When growing up, I usually came home late from hunting or fishing, so I always tried to tell a good story to stay out of trouble. I never got out of the habit. I wrote these stories mainly for my son, Sam, and for family and friends. They're a combination of autobiography, family traditions, bygone times, and tall tales.  I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing them. PS: All of my stories are true, or mostly true, or maybe just made up! -- Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back! 1. THE EARLY DAYS Buck Fever River Swamp Hounds Flat Woods Hounds Mr. Clyde's ..read more

No one told me I might cry. It was 1965.  I was eight-years old, dreaming of shooting great big bucks, but not ready for what was about to happen.   Daddy had taken me "still" hunting in the Ryals Camp Bend, a bulge in the back swamp full of tupelo trees and black water slews.  It was a great place to kill a deer. We didn't have fancy tree-climbing stands back then, we would just lean against on an old log near a deer path and wait.  Actually, this was one of the few times I remember Daddy hunting without his hounds. The sun was just coming up, the morning was co ..read more

There will never be anything more exciting than listening to a pack of hounds, screaming with every breath, pushing a deer straight towards you. In the Beginning In the early 1960s, we were living in Jesup when we got into the dog hunting business.  We started out with an old dog named Spot, she was more of a pet than anything else.  I don't know where Spot came from, but she had a pup we named Snowball, and Snowball started a line of some of the best swamp hounds ever to set foot in Long County. Early on Daddy knew a lot about hunting with dogs, but his only experience w ..read more

In the flat woods, we were always racing from one dirt road to the next. Road Runners We often hunted large tracts of paper company land that bordered both sides of Tibet highway, which was in the southeastern part of the county. These tracts included thousands of acres of planted pines, with wide sandy roads crisscrossing all over the place.  Every road, curve, dip or swamp had a unique name, such as Curry Ford, the Magnolia Tree, Bob Town, the Burnt-Out Bridge, Cow Head Swamp, Gooseneck, the Briar Patch, and many others. In the flat woods, we always hunted from the roads, usin ..read more

When I was a boy, I helped Daddy and Uncle Gene build Mr. Clyde's Camp. The River Swamp used to be full of hunting and fishing camps with names like Judge's Camp, Mud Lake Camp, Buck Island Camp, Bullpen and many more.  Over the years I stayed at most of these camps, but one camp was very special to me, Mr. Clyde's Camp. It was located next to the Morgan Lake train trestle, but on the highway side of the railroad tracks.  Daddy and Uncle Gene did most of the work, but it was still a family affair. Building the Camp The main feature of the camp was an old school bus converted fo ..read more

Who knew you could be tried by the Judge for missing a deer? When I was a boy, I always wore old clothes deer hunting. I wouldn't dare let Mamma catch me wearing a nice shirt to the woods.  It's been over 50 years now, and I can still hear her telling me, "Don't wear that good shirt hunting." And for good reason, if you missed a deer, the Judge would order your shirt tail cut off. Serious Business Back Then Hunting was serious business in my early days. Hunters enjoyed the sport, but they needed the meat. I still remember watching hunters draw numbers out of a hat for a piece of ven ..read more

There are two deer you never forget, your biggest buck and your first kill. There's trauma with both. Shooting a big buck brings excitement, and a bit of relief; every hunter likes to say he's killed a big buck. Killing your first deer brings excitement, too, but then a sense of dread takes over. The young hunter knows he's about to experience his rite of passage -- getting Blooded. I can still recall my first deer like it was yesterday. We were running dogs in Bobtown Hunting Club. It was getting late in the day. Daddy and I had just stopped on the Bombing Range road, near a place we called ..read more

Daddy loved Doctors Creek. For a long time we did most of our fishing on the bank of that slow, black water creek. You couldn't fill up the cooler, but the fishing was still good. I think Daddy was just hooked on frying catfish with his Coleman stove on the bank of that creek. Getting Ready I can still remember coming home from school on a Friday afternoon and seeing Daddy rigging up cane poles for an evening fishing trip. He always bought his fishing poles from Zip Billings, and used simple corks, splicing them with his pocket knife, then wrapping black electrical tape around them. We never ..read more

He "told" me to step out of the truck. Like most country kids, I started driving early.  I was always excited when Daddy would let me drive his hunting truck in the woods. I could drive quite well by the time I was 12 or 13-years old. The Daily Lunchroom Run I was actually 14 when I started driving our hunting truck around town; not on joy rides, but to pick up the food scraps from the school lunchroom.  Daddy had made arrangements with the local school to use the food scraps to feed our deer hounds.  It was a daily routine; after I got home from school, I would drive our hu ..read more

We were squatting at the water's edge, like ancient cavemen, butt-naked.  That's how I remember my first time skinny-dipping at Johnny's Clay Hole. Johnny Hall lived on a dirt road just outside of town.  Near his house was a small clay pit, deep enough to hold water year-around, yet close enough to get there on your bicycle. We called it Johnny's Clay Hole, and I spent many summer days there with my best friends, swimming and having fun.  Riding my bike to Johnny's house for a swim started a great friendship. The Jeep Most boys growing up in our small town were interested i ..read more