By Caleb McClain
I looked out the window and noticed a small creature scurrying through the thick grass. I studied it carefully and decided it was a squirrel—much larger than the Eastern gray that inhabits half the country, including all of Mississippi. With a pelt like the fox squirrels I shot in my youth in Texas, only a bit darker, with a jet-black head and a white snout, it was a trophy for any self-proclaimed squirrel hunter.
“Have you ever seen a squirrel like that?” I asked my father‑in‑law as he handed me a beer.
“Yeah, it’s some kind of fox squirrel. I think they call them Bachman’s or something. From what I’ve heard, they’re only in small pockets along the coast.”
We watched the squirrel play until another one appeared.
“You don’t know how bad I want to shoot that thing,” I told him, half hoping he’d tell me to sneak out with the pellet gun and not tell his mother I was hunting on the Sanctuary.
The Sanctuary, as we call it, is the 400‑acre stand of virgin pine forest my wife’s grandmother calls home. From the opossum that eats from her hand to the eight‑point buck that takes shade in her barn, there isn’t an animal the Good Lord created that isn’t safe there.
He gave me the “don’t do it” look. Still, I’d find one someday.
The Expedition Begins
The DeSoto National Forest spans 518,000 acres of southern Mississippi. It’s close to the Sanctuary, and I knew it would be my best chance to find one off her preserve. With ample hardwood creek bottoms and plenty of room to roam, I was certain I’d have one in my sights. I loaded up my backpack hunting gear, grabbed a shotgun, and set off after my trophy squirrel.
A mile in, I sat at the base of a white oak, gun in hand. Within 15 minutes I heard a squirrel chirp nearby. I scanned the trees and ground for movement. The slightest twitch of a tail on a limb caught my eye. I eased around for a better view. His head was hidden in shadow, so I couldn’t tell the coloration, but I had a clear shot at his torso. I raised my shotgun and fired. From 75 feet up fell the lifeless body of what I hoped was my prize. I ran over and saw it was a gray squirrel.
Oh well—dinner.
I pushed another couple hundred yards and repeated the same routine until the sun slipped behind the trees. Still, no Bachman’s fox squirrels.
Around the campfire that night I skinned the six I’d taken and ate one with some freeze‑dried macaroni.
The next morning was abnormally cold for South Mississippi, even for February. I bumped a feral hog but lost him before I could get a clean shot. Every time a squirrel barked, my hopes rose and then crashed when I saw another gray.
Searching for Bachman’s
Eventually I stopped shooting them. With only eight squirrels to a limit, I needed to save at least two spots in my bag in case I found a pocket of the big ones.
I retired to a bowl of Mountain House pad Thai squirrel at my new campsite, hoping the next day would be more favorable.
I poured over my maps with a cup of instant coffee as the morning sun broke through the trees. I’d already woven God‑knows‑how many miles in, crossed a dozen roads and creeks, and all I had to show for it was a cotton sack full of rodent meat. I was too deep into this exercise in stupidity to turn back now.
Along the creek I crept up on two bucks fighting in a small opening—an odd sight for February caused by the rut being pushed back several months in the southernmost portions of the Gulf states.
By the time my stomach growled for lunch, I had two more squirrels hanging from my pack. As I ate, I heard squirrel chatter—deeper than the high‑pitched calls I’d been hearing for what felt like three weeks.
I grabbed my shotgun and scanned the area. Running across a fallen log just 30 yards away was the black head of the beast I’d been waiting for. In an instant I swung my shotgun, and he fell.
I admired my trophy—how much bigger he was than the grays on my pack and the beautiful coloration he wore. Then I realized the absurdity of the situation: I’d spent half a week trying to kill a single squirrel. With that, I slung him on my pack with the same pride as a Pennsylvania deer hunter in the ’50s strapping a buck to the hood of his Chevrolet and began the trek home.
