The Pawpaw Forest

By Randy Whaley

This book is a hard look into the life of one man's journey as he persevered against unspeakable odds. It reveals the soul touching and unbreakable bond which he shared with his children, father, and four-legged canine friends. The author lays bare his innermost feelings in this compelling account of enduring adversity which encompassed his existence for nearly two decades. This written work also contains riveting adventures which transpired in the Colorado Rockies, the desert mountains of Arizona, and deep in the heart of South America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662478727

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The Pawpaw Forest

Randy Whaley

Copyright © 2022 Randy Whaley

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-7871-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7872-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Ruby Lake

Chapter 2

Wawa

Chapter 3

The Pawpaw Forest

Chapter 4

The Wolf Pack

Chapter 5

Adventura Paraguaya

Chapter 6

Short Stories and Poems

The Gila River

High Mountain Javelina

The Hard Hunt

The Fight

Poems

Stranger

The Arrows of the Almighty

Dance with the Devil

Passing

Woke Up

Take Me Back

Here I Stand

About the Author

Preface

The writing of this book proved to be a monumental task. Its inception entered my mind over two decades ago as I felt compelled to show the strength of the human will to survive. I am not a great writer. I just have great things to write about. Once this work began, I labored arduously off and on over a ten-year span before its completion. There were bouts of discouragement when I doubted seriously whether or not it would ever be finished. As I pen these final words, I must say, it feels good.

During my extended illness, I was extremely sensitive about my condition and sought to hide it from even those closest to me, portraying that all was well despite the fact that I had been cast into the midst of a stormy sea and was barely able to keep my head above the salty waves.

Still, I was driven to convey my story, so I used fictitious names during the onset of the initial draft, desiring to remain anonymous. Over the ensuing years, my sentiments slowly evolved to the point where I was willing to be completely honest and own this work. It was a painful write at times, filled with a multitude of tears as I was forced to relive and be haunted by the ghosts of the past.

My prayer is simple—that this book will serve as a source of inspiration and hope to those who are struggling to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my unfailing gratitude and appreciation to Nisa Holbrook for all the encouragement given and labor exerted in getting this book to press. Thank you for believing in me even when I didn't believe in myself. I will forever hold your friendship dear to my heart.

Chapter 1

Ruby Lake

Perhaps it was a bad omen. We sat at the Yeager Airport in Charleston, West Virginia, having just been notified that our flight to Denver had been canceled because of mechanical failure. We had begun planning this trip six years earlier when my son Scott was only fifteen years old. Driving through southwestern Colorado after backpacking up to Lake Geneva, we happened upon the quaint little town of Silverton and discovered the narrow-gauge railway which followed the Animas River through the San Juan Mountains to Durango.

Soon after studying the national forest maps back home, we began to dream about an isolated high lake in the Weminuche Wilderness which was extremely hard to reach and reportedly teeming with large trout and a few lunkers. Over the next few years, the subject of Ruby Lake would occasionally surface. Then, just when the dream was starting to fade, Scott brought it up again, and the wheels of destiny were put in motion as we purchased our train tickets over the phone six weeks in advance for the middle of July 2005. We were finally headed to Ruby Lake.

Now we sat waiting, not knowing anything for sure except our car rental reservation would no longer be valid. I dialed the number of a friend who lived in Mile High City. I had not seen Nick in almost a decade, but he responded by saying that he would pick us up at Denver International whenever we arrived and that we could use one of his vehicles for the week. We were back in business.

Leaving Nick's house on Sunday morning after a late-night flight, we headed southwest on Route 285 into the Rocky Mountains. Almost seven hours later, we arrived in the tiny village of Ouray and rented a small rustic cabin where we had spent the night six years prior. The price had jumped from $35 to a whopping $55, but we were just glad to have found a bed. Going out on the town that evening, we enjoyed a hot meal with a pitcher of PBR beer, most of which I drank myself. I was staggering a bit, and Scott drove us back to our room.

