Hunting with Hank

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

A Trip North 

Another Hank of the KRR tale

 

     Lessee… I think it was 1983 or -4, and I was a Free Agent.  After I had spent the better part of the last week of every month on Jury Doody for a year and a half, my superiors at work somewhat wisely decided that they could save a decent chunk of money by merging my department with another.  Doing so would allow ‘em to eliminate one department head position.  Mine.

 

     Now gainfully unemployed, I was enjoying a life of modified leisure.  While unambitiously seeking gainful employment, I enjoyed my time off.  With ample savings supplemented by “Unny-Money” and otherwise frugal spending, life was good - even after investing part of my severance pay in a new Univega bicycle and a Ruger Mark II .22 pistol (which would not be available for my possession for a couple of weeks, a time frame deemed by the State of California to be necessary to determine I was not a danger to myself or others).  My time was spent fishing, taking road trips, sometimes driving to Reedley to play “farmer” and drive a tractor for Hank, and visiting folks up and down the state.

 

     Anyway, I was home on one Wednesday afternoon, and thought I’d call up ol’ Hank.  With a mug o’ coffee in hand and feet propped on the ottoman, I dialed up the lad.

 

     Half a dozen rings, then a disconsolate “Hullo.”

 

      “Hey, Hank!  Hey – howcum you sound down?”

 

      “Aw damn, man.  I’m bummed.”

 

      “I can tell!  Howcum?”

 

      “Well,” sez Hank, “remember how Stanley and I went up to Siskiyou County last year antelope hunting?”

 

     Of course I did – both Hank and Stan Jantzen had entered the State lottery for antelope tags, and had miraculously been drawn.  They’d had a terrific time, met some good people, and came home with typically enthralling tales of adventure.  And a couple of antelope!  I told him that indeed I did remember.

 

      “Well blanket-blank it, Hardpan!  Stan and I were invited back up for deer season.  We were gonna leave tomorrow.  But now Stan can’t go!  His dad won’t let ‘im!  And I don’t wanna drive all the way to the Oregon border by myownself.  Just not as much fun.”

 

     Now, before you begin to imagine Stan as a big kid being grounded by Dad, you have to understand that they were farmers, and harvest was just beginning.  Stan could NOT go.

 

     I had a flash of inspiration, and after about four seconds of mentally analyzing my calendar, blurted “Well Hell, man – I’ll go wit’cha!”

 

      “What?” Hank came back.  “You will?  You can?  No ‘bleep?’”

 

      “Yup!” I replied.  “Tell ya what – let’s meet up at Lurch’s place in Mo-Town.  I’ll leave my car there, and we can head north.  But we’ll have to stop in Sacramento at the Department of Fish and Game so I can buy deer tags.  It’ll work!”

 

     So the plan was set – we’d meet up in Modesto the next day; head to Sacramento and spend the night, then hit the DFG on Friday morning and jet on up to the ranch managed by Ryan Farnam, one of the folks Hank had met the last year.

 

     I disconnected, and began gathering up my gear and clothes, and packed up the trunk of my li’l “Batmobile Blue” ’74 Fiat Spider roadster, ready for an early morning departure.  I’d leave fairly early, stop in Livermore and let my dear Aunt Sharon cook breakfast for her favorite nephew, visit for a while, then hit Lurch’s house early afternoon.

 

     And that’s exactly what happened.  About mid-afternoon the next day - after a nice breakfast with Sharon and a pleasant visit with the Lurch family, Hank and I were on our way in Blue Dog – Hank’s baby-blue 1966 Ford pickup truck; I left Lurch the keys to the Fiat in case he had to move it.  Our immediate objective was to reach Sacramento and find a cheap motel, spend the night, visit the Department of Fish and Game early then head north to Siskiyou County.

 

     The first part worked.  We found cheap lodging, dined regally on Big Macs, and hit the sack early.  This let us find ourselves at the DFG’s front door at opening time the next morning.  I bought my license and tags, and all was good.  Um… up to that point, anyway.  From then on the plan sorta went pear-shaped for a while.

 

     You see, making our way north to Siskiyou required accessing highway Interstate 5.  This highway begins at the Mexican Border, and continues north until it becomes British Columbia Highway 99.  And we needed to follow this route from Sacramento to Macdoel, in Siskiyou County.  Which should be simple!  Except for one thing:  We could not get onto Highway I-5.

