I remember the very first time I had ever heard the name Clay Babb.  It was from a childhood friend of mine named Karl Reiche.  Karl and I have been friends ever since we were youngsters back in Orlando Florida, and I actually taught Karl to play bass guitar for the sole purpose that he and I form a band together back when we were about 13 years of age.

Karl had left for California with his dad back in “75″ and then in “80″ came back to Orlando to play music with me again, and it was then that Karl brought back stories of the Bay Area music scene, how exciting, cutting edge and vibrant it was, and also about this particular guitarist who could play the most monstrous guitar and chord progressions… And that person whom Karl was referring to was Mr. Clay Babb.

I left Orlando in April of “80″, along with Karl, for sunny San Jose, California and for the lure of stardom which it had to offer, and I finally got to meet Clay.  At that time he was involved with a very innovative space/metal project, and boy let me tell you that Karl was right in that Clay was surely a monster guitarist and simply a wonderful artist period!  Clay and I hit it off immediately, and although he and I most surely had music and playing the guitar in common, it would not be until nearly 30 years later that I would learn just how much he and I actually did have in common.

I was recently talking to a mutual friend (and also one of my very best, old friends) James Bohn.  Jimmy is one of the finest drummers that I know, and incidentally his dad Wally was the one who urged me to get back into hunting all those years ago.  “Go get yourself a shotgun” Wally said, “That will be the best meat gun you could ever buy.”

Wally was an old Okie directly from Oklahoma and he knew all about subsistence hunting.  This whole exchange between Wally and I began one day when I casually mentioned something to him about getting back into hunting so that I might be able to feed a group of “Starving Musicians”!

But, I digress; I can save all of the ensuing tales concerning me getting back into hunting for another campfire story.

So back to my story,  also just like Clay, I had stopped hunting for a few years in order to pursue other wild game such as long legged Girls, who generally did not like such things as killing animals.  And as James and I were conversing about those old times, I had asked him about Clay and how he was doing these days.   “That guy is a huge rock star over in Japan, and you can find him on My Space,” stated Jimmy!  
 
Well, I looked on My Space and there Clay was, onstage over in Japan and rockin’ out with his new band named “SnatchMaster“.  I sent Clay an e-mail and when he wrote back, that is when I learned a few things about Mr. Babb that I never knew.

First, he is of Native American decent (like myself) and not just any old tribe either… Choctaw ! (like myself) and he had also gotten divorced and remarried to a beautiful Asian lady, 12 years his junior (again, like myself). Also we both had fathered children at the ripe young age of 48 years !  The only difference being that I have two young children, a son and a daughter whereas Clay currently has one son.  I would be willing to bet that his wife is placing slight pressure on him to have another baby just like my wife did, and is still doing right now.

Clay also (ever since I have known him) has been into re-vamping old Harleys, and that is an art within itself and you can check out some of his artistic talents concerning his motorcycle crafts at his shop in Fukuoka Japan, Old School Iron.

But putting all of that aside, not really aside but, in order to feature the most exciting thing which I discovered about Clay is the fact that (like myself) he grew up in a hunting family. Right here in San Jose, California, back in the ‘50s, Clay’s uncle and a few friends had leased a large tract of land strictly for their passion for the sport of hunting. This was also, coincidentally, right about the time when the pursuit of wild boar was starting to become very popular here in California, and back when the wild boar were considered by the State to be nothing more than varmints, as tags were not required to shoot them back then.

Clay then began to regale me with some very rich and colorful tales about his early days spent with his Uncle out in the California and Nevada wilderness from “64″ through “77″ pursuing the ever elusive wild boar, deer, pheasant, duck, goose and more.

So to those of you who believe that Ted Nugent is the god father of  “Rock N Roll Hunter’s”  I am here to set the record straight. Clay and I were doing it all long before Uncle Ted ever even thought about it!  No disrespect towards Mr. Nugent meant at all, just that he got very famous for it.  Ol’ Uncle Ted is a great artist, and he really has been a wonderful advocate for hunting and outdoor sports people all over the world!

