A road trip in an old Bronco travels a well-worn path
By Tom Bryant
Summer had been as promised — hot, hot and hotter. Now, September is here with shorter days and cooler nights, a blessing to those of us who think a half-day bottled up in the house to escape the blistering afternoon heat is some kind of imprisonment.
Linda, my bride, was off to the beach with some of her old college friends and I was hanging around the homestead, trying to put my hunting gear in some semblance of order. Dove season came in on Saturday, and as expected, it was hot and dry with just a few birds flying. Die-hard hunters sat in the middle of the field and sweated, hoping an unsuspecting wayward dove would come within range. A few of us old-timers knew better and found shade in the tree line. No self-respecting dove would be flying in this heat in the middle of the day. Late that afternoon, I was lucky, though, and able to get four big doves.
When the hunt was over I went home, cleaned the birds and grilled them for supper. There was a quarter moon that evening and a fleeting breeze ruffled the dogwood leaves, giving a false sense of coolness. After supper, I kicked back on the porch, enjoyed a nightcap and listened to the evening sounds. Cicadas were calling in earnest, trying to make up for, in a few days, what they had missed by living underground for seven years. A hound dog bayed in the distance, complaining about being cooped up while coons and coyotes roamed about. I was hot and tired and needed a bath but decided to have another little libation before retiring for the evening. Sunday I planned to ride up to Slim’s Country Store, one of my very favorite places, and visit with my longtime friend and hunting buddy Bubba.
For some reason, it was a restless night, so rather than tossing and turning anymore, I got up early, put on a pot of coffee and made a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. I had loaded my ancient Bronco with some provisions the evening before: a cooler, my gunning bag, an old shotgun and a pistol just in case I ran into some hostiles on the way. The old truck is not air-conditioned, so I thought an early start would be advisable before the sun really went to work. There was a gray tint in the dawning sky as I pointed my trusty steed north, and we drove a quiet, lonesome road heading out of town.
The Bronco and I go way back. If I could remember all the adventures I’ve had with her, I could write a book. She’s slow, geared for the backcountry, not the breakneck speed of major highways; consequently, I just drive her on country roads, top speed 55. She’s a meanderer, but off the road she can’t be beat. She has never stranded me in the backwoods.
Very few people were up and about on this lazy Sunday morning, and we had a restful ride. Country farming in early fall is sort of halfway. Harvesting is just getting started, with acres of corn still to be combined, and I noticed that a lot of soybean fields were still green, just beginning to turn brown around the edges.
Moving out of the longleaf pine belt into hardwoods of oak, maple and hickory is like visiting another country. Rolling hills with cut hayfields and pastures with Black Angus cattle resting nose-to-nose next to a shaded creek is something that most folks don’t see that often. My affinity for country air started when I was a youngster, and if I don’t get a whiff of it every now and then, I can become as surly as a saddle bronc that hasn’t been ridden in a while.
I had all the windows down in the Bronco and the back gate fully up, so the ride north to Slim’s was pleasant and a little windy. The sun was steadily climbing and bearing down, promising another stifling day. The country store that was my destination was only about an hour away, and I looked forward to seeing all the good old boys and again listening to some tall tales that the old place seemed to generate. I hadn’t been in this part of the state in a while and was excited about prospects for the day. Bubba was supposed to meet me about 9, and we were going to ride out to check on one of our duck hunting spots from long ago.
Bubba and I are longtime friends. I first met him when he was a fledging executive with his family’s textile manufacturing company. I was just out of the Marine Corps, newly married and just starting my newspaper career after finally finishing college. We were like most young adults that age, ready to make our mark on the world, with a couple of exceptions. I had been given a real dose of reality with the Marines, and Bubba also had to grow up fast. Textiles were just beginning to leave the country. Mexico and China were making inroads into what had once been the South’s major manufacturing asset. Bubba and his other executives had all they could do to keep the plant productive and profitable. The years plowed on, though, and we remained close friends, as they say, through thick and thin.
Slim’s place, an old family country store, is a rarity in this age of big box giant retailing businesses, where big is supposedly automatically better. At Slim’s, a customer gets more than just goods. There is a camaraderie that you will not find at Wally World. Everybody knows everybody and is actually concerned with the well-being of neighbors. I’m afraid that when these old places are finally history, part of the backbone of country living will also be gone.
Bubba was standing on the steps of the store when I pulled into the gravel parking lot. He hasn’t changed much over the years, a rangy white-headed fellow now with a mustache to match. He would have been comfortable riding with Stuart during the Big War, or pushing cattle across the Red River in Texas. He’s the kind of guy everybody wants in their foxhole.
“Hey, Coot,” he exclaimed as I climbed out of the Bronco. “That old truck is still getting you around. Good to see you.” Bubba gave me the nickname Cooter years ago and refuses to let it drop. As far as he’s concerned, I’ll be Cooter as long as we’re on this Earth. Maybe even St. Peter knows me by that name now.
“Yeah, Bubba, she’s like us, old and slow, but the motivation is still there.” I went up the steps and Bubba grabbed me around the shoulders.
“Come on in, Coot. I just made a new pot of coffee and I got some of Ritter’s famous apple brandy sweetener just for you. We need to talk about the coming duck season. I have some good spots lined up.”
We went on in through the double screen doors and I greeted some of the regulars. I got a mug from the coffee bar, poured it about half full and said, “All right, Bubba, where is that famous sweetener?” He grinned, reached in his ever-present gunning bag, and pulled out a flask.
Yes, sir, it’s going to be a good day. PS
Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.
