My grandfather was hunting black bears with a bunch of his wood savvy cronies near Railroad Run in the late 1950’s. Lunchtime found the hungry crew back at the campsite for lunch. The hunters were busy with their meals when suddenly Pop spoke up and said, “Well, look what’s coming!”

Curious eyes turned down the trail and opened in startled amusement. A hunter was striding up the trail and he was a sight to behold!

The newcomer looked as if he had just been unwrapped, immaculate in brand new Woolrich clothing of the highest quality. A just out of the box Model 70, 30-06 rifle was slung over his shoulder on an ornate, hand engraved leather sling. On his hip hung a gleaming Bowie knife of impressive size and a thick coil of one inch rope was wrapped around his waist. Knee high, lace up LL Bean boots, shining and right out of the box, shod his feet and last, but not least, two bandoliers of shiny brass 06 ammo criss crossed his chest Mexican bandit style.

Apparently feeling his clothing hadn’t given him quite the dash necessary an Australian bush hat was cocked jauntily on his head, quite at odds with the traditional Woolrich, big woods tone of his clothing.

Pop’s hard-bitten friends looked at one another in amazement, seemingly struck dumb by this sparkling neophyte who apparently had stepped right out of a catalog onto the trail in front of them!

Always the gentleman, Pop asked the stranger if he would care to join them for lunch. The stranger accepted a steaming tin cup of coffee. Everyone was grinning at one another despite themselves, Ever the jokester, Pop’s eyes were sparkling, they knew he could never let this opportunity pass by.

The newcomer asked innocently where a good place to shoot a bear might be, he was new to the area.

Wide eyes stretched even further at that question and Pop, his face as straight as a preacher’s, placed his arm around the gent’s shoulder.

“Now you just follow this trail here upstream about half a mile. You’ll see a small freshet about a foot wide come running down the hillside on your left. Walk up beside the water until you see a big stump by a Hemlock. Just sit right there and be patient,” he concluded ever so seriously.

The gentleman didn’t doubt his word for a minute, finished his coffee, thanked Pop for the advice and hurried up the trail excitedly.

He was hardly out of sight before the hunters were crying with laughter and slapping one another on the back.

“Artie,” Manly Butts gasped, wiping tears from his eyes, blowing his nose on a large, red, bandanna handkerchief, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Sending a babe off into the woods like that. We never, ever seen a bear up that hollow, not one of us and you know it!”

Pop grinned infectiously while everyone wondered how he’d kept such a straight face. Opportunities like that don’t come around every day and Pop wasn’t about to let it escape without a bit of fun.

The joshing, joking and laughing went on for a bit, Pop basking in his triumph of understated humor.

A few minutes later they were back at it, planning 2 more drives for the afternoon. When daylight faded and a far-off owl hooted mournfully from the ridge, everyone was back at camp, performing camp chores and preparing for dinner; not a bear had been seen.

“Look!” Jim McKitrick said suddenly, leaning on his ax and pointing up the trail. “What the heck?”

Weaving down the trail, staggering, tripping and waving his hands wildly came the neophyte. He appeared ready to collapse and shouted something hoarsely at them. Afraid he’d been injured or hurt, the hunters gathered in some apprehension as the exhausted hunter staggered up to them, a sight to behold.

The jaunty hat was crooked and stained; his sweat-soaked hair straggling over his pale face. The brand new Woolrich jacket was covered with leaves, dirt and blood as were his hands and face where he had rubbed the sweat away from his eyes. The knees of his pants were black and filthy and his once immaculate leather boots were smeared with mud. The new rifle’s stock was scratched and dented.

For perhaps half a minute he leaned against a tree struggling for breath, his head down before he raised it and spoke.

“Will you guys help me get my bear out?” he gasped. “I can’t move him at all, thought you might be gone before I could get back, he’s right by the stump you told me about and he’s a big one! Ran right at me, shot at 20 yards and I have to tell you, I was a little scared! Please guys, help me, I’ll pay if necessary.” He concluded in a rush, his searching eyes darting from face to face anxiously.

These men had a code and each knew they couldn’t leave this man to his fate without helping him, money or no money. It meant getting back late, well after dark, tired and exhausted themselves, but they’d help him.

Every head turned, every eye locked on Pop who was staring at the stranger like he was some type of apparition and nervously filling his pipe, only no one was laughing now.