"Waiting to Hear the Crack of Dawn"

By : Dave Rogers

My father, the late Chester Frederick Rogers, was an avid outdoorsman who loved to hunt and fish in the mountains and meandering streams of “wild, wonderful” West Virginia. What better way for a hard-working man to end the workweek than venturing out into the freshness of Mother Nature to view her beauty and abundant wildlife? And what better way to teach his children about his love for the outdoors than to take them with him? Imagine being a youngster alongside an outdoors enthusiast being taught about the   fundamentals of gun safety and marksmanship, tracking animals, baiting a fish hook with a live worm, casting with a spinning reel, and learning to treat our environment with respect. Sound like fun? Well, it surely was, and an activity highly encouraged by my mother.

Chester had honed his hunting skills during his youth on a 159 1/2-acre farm, which was purchased in November 1904 by his father, Robert Lee Rogers, a farmer who had been named after General Robert E. Lee of Civil War fame. The farm was located in a rustic setting on Bunner Ridge about 10 miles outside of Fairmont, WV, and provided an ideal hunting area for squirrel, pheasant, quail and deer. The ninth of ten children conceived by his mother, Cenith Bell Halterman Rogers, he was born March 6, 1912 at the family home.

The land on which Chester had learned to hunt was sold in November 1957 to Jack W. Bunner. Mr. Bunner granted him free hunting rights on the land for the remainder of his life. The property deed states that the Rogers family has permanent ingress and egress rights to a small family cemetery on 1/16 of an acre. The gun dad used to train his four sons and daughter to hunt with was a 410 gauge single-shot shotgun with not much kick, while he used a more powerful 12 gauge shotgun. Thus, our early days of hunting were mostly spent on the family farm, where we not only learned to hunt but also heard about our family heritage. Fishing opportunities were available at nearby White Day Creek, local ponds and several mountain streams.

Dad's fishing rules were simple to adhere to; you could go fishing at any age -- just as long as you didn’t scare all the fish away while others were fishing. His hunting rules, however, were more rigid. First of all it meant you had to be at least 10 years old, and 12 before you could go hunting for deer and use a rifle -- no exceptions. His rules of conduct in the wild were for safety, and thus more stringent: don’t transport a loaded gun in the car, never point a gun at anybody, ask somebody to hold your gun while climbing over a fence, etc. If you passed these acid tests, you would be turned loose so you didn’t have to stay real close to dad, which meant to a kid seeking independence you could do your thing!

October 1, 1953 was my 10th birthday and the beginning of small game season. Sure enough, as promised, dad got me up early for the big hunt, at least it was for me. He fixed breakfast, packed our lunches and drinks, and loaded the car with both shotguns and hunting equipment. We left the house in pitch darkness so we would arrive early to begin the hunt. On our way to the farm he talked about the habitat of wild animals and their feeding habits. His knowledge of the outdoors and wildlife made me even more excited about what I was about to experience. I had heard numerous stories from dad and my older brother about hunting on the farm, but now it was my time to encounter first hand what it was really like and return home soon with a few hunting stories of my own.

We arrived just before daybreak, loaded our shotguns and headed into the dense forest consisting mainly of huge hardwood trees including oak and hickory, which provide acorns and nuts for squirrels to feed on. We finally got settled in after walking a fair distance as daylight began to emerge. Dad and I would whisper to each other so as not to make much noise. Like a coach mentoring a player, he would show me what to look for and at the same time kept up my enthusiasm. But look as hard as I could, it didn’t appear the squirrels were hungry at our location. The morning hours turned out to be uneventful, and I began to wonder if there were any squirrels in the vast forest. Maybe it just wasn’t going to be my day. As hunger pangs began to affect both of us, we took a break and settled for the sandwiches and apples he had packed.

After lunch we moved to another location near the top of a hill. Close to the crest was an old split-rail log fence that was severed in several places. Dad said the squirrels liked to run the rails as they foraged for food, so I found myself keeping a good eye on the fence. However, the squirrels still weren’t acting like they were hungry and I was getting bored and sleepy. So I curled up in the fallen leaves, closed my eyes, and was soon asleep. Not for long, however, as I was suddenly awakened by the blast of a shotgun at very close range. Sure enough, dad was standing there with his eyes focused down the hill, in the opposite direction of the split-rail fence. He walked over at the location where his catch had fallen, picked it up and brought it back for me to see. Then he told me how he had tried to waken me without alarming the squirrel, even tossing a couple of sticks my way, but to no avail. It was either shoot it or let it get away. I had learned my first hunting lesson with my dad, and there would be more to follow.

I resolved not to fall asleep for the rest of the day as I stood there dreaming about catching a squirrel. A few hours later another hungry squirrel finally arrived. It jumped onto the split-rail fence and started moving away from us. Dad whispered I’d better take a shot before it got out of range. I cut loose with one round, but could see nothing afterwards. Dad asked if I thought that I had gotten it, and then told me to check out the area. Moving towards the location where I had last seen it, I wasn’t sure if I had killed it. But I did know that the hunter wanted very much to not let his dad out do him, and to at least carry one dead squirrel back home in my hunting vest. The fallen leaves did a good job of covering up my catch, but I finally spotted it on the opposite side of the fence. I picked it up by the tail and with a big grin showed it to dad. What a birthday present! He had gotten a squirrel and I had gotten one too. That entitled us both to bragging rights back at the house!