 

     We could see I-5.  We drove under I-5.  We drove over I-5.  Multiple times.  There it was – but we could not get onto the freeway.  Thanks to a not-so-wonderfully typical lack of coordination between the local road department and CalTrans, every on-ramp to the northbound lanes was either closed or inaccessible.  Windows down, we rambled along.  We went under that freeway.  We went over that freeway.  We went down roads that should have gotten us there but didn’t.

 

     Eventually, we were stuck at a red light.  Second vehicle in line, behind an older, light-colored Plymouth.  I was a mite bemused; Hank, on the other hand, was beyond grumpy.  Beyond peeved.  Like, borderline furious.  I glanced at him, and was not surprised to see the steering wheel actually flexing in his hands as he struggled to maintain some shred of composure.

 

     The light changed.  But the Plymouth just sat there.  After an interminable ten seconds, the driver seemed to finally notice the green and started to move forward.  Slowly.  Too slowly. 

 

     Something started to rumble in Hank’s chest, and the steering wheel actually squeaked a mite under his ham-fisted flexes.  Finally, when a suitable gap opened between us and the car in front, Hank kicked the clutch in and his right hand slapped the shift – knocking it directly into second gear.  He mashed a boot into the accelerator and that powerful V-8 responded to the demand, and the rear tires spun with puffs of smoke.  Blue Dog snarled and leapt forward; Hank guided the beast around the other car.  As we passed it, he let loose with a blast of profanity that was not only colorful, it surpassed the known spectrum.  And he was LOUD!  As we passed, I looked at the other car’s occupants – an early middle-aged “gentleman,” and a woman.  I looked at ‘em as we zoomed past in that brilliantly sparkling cloud of blue language; they both looked back, with eyes locked on mine (they couldn’t see Hank); theirs were really wide and their mouths opened into astounded, equally round “O’s” as we roared past.  I continued looking back until we were well ahead of them.

 

     After a block and a half, Hank had mellowed to a relatively minor state of vocal grumbling – but he was still really, really pissed.  So I looked at him, and said… “Jerry Brown.”

 

      “Well *BLEEP* him too!  Bring that sonafabitch out and I’ll tell him EXACTLY what I think about him AND his town!”

 

      “Uh… Hank?  You just did.”

 

     Hank continued to glare through the windshield, then finally said, “Hunh?”

 

      “Jim – that dude you just cussed out in that Plymouth?  That was Jerry Brown!”

 

     Well, he contemplated for a moment as he drove along.  His features softened, then he finally asked, “Really…?  That was Jerry Brown in that car?”

 

      “Yup.”

 

     A slight pause, then “Are ya sure?”

 

      “Oh, HELL yeah, I’m sure!  And I’ll forever remember that image of the shock on his face when you cussed him out!”

 

     Hank’s expression continued to soften.  His eyebrows crawled up on his forehead as he considered the last moment. 

 

     As I watched, his tension melted away.  At last, he finally leaned back and relaxed.  The fury on his face dissolved, replaced by a serendipitous and a gratified look of contentment. His lips twitched as they curled slightly, and he asked, “Really? No *bleep*?  I just cussed out Jerry Brown?”

 

      “Yep.  You did indeed.”

 

     Well, in a matter of moments the atmosphere in Blue Dog changed from being so tense you could smell ozone to downright mellow.  Somehow, it seemed that ol’ Hank just didn’t hold the now former governor in deep regard.  Something I knew well.

 

     A couple of blocks later, I pointed out a gas station and suggested we pull in and ask for directions.  The now good-humored driver steered the Ford into the fillin’ station.  As he slowed to a stop, a fella came waking out of the shop, wiping his hands on a red rag and wearing a wide grin.

 

      “Say, I s’pose you fellas are trying to get on the freeway, ain’tcha?”

 

      “Well, yeah, we are,” said Hank.  “How’d you know?”

 

     The attendant chuckled and said “Easy!  You’ve driven by four times so far and still ain’t got where yer goin’!”

