With the possible exceptions of the Himalayan Yettis and the… (Is it Big Feet or Big Foots? hmmm.) With the possible exception of the Himalayan Yettis and the creatures represented by those big hairy guys occasionally reported in the Pacific Northwest, there are no descendents of the tree dwelling “thigh bone control faction” of cave man society. Unable to adjust to reality, like the dinosaurs before them, the thigh-bone-control cave men became extinct.
Other groups of humanoids were convinced the thigh bone weapons were so terrible no clan would dare use them during the raids they undertook for the purpose of kidnapping women from neighboring clans. That group of humanoids was in for a disappointment. Both the raids and the use of the weapons continued. Over the next few decades, all of the males in the clans who bought into the “Too Terrible a Weapon” theory got clunked over the head by their attackers. With the breeding stock thus depleted, they became extinct.
Anthropologists have uncovered evidence of yet another group who opposed the advancement of civilization. This bunch warned that the popularity of the thigh bone weapon would result in the extinction of the baboon. The extinction of one of the earth’s creatures, they argued, far outweighed any possible advantage baboon bone weapons could produce. As a matter of principle, they refused to eat meat dragged into camp by the hunters. Those who didn’t starve to death became vegetarians.
By this time, the cave man hunters had developed their own lobby group - Baboons Unlimited. BU held annual banquets and raised funds for the preservation of baboon habitat. The debate between the Baboon Thigh Bone people and Anti-Baboon Thigh Bone people continues to this day. One fact is clear: The baboons are not an endangered species.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Something else is also clear. The Saber Toothed Tiger is extinct. In my opinion, Saber Toothed Tiger extinction shouldn’t bother anyone. If there were efforts to reintroduce the Saber Toothed Tiger into the woods, I suspect the practice of deer hunting would become extinct. That would bother me.
Laconic and taciturn folks are not treated fairly by the rest of the inhabitants of the universe. As soon as someone develops a reputation for being close-mouthed, the chances are that “someone” will also develop the reputation of not being very smart. There’s no logic to it. If you keep your mouth shut, no one can prove you’re not very bright. It’s when you open your mouth that you run the risk of providing the proof.
I hunted ducks with Hans for six or seven seasons and we never really had a conversation. Hans was one of those monosyllabic types. You know - the kind that volunteers no information and limits his participation in discussions to one word responses.
To give you an example, one Saturday in early October, Hans and I were in a duck blind built on the shoreline of Boulder Lake. On the previous day, I completed some necessary work on my cabin and had employed muscles I don’t usually use. Result? I was sore, I ached, and I complained.
“I feel terrible,” I complained. “I had a rotten day.”
Hans looked at me and inquired: “Rough?”
“Rough, indeed,” I answered. “I put six squares of asphalt shingles on my sauna building.”
“Roof,” Hans mused and that was the end of the conversation.
I never though Hans was very bright. Oh, he didn’t display such a high degree of ignorance that I considered him to be a danger to himself or others, but he certainly never impressed me as being PhD. material. Maybe I shouldn’t have judged him so harshly. After all, my participation in most of our duck blind conversations was also limited to single words - words like “sit” or “heel” or “stay” or “fetch.”
Hans was a German Shorthair hunting dog. He belonged to John and Karin Schmid. They had a cottage on Boulder Lake and during duck hunting week-ends, it was my occasional practice to spend the night sleeping on their couch. Hans would wake me in the morning before the alarm clock rang. Anxious and ready to go before there was any light in the sky, he loved to hunt ducks as much as I did.
While John and I might criticize each other’s wives without incurring the other’s ire, I placed too high a value on our friendship to mention my low opinion of his dog’s intelligence quotient. Hans may have been a great duck dog but, otherwise, I was sure he was just plain dumb.
On command, Hans would plunge into the frigid November waters of that northern Wisconsin lake, take a hand signal and retrieve a bird with superb efficiency. That isn’t necessarily a sign of intelligence. You’ve got to understand Hans was a German Shorthair. He didn’t have the undercoat of a Chesapeake or a Lab. He didn’t have enough body hair to offer much protection against the cold. Whenever he returned from a retrieve, he’d shiver and quiver and shake the whole blind.
After bringing back a duck, Hans would never shake off water while outside the blind. He’d always crawl inside and wait until John and I had been lulled into a false sense of security. Then he would shake and send a quart of icy droplets toward our exposed necks. His aim was good. After that performance, he’d begin his Olympic class shivering.
Hans had another interesting characteristic. He appeared to be unable to learn to swim around a decoy set. He preferred to return to the blind by way of the mathematical center of the layout. By the time he got back to land with one duck in his mouth, he’d have three decoys hopelessly entangled around his legs.
The routine was well established. We’d untangle him. Then we’d untangle the anchor lines. Then we’d wade out and re-set the blocks. Then we’d return to the blind and berate Hans for causing the mess. Hans would say nothing. Being reprimanded, he would put his muzzle on his paws and look up at us through sad, penitent eyes. Then he would shake ice water at us and I would quietly think: “Dumb Dog”.
As Hans got older and grayer and increasingly arthritic, he still enjoyed retrieving ducks, but he couldn’t take the cold as he once did. Before sunrise, John and I would walk to the shore blind. While Hans watched and shivered and supervised, we’d check the wind and find the underwater cement block that marked shotgun mid-range. We’d argue over the best set configuration and, finally, place the decoys and return to the blind.
The three of us would get in the blind and wait for 15 or 20 minutes for things to quiet down and for the sun to begin to color the eastern sky. When there is just enough light to be able to shoot, the temperature drops another five degrees and it’s time to prepare for action. Waiting in the cold can be a miserable experience, but no one ever accused duck hunters of having too much sense. At this time, Hans would be nowhere in sight.
When the 12 gauges roared, however, things would be different. The adrenalin rush would erase any feeling of cold and Hans would appear from nowhere. He’d give us reproachful looks if we missed, but if there was a bird in the water, Hans would plunge in, retrieve the duck and wait for us to untangle him and reset the blocks. Then he’d shake the ice water on us and, a few minutes later, disappear.
It took me a long time to figure it out. Maybe I’m not too smart.
Whenever Hans became cold and uncomfortable, he would quietly leave the blind. He’d walk up the hill to the cottage and scratch at the door. Karin would let him in and he’d curl up on the rug before the fire while John and I sat in the blind - numb, dumb and freezing.
When he heard the shooting, Hans would get to the door as fast as his arthritis would allow. Karin would open the door and he’d come down to the blind to make the retrieve. Then he’d quietly go back uphill to a warm fire and some food.
As any frost bitten duck hunter would tell you, that is one smart