Twenty miles down the road the next day, we checked in at the train station. Our backpacks were loaded down with dehydrated food, sleeping bags, extra clothes, cooking utensils, fishing gear, and a lightweight dome tent. All told, somewhere around forty pounds each.

Scott was extremely hyper as we prepared to board the coal-powered locomotive. There is no way we are not making it to Ruby, he emphatically declared. Then, getting right in my face, he demanded, Are you ready for this? However, the lingering effects of a long-term chronic illness combined with hard manual labor at the farm over the previous three weeks had left me mentally and physically drained.

I will be when the time comes, I replied.

This was not a sufficient answer for him, so he continued his efforts to pump me up by raising his voice. Are you ready for this? he shouted. I hoped that I was, but I wasn't really sure.

The two of us sat silently, observing the racket taking place in the top of a towering white oak. It was a brisk fall morning. My young son and I had settled in shortly before daybreak. Branches shook and leaves rattled as several squirrels scampered from limb to limb in search of acorns. A .410-gauge shotgun with a shortened stock rested in my lap. Pointing up to a fork in the tree, I carefully shifted the gun over to Scott and eased the safety off as he pulled the duct-taped foam padding against his shoulder and took aim. The barrel vibrated slightly as he took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The gray scrambled around the trunk for a few short seconds before tumbling to the ground below, a lone pellet having pierced its heart.

This was Scott's first squirrel at the tender age of seven, and I was ecstatic, to say the least. Having resigned myself to the fate that his older sister, Laura, would never be a hunter, I had high hopes that he would follow in his father's footsteps. However, this hope was quickly diminished as he looked at me and asked, Can we go home now? This was a great disappointment as the small game continued to stir up above while cutting nuts.

I didn't give up on that cool Saturday morning and soon had him shooting the bow and arrow accurately. The boy was a natural, taking his aim instinctively without the use of sights. By the age of twelve, he had graduated to a thirty-pound longbow, and I thought it time to take him on his first deer hunt. Very immature for his years, he sat compactly in my lap up in a gnarly ole bull pine. I sported a red beard back in those days. Unable to hold still, he kept twisting around and chomping at it with his teeth. I found this to be extremely annoying as it was vitally important to remain perfectly still, not to mention the fact that it hurt each time he ripped a few hairs out.

Despite his lack of attention, a mature doe slipped in behind us through the woods. In my excitement, I stood up too soon before she completely passed by us. Catching a glimpse of the movement, the wary whitetail spooked and ran out into the open field. Once there, she stopped and proceeded to snort while stomping her foot. I had seen this particular reaction numerous times before, and it almost always meant game over. However, a pet lamb of ours just happened to meander out of the barn at that moment, about two hundred yards below us and began to bleat. The doe was instantly distracted and turned her attention away from us and toward the young ewe. She stood a good twenty-five yards away and out of our range, but I knew it was our only chance, so I whispered, Shoot.

I had no expectation of him coming even close. I just wanted him to get some action. To my utter surprise, he slowly took an elevated aim and rainbowed the arrow right into the vitals. The startled deer bolted and then collapsed after a short run. I simply could not believe my eyes and was beyond elated. Throughout the whole ordeal, Scott had remained perfectly calm. That was the problem. He was too calm. The hunt just didn't excite him the way it did me. I thought for sure that he would be hooked for life after that, but I was wrong.

Eventually, I had to accept the disheartening truth that we were not cut out of the same pattern and needed to stop forcing my path on him. It was not in my power to change his basic makeup, but I did possess the ability to adjust and accept the type of person that he truly was. It turned out that his true passion was music, a field in which he was naturally gifted and destined to excel. The one common bond that we did share was our love for backpacking and trout fishing.

After an hour of riding open coach alongside the Animas River through some of the most spectacular scenery I had ever witnessed, the noisy locomotive came screeching to a halt. A handful of backpackers exited the train, but we alone carried Ruby Lake as our destination.