So, if there are any other Hunter/Rockers or Hunter/Musicians out there reading this I would love to receive a hunting yarn or two from you so that we might publish your story for us to read around the campfire. I can’t guarantee you fame and fortune by doing so, but it sure would be nice to give a little recognition to others who have traveled the same, sometimes rocky, road of being a hunter while working in the entertainment business… an industry which is filled with misinformed individuals concerning the sport of hunting.  And also I am sure that other outdoor person’s would enjoy an exciting tale from someone who simply just loves to play music as well as enjoying the thrill of the hunt.

Up until about 10 years ago I was an avid public land hunter, and I frequently would hike several miles out into the wilderness to spend up to a week or more at a time. Mainly to enjoy camping, hunting, bow fishing or just simply to take in the beautiful and breathtaking wilderness scenery.

One such place which found me visiting there on a regular basis was in northern California right above Ukiah in a B.L.M. open land space known as: North Cow Mountain Recreational Area. And in particular a small little range located at the very top that was known as Red Mountain, which sort of straddled Ukiah and Clear Lake. Situated at about 4,500 feet with the clearest, most crisp and clean air you could ever imagine, Red Mountain still remains one of my most favorite get away spots when I have the chance to get out and de-stress a little.

My particular quarry upon this outing was Bear, and on my last visit here about three weeks previous, I had seen lots of sign from several large and high country bear’s feeding upon the remaining bit’s of the fall mast to help with their oncoming winter fat reserves.

* note: High country bear’s will bring home a more palatable table fare than one that is harvested in the low country areas where they will more than likely be feeding on fish in streams or possibly garbage from State parks and residential backyards. The difference between the two can be ascertained by studying their fecal matter and the contents therein or basically, Dark and hard poop means that they are eating lot’s of meat. Whereas softer, lighter colored and loose droppings determines that fruits, nuts, vegetable matter and grubs are what their diet consists of and thus lending a more mild flavor to the meat.

I had decided to allow a friend to come along with me on this specific trip, something that I don’t often do because most people cannot stand the solitude for much more than a day out in the still and quiet of the wilderness. If a person is not used to that sort of lonely isolation they will begin to act rather strangely on about the third day. Talking incessantly or doing odd and out of character things not conducive to a good hunting atmosphere. Mike Hall was the rare exception as he had been upon outings with me in the past and I found him to be a good, quiet and conscientious hunting partner to take along upon these rather long quest’s of mine.

We had reached our driving destination at the trail head by midnight and the rather smallish parking lot held another couple vehicles which, judging by the encapsulation of dust upon their outer shell, had already been there for more than a day before our arrival.

It was not unusual for this time of year to see that other people were out in the area because as any hardcore hunter knows, November / December is the perfect time to harvest a Northern California Black Bear. Not only for the best tasting meat but also because of the full thick fur which the animal will be sporting. This means that the hunter will be able to bring home a beautiful mount for the wall, or have it made into a nice fur rug.

What was unusual though were the type of vehicles parked there, with one being a little Dodge Colt, and the other being a Volkswagen bus. Most of the hunters I have ever had contact with own at least a large 4 wheel drive truck or utility vehicle for transport of their gear, food, harvested animals etc. etc. Strange!

After donning our packs along with our rifles and ammo away we went, trudging up the long and winding trail, and fully prepared for about 12 to 15 hours of hard hiking. We finally reached our desired spot, a beautiful green reed filled and grassy meadow about a full acre in size and maybe a mile or so from the area where I had been scouting weeks earlier for the bears which I intended to harvest. We set up camp and gathered a few rocks for a small fire to have later in the evening for cooking and warmth because the temperatures could possibly drop right down into the teens this time of year and at these altitudes.

I got up and did a little preemptory scouting after a quick half hour nap to re-vitalize, and then it was off and over the mountain, to see what I could see.
One surprise, which simply astounded me was the fact that I began to see traces of “people” way up here, and these were not just someone out hunting, but the tracks (and type of shoes, along with push off impressions) told me that these people were not carrying Bows, large game pistols, backpacks nor rifles.
Strange indeed!

