Front Porch of the Angels

 

If you say, "The Lord is my refuge," and you make the Most High your dwelling, no harm will overtake you, no disaster will come near your tent. For He will command His angels concerning you, to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. Psalms 91:9-13

Late in the 19th century, the Industrial Revolution and subsequent railroad expansion initiated what would result in a large-scale change in the forest landscape across the southeast United States. Hundreds of thousands of acres that had been historically dominated by oak/hickory and pine grassland cover types were converted largely to artificially regenerated pine forests, and the vast majority of the acres that were converted during that period remain in a planted crop of pine to this day. However, it does remain possible to find a tract of timber that has found the fortune of dodging the saw since the influx of commercial timber harvest made its initial spread across the south all those years ago. Typically, relatively small in size, sparsely scattered across the landscape, and usually containing attributes that restrict one or more operability requirements of a conventional logging operation- these tracts are hidden pearls in the sea of pine thickets that represent the lion’s share of the modern-day southern forest. Anytime you are fortunate enough to happen across one of these diamonds in the rough, you are always enamored by their inherent beauty. 

Lying somewhere between the south bank of the Tennessee River and the northernmost tract of the Conecuh National Forest, there is a seventy-acre tract that is a shining example of just such a stand. While I am aware that the location described here encompasses an area that covers roughly two-thirds of the state of Alabama, that’s as close a description of the precise location as I am willing to disclose. From an aerial perspective, the tract lies longways east and west, and the only navigable access that leads to the tract is a narrow trail which is limited to foot traffic only for nearly three-quarters of a mile through a stand of planted pine. The trail vanishes just as you enter the block, very near the southeast corner of the stand. Once you cross the stand line and turn north, the terrain turns sharply uphill ahead of you, to such a degree that, when looking straight ahead, you are looking directly at the ground in front of you, so the first fifty yards do not catch your eye as overly impressive, but I think God made it that way because He knew that nothing could serve as a sufficient prelude to what unfolds at the sixty-yard line. 

There are certain points on earth, away from all civilization, that are equipped with a supernatural force that prevents any well-adjusted human with a moderate level of spatial wherewithal from passing through without stopping. This act is performed out of absolute necessity and without a choice otherwise. Even if you are passing through the area for the fifth time in the past hour, there are characteristics attached to these anointed locations on our planet that prevent you from continuing on without, at minimum, a brief pause to admire your surroundings. If you have visited the location before, many times the stop is made to subconsciously calm an innate fear inside of you that things may be different when you return, or that you may never get to see it again at all. These places, if plucked from remote desolation and dropped into civilization would certainly have a park bench and a picnic table to allow passers-by to sit comfortably, breathe the fresh air, and enjoy the scenery while they clear their minds of the fog created by the pace of the world we live in today. When you reach the sixty-yard line on this tract, something in the atmosphere forces you to stop and you quickly recognize that you have arrived at one of these splendid locations. 

A quick reference to the topo map from this location shows the five-hundred-and-sixty-foot line making a full circle around you and represents a peak in the topography that is nearly forty feet higher than any other point of elevation for the better part of the surrounding four miles. The area inside this topographic circle is roughly a tenth of an acre in size, is more or less flat, and a person can walk the twenty-five yards from one side to the other and be equally as awestruck by the natural cathedral that lay before them from any point around the perimeter. 

Facing west, the spine of the ridge drops away from you at a fall rate of about one foot of drop in elevation for every six linear feet, for just over a hundred and seventy-five yards where it gradually levels out before reaching the drain in the bottom, some hundred and forty feet in elevation below where you stand. To the south, the topography falls off roughly twice as abruptly, to a point where it transitions into a flat in the bottom, that spans roughly two hundred fifty yards in width at the widest point. The timber is comprised of a variety of hill hardwood species, mostly large sawlog size, evenly distributed across the stand with a light presence of shade tolerant species thinly blotting the mid and understory of the stand throughout. A visit to this spot provides an experience that can help you gain perspective on the many troubles you encounter and instantly renew your spirit for the better, when society works tirelessly to expose you to the worst. When our guardian angels sit and drink coffee in the morning, take breaks for lunch during the workday, or convene at day’s end to tell stories about the perils they helped mitigate throughout the day, this ridge peak is the front porch where they gather to do it. 

If widely known by the general public, this slice of God’s creation would without question be the chosen site for marriage proposals, memorial funeral services held for upstanding community figures, and every social function known to mankind in between. By now, somebody connected to the National Parks Service would have found some excuse to enter the site into the National Register of Historic Places to attract visitors even outside of the regular schedule of social events throughout the year. There would be a paved two-lane road that led to a large, gated parking lot where the trail ends currently and a concrete walkway with a staircase and handrails that would safely deliver visitors from the parking lot to the top. Although I am certain that there are scores of other people who know about this place, I have never visited in the company of another living soul, so in my feeble little world, the only person who knows about it is me, and I am perfectly content to maintain that arrangement until they throw the dirt on my box.