Crossing the river on a swinging bridge, we took to the trail upstream, stopping here and there to cast a dry fly as we were giddy about fishing the Rockies again. Scott landed a few pretty but small little brookies, which we released. In the process, we managed to get away from the beaten path and were forced to climb straight up a steep embankment. Our lungs had yet to acclimate to the higher altitude, and soon they were starving for oxygen. Scott's confidence rapidly evaporated away, clinging to a bush while trying to catch our breath. He said, I can't do this. The boy had a history of laying down whenever things got tough on these excursions, and there had been times when I was forced to get downright mean just to push him on.

Once back on the trail, the walking became much easier with only a few ups and downs. Life was good once again. Before long, we had covered the two and a half miles to the mouth of No Name Creek and unshouldered our loads. We knew the routine well and soon had camp set up with a nice cooking fire in place just before dark.

We had passed by Ruby Creek on the way in as the guidebook stated that it was impossible to ascend the canyon from there and reach the lake. Our plan was to hike up No Name for several miles, cross over a saddler which stood at 12,500 feet, and then drop down the valley which led to the lake. This was a journey which, round trip, involved some seventeen strenuous miles over a five-day period. We had completed several challenging trips together in the past, but this was by far the longest in way of both time and distance.

Sleep came slow that first night as we lay awake fantasizing about untamed regions and trophy rainbow trout. I thought about Scott's older sister, and part of me wished that she was present while another part recognized that it was more important to be alone with my son on this specific venture. Before the week was over, I would be grateful that she had not accompanied us.

Scott was an extremely sweet-natured child from the moment of his birth. He was always smiling and rarely fussed and was constantly in an affectionate mood. I remember being embarrassed during a Sunday church service one morning as he caused a distraction while sitting in my lap by repeatedly kissing me all over the face. Even then, I knew that the day would come when the kisses stopped, and I would hate myself for feeling so self-conscious. Farther down the road, both prophecies were fulfilled.

Then, there was a time when he was just a little tike and I had some business to attend to. I explained to him while standing in the driveway that I needed to go but would return later. With a pitiful look on his face, he pleaded Pweeze don't take berry wong. Unable to get his touching admonition off my mind, I abruptly stopped a few miles down the road and headed back home.

Fatherhood was an attribute which came natural to me, and I put all my energy into it. The truth of the matter was that none of us really had a clue about raising children until they had already grown up, and by then it was too late. It all boiled down to spending as much time as humanly possible with my kids while they were still young. Despite screwing up a lot, I did manage to get this one thing right. Fortunately, it turned out to be the only accomplishment which really mattered. I would not end up being considered a successful person in the eyes of society but would be truly blessed because of the relationship I shared with both my son and daughter.

Each night, I lay down in bed with them, one at a time, telling stories. These included an ongoing saga about two little raccoons named Paddle and Puddles who lived in an old hollow oak tree with their parents and were forever getting into trouble. Afterward, it was always hard to say good night and tear myself away from their pleas to stay a little bit longer.

Scott was the embodiment of sweetness and affection. All the dump trucks in the world cannot hold my love for you was one of his favorite lines, along with I love you all the way to Pluto and back. Whenever he thought that he wasn't getting enough attention, he would hang his head and say in his sad voice, I feel wike I haven't been wanted today. This never failed to melt my heart.

Oh no, you are the most wanted boy in the whole wide world, I would respond and then threaten to kiss his head off.

Breaking out in laughter, he would say, Go ahead, Dad. Kiss my head off.

He loved to hear a rendition about an imaginary dream of mine. In the dream, I was standing in the middle of an open field which was filled with hundreds of little boys of all different shapes and sizes, engaged in a variety of activities. While observing their behavior, Jesus walked up and told me that I could choose whichever one I wanted to be mine. Wandering through the crowd, I eventually spotted a special little boy all the way in the back. He was playing in the dirt with his digging tools. This just so happened to be one of Scott's favorite hobbies and resulted on multiple occasions in both of us having to be treated for pinworms. The end of the story spoke for itself. Those days were long gone now, and a lot of turbulent water has since drifted beneath the bridge.

