Backwoods Encounter
By Timothy A. Fenner
       
       
       
       
      Throughout my childhood, I had what some might call an 
overactive imagination, as well as an unhealthy predisposition 
of being a daydreamer. No matter where I was or what I was 
doing, if I had a moment to spare, I’d use it to escape into one 
of my fantasy worlds, where half-naked damsels needed saving 
from dragon-riding Nazi’s, and hordes of Martians fell by the 
thousands at the deadly end of my rifle barrel.
      Unfortunately, my daydreaming didn’t go unnoticed. 
      More times than I wish to count, I’d find myself being 
lectured after zoning out in class or at the wrong end of my 
dad’s boot for drifting off during chores. Even momma would jump 
on my case if she caught me with a blank stare on my face at the 
dinner table.
      Didn’t stop me from doing it though. I kept dreaming all 
the way up to my fifteenth birthday, until the day reality 
became more fantastical than any dream I could ever hope to 
concoct.
      November 1, 1974.
      This particular birthday would prove to be a day of many 
firsts: first time owning a gun, first time drinking alcohol, 
and the first time I ever saw a girl naked… at least, one 
outside the crumpled pages of a magazine.
      And the first time I shot someone.
      Back in those days, we lived in the deepest of deep 
country, breeding horses at the edge of a four-hundred-and-
eighty acre stretch of land bordering the Great Smoky Mountains. 
Our little farmhouse stood about twenty miles from the nearest 
town, and five miles from the nearest neighbor, putting us about 
as far from humanity as the man on the moon.
      The isolation resulted in a lot of boredom. Summers were 
the absolute worst. As an only child, I’d often be left to 
entertain myself, which resulted in a lot of mischief, such as  
taunting the bull, launching off questionable ramps with my 
bike, and burning just about anything I could get away with, 
and, of course, daydreaming. 
      My only reprieve came in the form of hunting. It didn’t 
take long for me to fall in love with it. Hunting had 
everything: guns, danger, privacy, and well…guns.
      Once old enough to hunt alone, my parents let me burn every 
ounce of daylight in the backwoods, plunking down a wide variety 
of critters with my father’s small game rifle. That is until I 
filled every freezer or dad grew tired of treating the pelts. 
Then they made me stick to target practice for a while.
      During lunch, my parents handed over the first and best of 
my presents. A Remington 788. The bolt-action rifle hosted a 
gorgeous hardwood stock, precision riflescope, three-round 
magazine, and a camouflage shoulder strap. In an instant, the 
weapon jumped to number one on the list of the most beautiful 
things I’d ever laid eyes on. 
      Little did I know, it would drop to a distant second later 
that afternoon.
      The moment we finished eating, my parents lifted the 
critter ban and sent me off into the wilderness. They didn’t 
even set a bag limit. I just had to be home by dark to help with 
chores. Pretty smart move on their part, seeing as how I 
would’ve Swiss cheesed everything in sight had they kept me 
cooped up around the farm.
      Given the late start, I decided to only load up with the 
essentials: sack lunch, knife, canteen, and my trusty slingshot. 
With my new rifle slung over a shoulder and a box of ammo 
burning a hole in my pocket, I struck out across the golden sea 
of prairie grass skirting our farm and headed for the nearest 
edge of forest.
      Dad had all sorts of hunting stands close to the farm, most 
at the edge of the tobacco fields we rented out. Each proved 
decent, for the most part, but I always had better luck a few 
miles south, deep in the foothills. My favorite spot provided 
both hunting luck and the awe of nature’s beauty, a perfect 
place to break in my new toy.
      From the house, the stand lay about three miles as the crow 
flies. Under normal circumstances, the hike took about two hours 
over uneven terrain. But that day, I was on a mission: to break 
in the new rifle and reclaim my self-imposed title of the 
world’s deadliest critter assassin. With a brisk step, I made 
the trip in just under an hour and a half. 
      As always, the forest fell still at my intrusion, save for 
the occasional droning of what sounded like distant cicadas. To 
the untrained eye, the place likely appeared empty, void of 
life. But I knew better. Critters always needed a good ten 
minutes or so to acclimate to my presence, allowing me the 
opportunity to kick back and catch my breath.
      After plopping down on a fallen tree, I flipped my sack 
lunch to the ground and then took a long, much needed drink from 
my canteen. A spell of warm weather had taken hold in recent 
weeks, which combined with an overeager pace resulted in turning 
my body into a dank and sticky mess. I thought about removing my 
flannel shirt, but chose to just unbutton it instead. The forest 
can grow cold the longer you sit in its shadows and I didn’t 
want to ruin the trip by catching a chill.  
      With a few swipes of a sleeve, I cleared the sweat from my 
brow and surveyed the surroundings using my rifle’s scope. 
Several passes of the sparsely wooded glen yielded little. Just 
a brush field leading to small trees, leading to a wall of 
overgrown forest about forty yards out. No critters anywhere. 
      I’d almost lowered my weapon when a flash of movement 
caught the edge of my eye. I whipped the rifle around and 
scanned the heavy brush.
      At first, I found nothing. But after squinting hard, I 
spied a beady pair of green eyes peering back at me from behind 
a clump of leaves. Then that single pair became three. Then ten. 
Every way I swung my rifle, I found more and more eyes staring 
back.
      Nazi Martians, I thought, disengaging my rifle’s safety.
      As if on cue, the horde of Nazi Martians burst out from the 
forest’s edge, screeching war cries as their slimy green 
tentacles whipped in all directions.
      Several laser blasts zipped by my head. I rolled behind a 
fallen tree then stalled their advance with a sweeping spray of 
bullets. Once I had them pinned back, I obliterated their front 
lines with several well-placed grenades.
      Before I could continue the counterstrike, a series of 
splashes roused me from the daydream. I popped up to my feet and 
trained my ear towards the nearby stream. By the sound, I 
figured a coon or some other small game might be playing in the 
water.
      After another swig, I set my canteen down next to my lunch 
and crept through the heavy brush toward the stream. I smiled at 
the luck and thanked the hunting gods for providing such quick 
action.
      The smile didn’t last long.

***TO BE CONTINUED***