The east end of the hollow that runs the width of the stand serves as the point of origin for a wet weather drain that runs nearly two and a half miles before converging with a larger perennial watercourse to the west. The two ridges protecting the hollow roll away gently enough in the open understory of the big hardwood to allow you to stand on one ridge and maintain visual contact with the forest floor for the full width of the hollow, even at its widest point. If you follow the hollow to roughly the midway point and climb about two-thirds of the way up the northern ridge, there is a pear-shaped flat protruding from the side ridge that resembles a chair, with the flat serving as the seat and the remainder of the side ridge above serving as the backrest. In the event that you find yourself pressed for time to the point that you cannot afford to divert back across to the ridge peak for a parting look, a visit to this spot will serve as a subdued but serviceable substitution.

Given that I am helpless in the grip of my compulsion, with each visit to the ridge peak, one of the final thoughts prior to my departure is always- Man, this would be a beautiful place to kill a turkey. Although the tract is relatively small in size, there is typically a gobbling turkey or two that can be found living on the tract in the spring, and I can’t say I blame them. I killed a turkey on the tract some years ago, however, although I tried to trick him up there, after a series of moves and countermoves, the scene of the finale ended up being about as far from the ridge peak as you could get and still be within the bounds of the surrounding stand. I know of other individuals who have killed turkeys in there, all of which make me cringe at the thought, however this particular season, my foremost intent was to be there early, empty bucket in hand, before any of the ripe fruit hanging on the vine could be picked. 

It was the second day of the season. When I parked my truck at the head of the trail, the clock read nearly an hour before light had begun to grey the eastern sky the morning prior. I finished my final preparations and started to traverse the mile of rolling terrain that led to my destination on the ridge peak. With the hardwoods still in winter dormancy, any maneuvers with a turkey still in the tree would be very limited- especially one roosted on or near the ridge peak. With this in mind, my intent was to be settled into my hide with plenty of darkness still to spare. I reached my destination with a solid twenty minutes before daylight began to make entry. I found a big white oak to sit against, facing the direction of the southern edge of the stand, a timber change which transitioned the hill hardwood over to a thinned pine plantation. I knew from years past, that turkeys liked to roost in the thick canopy of the pines along the edge during the early spring when the canopy of the surrounding hardwood was still dormant and open. 

For the better part of the next twenty minutes, I sat quietly and listened as all the night critters traveled home from work and turned operations over to the day shift. This transition was made as smoothly as ever but, given my position on the ridge peak, sounded different than I had ever heard. While I am sure my active imagination played a role in over-embellishing things to a degree, it certainly felt as though much of the resident fauna seemed to swing by the ridge peak during their commute. Maybe they all get the same feeling I do from this special place. 

The call of the first redbird came from no more than a few feet behind my white oak. Anytime now, I thought quietly. Just as soon as my mind had enough time to clear that thought a turkey gobbled no more than a hundred yards to the southeast, right on the stand edge where I had anticipated they would be. Immediately my instincts went to work assessing the terrain between my position and the gobblers roost and quickly determined that using the crest of the ridge at a slightly different angle could play to my benefit. Still very dark on the ground, I looked ahead and found another large white oak that would put me in the driver’s seat if the turkey flew down either on top or the side of the ridge. Quietly, I stood and performed a flawless rendition of a deer walking as I improved my position at a forty-five-degree diagonal toward the turkey. As soon as I eased down beside my new tree and got still, the turkey gobbled again to reassure me that he had not seen the maneuver and to seemingly applaud my walking deer performance. Based on his location on the contour, I was anticipating him to fly down on the side of the ridge and, hopefully, walk to the top to look for the hen he was about to hear. I sat with my left shoulder pointing in the direction of the roosted gobbler to guard for this but maintained enough free mobility to swing to my left in the event that he flew out straight to the top instead. The move put the turkey around eighty yards from my new position.  

The turkey gobbled another four or five times over the next several minutes, and I decided to make him aware that he had some interested company roosted nearby. I gave him the softest cluck and five-note tree yelp that I could muster, and he answered immediately. I answered him right back with two clucks and another soft tree yelp which received another instant response. I left it at that. 