A new day broke, and after hastily devouring a cold breakfast, we strapped on our packs and anxiously began hiking up the mountain trail which paralleled No Name Creek. The steep climb was slow as we set into a steady pace and paused often to rest our aching lungs and legs. Pushing too hard, under those circumstances, could have resulted in dizziness, fatigue, and migraines. Plunging forward, we tried to concentrate on the next stop before us and not focus too far up ahead. Removing the packs off our backs for breaks was an unnecessary waste of energy, so we searched for sports where we could take the weight off our shoulders by leaning against a rock, tree, or steep bank.

We consumed all our available drinking water before long, and our thirst increased with every passing minute. Having been unable to locate any feeder springs, we were forced to drink out of the mainstream itself. During some thirty odd years of backpacking, I had never once gotten sick from contaminated water, but then again, I had never drunk from a stream this large before without first boiling its contents. I did carry a small bottle of colloidal silver just in case of any bacterial infection. A little apprehensive, I instructed Scott to wait a while after I had some to drink just to make sure it was safe. However, he was parched to the bone and guzzled a few gulps without heeding my advice. To my relief, we suffered no ill effects and were able to keep our canteens full from then on out.

The constant humming of the running water encouraged us as we trudged along. Eventually, we emerged out of the forest and into a beautiful meadow surrounded by mountain peaks, some of which soared over fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Moving on up for another half mile or so, we encountered an excellent campsite and pitched tent. There were a multitude of large boulders scattered about, and Scott, having gotten his second wind, did some exploring. I sat back and snapped a few pictures while he crawled around on the rocks like an ant in the distance.

The outdated fishing guide stated that there were excellent numbers of brook trout in the meandering stretch of the stream, but the beavers had long since abandoned the area, and the fishing was extremely poor. We were fixing the prospect of another supper without meat, but we did have a generous supply of deer jerky and instant mashed potatoes.

Hovering around the fire a little before dark, a snowshoe hare, wearing his summer brown coat, hopped out of the bushes and into our little clearing.

If I just had my bow or even a slingshot, we could have a feast, I muttered to myself. I picked up a round stone the size of a baseball. I took careful aim at the head and let it fly. The missile was right on target, but the rabbit jumped string and bolted safely away before it arrived.

A short time later, as we sat nursing the flames, the little fellow showed up again. Our bellies were full now. I felt a pang of remorse for having tried to take its life. He was so pretty, and his presence added something special to the experience.

Apart from a rocky marriage, things were great. I was thirty years old and in the prime of life. Living in the rolling hills of western Appalachia, I had ample opportunity to enjoy the outdoors—a central part of my existence from youth. Then, without warning, the hand of fate dealt me a brutal blow, and the dream turned into a living nightmare. Struck down with a mysterious illness, I would be plagued for decades to come, thrusting me into a downward spiral which would ultimately cast me barren into the deepest pits of hell itself.

I watched with calm interest as the blood from my freshly cut fingers mingled with that of a deer I was butchering. An avid outdoorsman and bowhunter, I had taken on the responsibility of processing the meat of game harvested by fellow church members and friends. Never once had I ever cut myself with a blade while doing so, but this particular carcass had frozen solid hanging in the garage and was now partially thawed out. This complicated the task, and a sudden slip of the hand caused me to slice through my skin on a sharp and protruding bone.

The hunter who had taken the buck told me that it was acting strangely before he shot it. Two weeks later, I began to get sick. It started with a constant weakness, followed by joint pain and an assortment of other ailments, including brain fog. I could only describe it as a bad case of the flu but never coming out of it. Scott was only two and a half years of age at the time and would be forced to grow up with a father who was steadily declining in both physical and mental health.

