North Geogia Car Camping (Page 1 of 1)

While picking up a rock to hammer in my tent stake, I inadvertently squashed a glossy black widow, its jointed legs curling in on itself like an old lady’s arthritic fist. Its papery egg sack lay beside it, so I scooped it up and tossed it into the fire ring, wondering how many microscopic widows, red-bellied, venom bags pulsing, were inside that little ball. I imagined a million tiny eight-leggers dancing across my chest hair as I snored through the night, my tent-sides exhaling and inhaling like a billows

All while the kids — 4-year-old Chloe and 2-year-old Holden — ran through the grass with the dogs, laughing and howling and picking purple late-summer wildflowers.

We were in the North Georgia mountains, the crinkling dragon’s tail of the Appalachian chain, 15 miles deep, set up in a corner of Little Bald Mountain in the Cohutta Wilderness, taking my buddy Chris’s kids on their first campout — and it was opening day for bow hunting season…

Forget the Russian boar hog, a vicious transplant, a razor-tusked meat eater, mean as a wet hornet and smart as a wild turkey; forget the North American Black Bear, 500-plus pounds with a nose that can lift to the wind and sniff your fried chicken from three mountains over and then peel the roof off your Camry to get the biscuits; and forget the venom-fanged snakes hiding under the leaves in jaw-hinged silence — forget about these blood-letting beasts of the woods: We were just settling into our lunch — hotdogs for the kids, bratwursts for us — when we came face-to-face with Georgia’s most dangerous animal, a snuff-toothed, beer-bellied, knife-on-the-belt bow hunter who was too lazy to get in a tree, who was too full of shit to be tolerated at his own campsite, and who went foot-up on my tailgate and talked at me for two hours while Chris chased the kids around our campsite.

Cap’n Camo Pants (I never got his real name), rubber boots up to his knees, looked from the side like a capital “D” with arms and legs and a red-bearded head. He wore — of course — a camouflage Redman hat, cocked back, its bill bent like a roof angle.

He first approached us with his cell phone held to his face, squinting at the screen, his little sausage-fingers working over the buttons: It was the look of a man who needs glasses, who needs an old-school cell phone with large-print buttons, and who needs, above all else, one of his kids to teach him how to work the damn thing.

He stopped beside my truck and continued to poke at his phone.

No “hello” — no “how’s it going?” Just a frown and this cell phone and the poking, like maybe he was trying to tap lose something that was stuck inside.

“Are you looking for reception?” I asked.

“Nope … I … Aha! There she is.”

He handed me the phone and on the screen was a picture of a fat rattlesnake, stretched straight in the trail and headless.

Cap’n Camo Pants was so proud I thought he might start slapping his chest and grunting.

“Ate that for dinner last night,” he said. “Too bad yuns wasn’t here.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Too bad.”

He nodded at the kids in the field: “They’s a lot a snakes ‘round here.”

And that’s when he propped his boot up — I’m-here-for-a-while style — on the tailgate of my truck; and that’s also when Chris turned his back on us and went to the field to play with his kids (not, mind you, in heed of the Cap’n’s warning, but in escape from his obvious forthcoming blather).

“Been comin’ up here 25 year.” He leaned over and spit a ribbon of brown into the grass. “I could get around these woods in the dark with my eyes closed.”

“Oh yeah? This is my sec—”

“They was a tornado blew through here a couple years back. Mean sumbitch. Twisted up a bunch trees in the road. I had my truck, had my chainsaw. Come up the road and cleared out four trees when this young couple pulled up just a’cryin and carryin’ on and ready to head down off the mountain.” He wiped his brow and chuckled at the young foolish couple.  “Said they was hungry. I said, ‘Hell, I got plenty of food.’” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “’Help yourself. No need to go home just cause you’re hungry.’”

“A tornado?” I asked. “That must of—”

“Another time I was in this little holler and I found some bear bait. A pile of dog food.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Called the ranger — good kid, been around a few years — and I led him right to the spot.”

He looked into the woods: “Yep. Been comin’ up here 25 year.”

“That’s a pret—”

“Daughter used to come with me. She was a Ms. Georgia contestant, picked to win it all.  But she got tired of the BS and dropped out with two weeks to go.”

“Only two weeks?” I asked.

“I do security on the side. For the church.”

“The church?”

“One time me and the old lady was at a bar and I took out three guys in less than 10 seconds.”

“Three guys?”

“My wife, she said, ‘You didn’t even get mad!’” He chuckled again. “Reckon that Navy Seal tranin’s good for something.”

“Navy Seal?”

“Got into security after I saved the FBI director’s life.”

“You saved—”

“At a party. Right place, right time. He was about to get taken out, so I stepped in.” He shrugged.

“So now you do security?”

“No. Just for the church. I own a pest control company.”

I looked to the field then and saw Chris and the kids playing in the tall grass, the dogs bouncing around beside them.

“You got anything for black widows?” I asked.

“Black widows? Lemme tell you something about black widows…”