realized that he had accidentally left all of his hunting clothes at home—which was about an hour away. He decided it was not worth the drive. If I remember one thing in my life, it will be the image of riding on the 4-wheeler to pick up Hooks the next morning and looking into the same clear cut and seeing a 6 ft. bleach white lamb sitting in a tree stand a few hundred yards off with a .30/06 in his lap.

Hooks and his friend left before lunch and we never saw them again. But, that did not stop us from going to Trae’s favorite restaurant, Cracker Barrel, for lunch. He would always want to go there after a failed hunt. I think it made him feel better knowing that even if he couldn’t kill a deer with thousands of dollars worth of equipment, bait, and a barely-legal rifle, he could kill himself with bacon grease and maple syrup. Oh, how he loved that place.

We walked in and all eyes looked to Little Lamby (we had long since stopped calling him Mitchell). We then proceeded to do the only rational thing that one could do in that situation: we pretended like he was retarded and tried to get free food out of it. Once we realized that was an endeavor doomed for failure, Trae took him up to the front of the restaurant—you know, that spot right between the fireplace and giant checkerboard—and led the entire restaurant in a rousing round of “Happy Birthday, Little Lamby.”

We should be ashamed of ourselves.

There are many more stories that I could tell—like the one when Hunter woke up suddenly in the night only to forget that the ceiling was 6 inches from his head. He smacked his face on the cheap plastic that separated our bodies from the winter sky moving so fast I am surprised he didn’t pass out. Or I could tell you about the touch football games played around the parking lot, or about the time that Joey Hunt crapped in Trae’s bucket—only to ensue a hatred that would keep us entertained for years and years. Or I could tell you about the few deer that were actually killed out there, but what would be the point? That was not really our purpose for being there. We were there for each other.

At Christian Creek we found much more than a nasty trailor and dusty dirt roads. We found our friends. We found our happiness. We found our lives. It never failed that we would feel alive during the times we spent there. I don’t really understand it, but I think there are multiple types of alive that men feel. Sometimes men feel so beautifully alive when they are with the woman they love. Sometimes they feel alive when they work. But sometimes they feel the kind of alive that it is impossible to feel except with good friends. It is that kind of alive that we felt together there in those days. None of us will ever be able to forget that place or those times. Perhaps in that way, our youth will continue forever. I would like that very much.