 

     Hank explained our plight, and added “Ya know, this same thing happened when I was a kid.  Driving from Reedley to up North, Dad and I stopped for gas – but we couldn’t get back to the highway!  Finally, we stopped at another gas station and the helpful guy there said ‘yeah, construction’s got stuff screwed up.  So what ya gotta do is keep going another three blocks, turn right, and in twenty-three miles you can get back on the highway’”

 

     Our helper laughed and said “I remember that mess!  Well, this time it’ll be easier.  Just go up two blocks, turn left, and in a couple more blocks you’ll find an on-ramp.  Need any gas?”

 

     We tanked up and hit the road. 

 

      “Let’s get the hell outta this town!  We’ll find breakfast up the road a ways!”

 

     Two and a half hours later, we spotted a Denny’s sign near the highway.  Redding.  Good place to stop!  And after breakfast, only about two more hours to Macdoel.  So we pulled in, stretched our legs, moseyed inside and found a table.  A pleasant waitress a bit older than us almost immediately plopped down menus and coffee mugs, which she filled from a pot she somehow managed to juggle along.  “Sweeties, I’m Millie – and I’ll be back to take your order shortly!”

 

     We gratefully returned her smile and dived into those mugs of seriously needed coffee – hot and black.  Not quite as strong as we’d like it (strong enough to float a horseshoe), not quite as hot as we’d like it (hot enough to make that horseshoe wilt), and in clean mugs (no crumbs of road apples clinging to that horseshoe for flavor).  But it would do – and it actually was good and muchly appreciated.

 

     Eventually, Millie did come back with her order pad at the ready, and plucked a pencil from behind an ear.

 

      “Okay, Boys!  What’ll it be?”

 

     I led off.  “Millie, I’d like ham and eggs and hash browns, eggs over easy, and do you have rye toast?”

 

      “We do!”

 

      “Oh, cool!  And rye toast, then!”

 

     Turning to Hank, “and what’ll it be for you, dearie?”

 

      “Wellll….” Hank started off, still studying his menu.  “Well, lessee.  I think I’ll start off with eggs and bacon.  Hash browns.  Biscuits and gravy.  Make that three eggs!  Aaaand… okay, and can I also have a stack of hotcakes?”

 

      “Nope.  No hotcakes for you.”

 

     I glanced up at that.

 

      “Huh?”  Hank asked.  “Are ya outta hotcakes?”

 

     I suspect that Millie had a husband at home who possibly needed and likely received a goodly bit of “wifely counseling.”  Still scribbling on her pad and not looking up, she retorted, “No, we’re not outta pancakes.  You do NOT need a stack of pancakes on top of eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and biscuits and gravy!  Look at you!”

 

     Well, Hank was a bit of a stout lad.  And truly, he really did NOT “need” a stack of pancakes on top of the rest the ballast he’d ordered. 

 

     But suddenly, Millie seemed to realize that this was a customer, and not her husband.  She snapped back to the reality of the moment, and her eyes widened and she gasped.

 

      “OH!  Mister!  I am SO sorry!  I didn’t mean that!  Honest!  I apologize!  Sir, of COURSE you can have pancakes!  NO CHARGE!  Please forgive me…!”

 

     The instantly astonished “stout lad” looked at Millie.  “Ma’am, you’re right.  Of course – you’re absolutely right – I dunno what I was thinking!  I truly don’t need them hotcakes.  Thank you for reminding me!”

 

     Poor Millie was devastated; but after a moment of she and Hank exchanging apologies and weak smiles, she finally went off to order and fetch our breakfast.  Sans “hotcakes!”

 

     Boy, was that meal enjoyable!  After our morning, it was a relaxing and much-needed break.  We finally finished up, cleaned our plates, and headed out.  And we left poor Millie a very generous tip.

 

     Two hours later, we rolled in to Macdoel. 

 

     To be continued....

 

                                                                                               

[Wallaby Jack, SASS #44062]

 

 

 

      ............ I'm remembering something about a ...... BOOK !   🙃

[Subdeacon Joe]

Dang! I've only mildly cussed a member of the House!

 

And now I want ham steak,  toast,  sausage,  and a mess of  biscuits and sop.

[Wyatt Earp SASS#1628L]

Hardpan, your writing is almost in a class by itself. I say almost because I have to add the great Peter Egan as your only peer

[Sixgun Seamus]

On 2/6/2025 at 5:44 PM, Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967 said:

 

 

     To be continued....

 

                                                                                               

And not soon enough!