Later on that evening Mike and I had settled in to a nice and small (red man’s fire) and had eaten a meal of Jack Rabbit stew which was his specialty. Herbs from the area along with some greens which he had brought along made the jack palatable enough to call a fitting meal.
We said our goodnight’s and crawled into our bags, and then we both solemnly drifted off to sleep with nothing more than the crickets, and occasional coyote song to lull us into slumber there in our quieted dreamland.

Suddenly, at maybe around 12:00 a.m. I was awakened to the sound of drums, “Drums! way up here and at this early in the morning” I thought to myself.
So I laboriously crawled out of my sleeping bag, and fumbled for my clothes amidst a grey and moisture laden fog surrounding my head that was being emitted from each exhalation of my breath. And that frosty moisture could be seen quite clearly underneath a waning, and very nearly full moon.
Grabbing my 44 magnum, the steel cold in my grip, and then stalking the drumming sound which by this time also included the sound of people chanting something which I could not quite make out. finally and quite wide awake I stumbled upon an alarming scene which still haunts my memories to this very day!
There were several men and women naked as the virgin snow dust which lay all about them, and they were excitedly dancing round and round a large crackling pine wood fire. Their faces were covered with masks of the most hideous demonic images which I had ever seen, and there were also two men and a woman copulating out in the open right beside the fire as their fellow revelers danced the night away in reckless abandon.

Witches! I hissed between clenched teeth, I had listened to tales from the locals down in the city of Ukiah about such secret and midnight rituals. I had passed them off as just that, stories told over and over until the myth had become a reality in the minds of the story tellers. But here it was, just as plain as day I was witness to a black mass type of ritual and my mind was racing with the reality of what I was facing. Should I go or should I stay? Should I go down into town and call the sheriff? what would be the charges? as far as I knew there was nothing illegal with what they were doing.
Maybe later on there might be a human sacrifice for all that I knew about what was happening here. Some of the locals said that these people were known to kidnap transients and use them for such purposes.

Suddenly, someone was kneeling behind me, with a start I turned quickly with pistol in hand and thankfully discovered that it was my buddy Mike who had also been awakened by the cacophony of drums and chants from across the glade. After a brief respite and a collection of our thoughts we determined that Mike would go down and ask them to please keep the noise down while I kept a tight bead on the one closest to him as he was talking. This course of action was in hindsight a very foolish one but effective nonetheless because at the moment that Mike entered into the fire light with his pistol holstered but in plain sight, they all scattered in several directions at once. The warrior in my native american blood came immediately to life and with a loud whoop! I ran down and after one of them firing off a couple of rounds into the air just for good measure. The rest of the night found us standing guard just within the shadows of our now stoked (White Mans Fire) back to back and discussing our next plan of attack.

When morning came we furtively traversed the few hundred yards back down the hill to see what our loud neighbors were up to and to maybe make peace with them for our intrusion into their secret fetid ritual. As we arrived at the spot where they were encamped we discovered that they were gone! Lock, stock and barrel picked up and nowhere to be seen, gone. They had left last night without so much as a clanging of gear, footstep nor whisper amongst themselves, so ghostlike that I began to wonder if it all had just been a vivid dream and nothing more.

I went on later that afternoon to harvest a nice 400 lb. boar bear and I will show the picture here, but I’ll leave that story for another campfire tale.
Mike and I went to bed that night with the good ache that a successful hunter must endure, because we all must pay the piper for dancing the dance. And the next morning what we found was quite sobering to say the least, for there nailed to a solitary knotted old pine just on the perimeter of our little meadow, was a small stick figure of a person made from what appeared to be hemp rope or some such material.

Perhaps a warning or a curse? We will never know but when we got down into town later on that evening, there was talk of a homeless man recounting a wild tale of how some strange people had lured him to the mountain top with promises of food and shelter. But upon his arrival he said that he was bound and gagged and then knocked out by an injection of some substance into his arm. He awoke later upon the sidewalk of the local 7-11 store and could not remember how he had gotten there!

Coincidence ? I don’t know but when I finally arrived back at home, I sure as hell burned that little stick figure we found nailed to the tree, and that is when I discovered that it was made of human hair!