He had gobbled another handful of times after our exchange before another turkey gobbled about two hundred fifty yards to the northwest and sounded to be very near the chair seat flat on the neighboring ridge side. The nearer gobbler immediately answered the gobble from the other turkey. A minute or so later the near turkey gobbled again and was abruptly answered by the neighboring gobbler who followed up just seconds later with another gobble. The near turkey hushed, clearly indicating that the neighboring gobbler was the dominant turkey of the two. This raised a little concern in my mind that the near gobbler may shy away altogether, however I found solace in my close proximity to his roost, and the fact that he and I had already exchanged some pillow talk. 

I was sitting quietly, listening to the turkey on the neighboring ridge gobble every minute or two, as I scanned the treetops along the timber change where the near gobbler was roosted when I picked up some movement. I eased my binoculars up from my chest to get a closer look at what I thought could be the gobbler in the tree. I examined for a second or two and realized that the movement was not the gobbler himself, but rather the end of the limb where he spent the night. I could see the end of his limb, but I could not see the turkey as he was positioned perfectly behind the bole of a big yellow poplar that stood between us. The movement was being caused by the gobbler adjusting his position on the limb in preparation to fly down. I know this now, because the very instant I figured all of this out, I heard him leave his roost. I clearly heard a couple of wingbeats followed the pronounced thud of the gobbler and the step or two he took in the hardwood leaf litter when touched down very nearby. Given that I was looking through my binoculars, I saw none of this, but based on the sound, I knew the general location of where he landed on the side ridge below me. I slowly eased the binoculars away from my eyes and immediately started scanning in the direction of where it sounded like he landed. The ridge began to drop off at a steeper grade about thirty yards ahead of me, and I could not see the turkey on the ground which meant he must have landed over the crest out of sight. I readied my gun and pointed it in the general direction that I assumed the gobbler to be.

Ten seconds or so had passed since the turkey left the limb before I heard him drum. The drumming was loud and clear in the still morning air and indicated that the landing pad he had chosen on the side slope of the ridge was around sixty yards or so from my position, and likely within fifteen feet of where I had anticipated he would land when I made my setup. I clucked and purred softly to let him know that his hen was still there and still had interest in their agreed upon arrangement from a few minutes earlier. The turkey did not answer with a gobble, but only a few seconds later, I heard his footsteps in the dry hardwood leaves as he started up the hill in my direction. 

The turkey had flown down so early that my surroundings were still very dark. My eyes scanned back and forth in the direction of the growing volume of his footsteps, frantically searching for the first movement of the gobbler cresting the ridge. The dark outline of the top of his tailfan just over the crest was the first thing to catch my eye, which was followed by a loud spit and drum from the gobbler as he stopped to strut at less than forty yards. Only pausing for a second, he continued his approach and soon his head, tucked in half strut, became visible over the ridge crest. The white cap on the top of his head shined like an LED light bulb on the dark backdrop as he approached. He continued directly toward my position for a few more steps before changing his heading slightly around to my right which took him behind a big red oak and a hickory that stood in offset alignment from my view. He stayed behind the trees and continued to angle toward me for six or eight steps before he appeared on the right side of the obstruction. He stopped again momentarily to strut then turned back to the left disappearing behind the same two trees for a few more steps. 

When he cleared the obstruction back on the left side, he was in full view at thirteen steps, head raised looking for the hen that he had heard on top of the ridge peak. My cheek was rested on the comb of the shotgun and the sights were trained in his direction, however closing one eye to aim was causing my field of vision to suffer tremendously in the dark environment, which made picking a spot and taking dead aim nearly impossible. The gobbler stopped and stretched his neck even further, very likely detecting some movement as I worked to troubleshoot the vision issue. I quickly elected to open my off-side which provided better clarity, aligned the sight with his neck, and ended the affair less than ninety seconds after he had left his roost.  

I am a firm believer that God provides us with guardian angels who are specifically tasked with helping us navigate through this life. I think they are the ones who are there keeping us from stepping on snakes and falling in stump holes in the dark, helping us pick the logs to cross the creek that aren’t too rotten to break when you get half way, and all the other little things that keep us in one piece while God tends to bigger things throughout the day. Both of my grandfathers are certainly two of mine. There are times when I can feel them there, helping me think through certain decisions in the woods each spring. I can think back on hundreds, if not thousands, of times when I have been faced with a decision and defaulted back to- how would they feel about this? Would they approve, or would this be something we would have to sit down and talk about after I cross the footlog to the other side? I have, without question, made plenty of decisions fell under the latter category. However, this was one of those mornings when I knew they were there. I bet they roosted him the evening before. I bet they quietly slid their chairs around to the south side under the cover of darkness, and I bet the coffee was steaming from the top of their cups as they enjoyed the show from the front porch of the angels. I hope I made them proud.