Rabbit hunting was mostly done at my Uncle Clay Rogers’ family farm, which was located at Meadowdale just outside of Fairmont. His home and a barn were located on one side of the U. S. Route 73 while pastureland was located on the opposite side of the highway on a hillside. Dad and I would stop to say hello to relatives and catch up on local happenings before crossing the road to embark on another hunting excursion. There were dairy cattle on the farm, so I was cautioned to be sure and not shoot any cows. With that understanding we opened the gate, walked through, closed it and then loaded our shotguns. Unbeknownst to me was the strategy dad had in mind on our first rabbit hunt together. He fully intended to allow me the first shot, if possible. So not too far up the hillside we jumped a rabbit. Without hesitation I pulled the Rifleman trick (shooting from the hip) and cut loose with one round, then went to pick up the dead rabbit. Unbeknownst to me, however, afterward was dad’s quick strategy reversal. His thinking being that if a kid could shoot like that, he no longer needed to think twice about getting in the first round. It was one of his favorite hunting stories he would tell others for many years.

Farther up the hill we continued the pursuit of rabbits. Near the top we heard two other rabbit hunters with two beagles. They had just jumped a rabbit and their dogs had picked up the scent and begun the chase, barking loudly so as to make it easy to determine their location. Dad had told me earlier how smart a rabbit is. It would escape by running in a large circle and then jump off the circle route to evade the predator. The dogs would bypass the jump-off point and just continue to run in a circle until out of breath. Sure enough, as luck would have it, I spotted the rabbit a few minutes later ahead of the dogs in its clever attempt to escape certain death. Of course, what it didn’t realize was that I was waiting in ambush. Bang. An easy shot even with a 410 shotgun. Dad didn’t realize what I was up to until after I had killed the rabbit. A few minutes later the other two hunters showed up and were met by dad. He apologized to them that his son had gotten their rabbit. Apparently there were no hard feelings and they told him I could keep it. Finally, dad came over to me after the negotiations and explained to me that I shouldn’t shoot another hunter’s rabbit being chased by hunting dogs. Another well learned lesson.

Occasionally dad would invite one of his friends to go along with us. On this particular day another gentleman was sitting in the front seat of the car as dad was driving to the Rogers farm while I sat in the backseat. The two had an interesting conversation going on when I interrupted and asked, “When will we be there?” Dad replied, “Pretty soon,” and then continued his conversation with our guest. A few more minutes passed by and again the same question was asked. This time the response was, “Not much longer.” Finally, after a third interruption concerning the same question, dad tried a new tactic. He asked me if I had ever heard the “crack of dawn.” To which I replied, “No.” He then went on to carefully explain that each morning, just as the sun appears on the horizon, a slight sound can be heard indicative of the “crack of dawn.” He then suggested I listen very carefully for it and to let him know when I heard it. But in the meantime I had to be real quiet so I could hear it when it “cracked.” Otherwise, I’d miss hearing it. He then continued on with the long, involved story he was telling the guest rider. I kept quiet until we finally arrived at our destination. As we stepped out of the car, dad asked me if I had heard the “crack of dawn,” to which I replied, “No.” He then said that the next time we went out early I could listen for it again. I began to ask myself, “Is he spoofing me?” That lesson took a little while to sink in, but it eventually did and I learned that even a father is allowed to have a little fun with his kids, albeit a joke.

The Shuttlesworth farm was located close to the Rogers farm. Even though the house had been built years ago in a rural area, it was still occupied in the 1950’s. The family living there found an orphaned fawn and was raising it in a fenced area behind the house. Their intent was to feed and protect it until it was mature enough to survive on its own in the wild. In the meantime, dad had found out about this and told everybody at home. He said we would be going hunting soon and might be able to see the deer if it hadn’t been turned loose. Being a youngster who loved animals, I thought that was really cool!

When it came time to go squirrel hunting in October, dad had invited another guest to go along. He told me before we left the house to not mention anything about the orphaned fawn. Sure enough I kept our “secret” and looked forward to seeing it as we drove to the farm. After arriving, we loaded our guns and headed for the woods alongside the Shuttlesworth farm. I looked for the deer but couldn’t see it inside the fenced area. Apparently it had been freed or run away, so I thought we wouldn’t be seeing it at all. However, as we walked another 100 feet or so, I noticed a live animal about 50 feet away from us just inside the edge of the forest. I pointed to the deer and thought that for sure it would take off running like all wild animals do. But it paid no attention to us and kept feeding on the plants. Dad came closer to me and whispered, “See how close it will let you get.” So I walked very slowly toward it, finally reached it, and then started petting it on the back. Dad’s guest stood there in total amazement and explained to him that he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. How could Chester’s son have walked up to a wild deer at the edge of a forest and pet it? Unbelievable! Finally, grinning from ear to ear, dad confessed to him, “It’s a pet deer!” And then told him the rest of the story.

Years later I returned home from a 13-month tour of duty in South Vietnam with the Marines. Dad was struggling with his health after suffering two heart attacks during my tour, due to a weakening heart and anxiety. We decided that we would go hunting out on the farm. This time it was more of a formality than anything else. Dad never ventured far from the car, and I found myself looking out more for him than being concerned with hunting. I don’t recall us catching anything, but do remember that was the last time we ever did anything together as father and son. Seven months later on May 18, 1968, while I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, CA, he died at age 56.

This Father’s Day, I, at age 57, came to the realization that I had outlived in total years the person who taught me many of life’s lessons. Life was short for him, relatively speaking, but he enjoyed life by being involved with his sons and daughter through hunting, fishing, sports, church, school, singing, joking, laughing, and mentoring. He loved his wife, and his life was his family. In short, he lived a full life, was kind to other people, and was well liked. For that and much more I am thankful, and once again wish him a happy Father’s Day. And, finally, I would like to send to him the message that I’m still waiting to hear the “crack of dawn!”