Day 3 started off with a close examination of the map in an effort to figure out how to locate the saddle crossing. Unsure of our exact location, we underestimated the distance we had traveled and mistakenly veered left in the wrong direction. Ascending a small rise through the thick pines and downed trees, we popped out into another meadow. The hiking was fairly easy as the slope was a gradual incline with just a few small creeks to jump along the way.

We leisurely paused here and there for a drink of water and snacked on miniature Snicker bars for a boost of energy. Before long, we eased up to a rock bowl covered with packed snow and surrounded by jagged peaks. This left us confused as we were supposed to reach a small unnamed lake near the base of the saddle. Perhaps we were in the right place and it was only frozen over, I pondered.

The only thing we knew for sure was that a lone set of tracks in the snow, which led up the hillside to an open cave, belonged to a bear. It had either gone up and still remained or came down and moved off to parts unknown. We were curious but, feeling vulnerable, stifled our imagination as neither of us wanted to get close enough to examine the prints. Hoping for the best, we started up the hillside to the right in anticipation of stumbling across the saddle somewhere near the top. It just didn't happen. We were way off course.

We spent the better part of the day circling below the crest of the Needle Mountain Range. Physically strained, we began to stop more often for rest breaks and tended to take a little longer each time we sat down. I was having to push Scott. Let's go, I would say. Only to hear, Not yet. Give me a few more minutes.

At last, we stood on a vantage point from where we could view the small lake we were searching for off in the distance. This discovery was bittersweet in that the terrain between us was harsh, and there were several rugged gullies to be crossed.

Scrambling around a rocky bench, we came to a dead-end drop-off. Backtracking, we dropped down to a lower level and tried again with the same result. The frustration continued to build, so we decided to drop our packs and seek out a suitable route. Unencumbered, we edged over a steep slide and began to monkey our way down while clinging to whatever we could get a grip on with our bare hands for support.

In the lead, the shale footing was loose, and every time Scott moved, a shower of debris came raining down on my head. We had descended some twenty feet or so before realizing that this passage was also futile. Discouraged, we retraced our steps upward. The dirt and rock fragments continued to assault me as I kept my face down to avoid being blinded. Still, in the midst of this unpleasant episode, I somehow managed to retrieve the instamatic camera out of my pocket and take a picture of Scott defying gravity.

Once back up above, we recovered our packs and continued to work our way around the punishing landscape. In one place, we were forced to leap across a deep crevice onto a narrow shelf bordering a rock wall. I landed safely, but Scott jumped too hard and crashed into the adjacent cliff with his pack frame. Bouncing back toward the drop-off, he scrambled frantically not to fall and lunged into the wall a second time with the same result. I stood still a few feet away and watched helplessly as he screamed out a few choice words before catching his balance upright. I breathed a sigh of relief, and my heart continued to race wildly within my chest.

Finally, after lowering elevation several times, we came upon a massive rock shield which slanted just enough to permit walking. If we could only make it past this last obstacle, we would be home free. Halfway across, the incline became much steeper than what it had appeared from a distance. Losing our equilibrium would mean rolling some two hundred feet down the solid surface and onto an icy field before striking the tree line below.

The worst part was a fifteen-foot section which I successfully transcended by digging the edge of my boots into a faint crack which ran horizontally across the face. Scott waited patiently before taking a step, but his feet immediately went out from under his body.

Catching himself on all fours, he looked up and calmly declared, I can't make it. He was wearing a pair of worn-out sneakers, so he was unable to bite into the crease. This was definitely a lack of foresight on my part, but there was nothing we could do about it now.

Stay put. I'm coming back, I replied. I unshouldered my pack, returned to him, and repeated the process with his baggage in tow. I then went back for Scott. Teetering on the crack, I positioned my open hands against the wall and instructed him to crawl up and place his feet on them. We methodically inched our way along like this