Hunting Accident
In July, 1948, when I was 12 years old, I was very excited, because
that was to be the summer I was planning to attend Summer Camp at Camp
Wabimasquah, The United Church Camp at White Bear Lake. It was to be my
first camping experience, and I could hardly wait. Brother Bob had been
to camp the previous summer, and his tales of adventure made the
anticipation almost more than I could bear.
That summer, Bob and I had taken on the responsibility of offering to
milk the cows for a neighbour, Len Brock, while he was away to Idaho or
Ohio or some other place, shearing sheep. It was not a big job, only 4
or 5 cows to milk and a few pigs to feed, and we were old hands at
milking cows, and feeding pigs.
The Brock farm was only about 3 miles from our place. Bob, although he
was not yet of age, could drive the car, and, since it was only along
country roads, there was no problem. Off we went for the evening
chores.
It was late July, and the crows were starting to form flocks for their
fall migration. We were keen students of their daily habits, since we
were "hunters". At that time there was a bounty paid by the
municipality on crows, magpies, and gophers (ground squirrels). It was,
as I recall, $0.05 for crow's and magpie's eggs, and we kept the nests
around our place empty of eggs most of the summer. There was a further
bounty of $0.10 per pair of legs from magpies or crows, and $0.10 per
gopher tail. We hunted whenever we had the chance, and were able to
collect enough in bounty money to keep us in bullets for "plinking".
On this particular occasion we knew we would be driving past a bluff
(grove of poplar trees) that we knew the crows were using as a roosting
place each evening. It was just before sunset, and the crows had just
started to arrive at their roost as we drove up. Being keen observers
we knew that we would stand a better chance of bagging our prey if we
left the car and crept quietly into the bush. I was the first out of
the car, and I was carrying the gun, Dad's old single shot .22 caliber
rifle. It wasn't really a single shot, but he had lost the clip only a
short time after he bought the gun, and had never been able to find a
replacement.
We walked into the bush about 50 feet, and could hear the crows coming
in to roost all around us...Bob said,” There is one right above
you". I looked up but could not see the target. Bob said he could see
it, and told me to give him the gun. Not wanting to frighten the birds,
I did not turn around to hand it to him, but simply swung my arm
backwards with the butt of the gun where he could grab it. We don’t know what happened, but our best guess is that a twig
struck the trigger. There was the familiar "crack" of the rifle
discharging. I was about to say, "Careful, you might have shot me.",
but instead I said,” You shot me!" I had felt a sting in the back
of my ankle, and panic set in. I dropped the gun and made a dash for
the car. Nothing seemed to hurt very much, so I thought maybe it had
missed me. I sat down and pulled up the pant leg of my jeans, and
inspected the spot where I had felt the sting. There was a tiny black
spot on the back of my ankle with a little hole in the centre. Well,
you can only imagine the next few minutes. Bob got the car turned
around, and all thoughts of milking cows and feeding pigs were gone
from our minds, as we raced home.
Of course Mom was pretty upset, and Dad was worried. He had been out in
the barn milking the cows when one of the other kids ran and told him.
The only thought in their minds was to get me to the hospital as soon
as possible. I guess everyone knew that the wound was not life
threatening, but the mere thought of a gunshot wound brought panic to
the household.
Mom could not leave because there was a new baby in the house. Bob
offered to finish the milking and the other chores, and Dad prepared to
drive me to Oxbow, the nearest hospital. I think in the end Bob came
with us, sitting in the back seat holding my wounded foot on a pillow.
I don't know who did the chores that evening, at our place or at
Brocks.
The Doctor, an old school friend of mother's, examined me and decided
he would try to remove the bullet. The ankle was frozen and, with me
lying face down on the operating table, he went to work. After a few
minutes he told me that he could not get it out. It was behind my
Achilles tendon, and he would have had to damage the tendon to get it
out. He said it would not hurt anything to leave it there... He said it
would form a little gizzard and stay right there for the rest of my
life. He said it had shattered, and he had been able to take out a few
tiny fragments, but the largest fragments would have to stay there.
I stayed overnight in the hospital, as he was afraid of infection, but
the next day he said there was no more danger of that, and sent me
home.
Needless to say, I didn't do much to help around the farm for the next
few weeks. My biggest concern, though, was that the time to go to camp
arrived, and I had not yet had the dressings removed. I didn't go the
first few days of camp, but by the end of the week I felt well enough
to give it a try. I could not go swimming, I could not go hiking, and I
was not allowed to take part in any of he games. Other than that, it
was a great time. How many 12 year olds do you know who were victims of
a GSW? I was a celebrity!
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