This is a story told me by Wayne Baskins —
In 1961, a fella couldn’t start deer hunting legally until he was twelve years old. That’s why Jim Renfroe was all-fired delighted when his dad told him that come opening day, he (having recently celebrated his momentous twelfth birthday) could indeed carry his very own rifle into the woods, and accompany his father up on Crocker Ridge.
Crocker Ridge, one of 34 high ridges in rugged Tuolumne County, California, is a 6,000 foot mountain in the Sierra Nevada, and home to some monster mixed-blood Black Tail/Mule Deer bucks. Particularly after a storm, the ridge is swarming with them.
Understandably very excited about his hunting prospects, Jim asked permission of his dad to invite his best friend Wayne Baskins to join them, and Mr. Renfroe, being an accomodating soul and genuinely fond of Wayne, readily granted his son’s request.
Immediately, Jim called Wayne and said, “Get a deer rifle! My dad and me are driving up to Crocker Ridge opening day and we want you to join us.”
“I don’t have a deer rifle,” Wayne sadly replied.
“Well, find one!” entreated Jim.
So, Wayne began to ask around in an effort to borrow a gun. After awhile, Wayne’s dad learned of his son’s dilemma and volunteered that he had, in fact, put a deer rifle on layaway for him.
“I saw this thing coming,” said Mr. Baskins, “and I’ve been making payments on it. I’m almost done, so let’s go to the store and pay it off.”
So, that’s what they did, and Wayne acquired his rifle, a lever action Winchester Model 94, in .30-30 caliber — many a boy’s first deer gun.
Soon, the eve of the grand day arrived, and Wayne went over to Jim’s house to spend the night, where they all could get up in the morning at 2:00 a.m. and drive the two hours to Crocker Ridge from the Renfroe home in Hughson.
Miss Oleta Renfroe, Jim’s mother fixed a delicious supper for the boys while Mr. Renfoe sat in the den watching Rawhide on television, smoking Camel cigarettes, one after another, while drinking as many Falstaff beers.
Occasionally, Henry Renfroe, could put down a few beers. A Navy veteran of World War II, he had survived some hard-fought battles at sea, and, no doubt, this was a contributing factor to his periodic drinking.
Regardless, Wayne Baskins says he was a prince of a man.
“Sober or not, you couldn’t help but like him. He was a good man.”
So, by 8 p.m. or so, Mrs. Renfroe and the boys retired for the evening, leaving Mr. Renfroe in the den. By then, he was watching The Detectives with Robert Taylor — and still drinking those Falstaffs.
When the boys’ alarm clock finally jangled them awake at 2:00, they jumped out of their beds into their hunting clothes, and ran into the den.
There they found Henry Renfroe, sprawled out in his red longjohns, passed out like a dead man.
“Wake up, dad!” cried Jim. “It’s two o’clock! We’ve got to leave! It’s opening day! We’ve got to get out of here!”
Jim shook his dad, then enlisted Wayne in the shaking and yelling — but to no avail. Henry was out for the count.
“What are we gonna do?” asked Wayne.
Both boys were totally crestfallen. They had waited for this morning most of their lives — to be twelve years old on opening day of deer season!
Finally, a look of resolve came to Jim’s face.
“We’re not going to miss opening day!”
“Well, it sure looks like we are,” replied Wayne.
“Help me get him to the car.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Help me get him to the car. We’re gonna drive to Crocker Ridge.”
“We’re gonna drive!??? Have you ever driven a car?”
“Once,” said Jim, as he planted his 90 pound frame under his dad’s left arm pit. “Have you driven a car?”
“No,” said Wayne, “but I’ve driven a tractor.”
“Same thing,” said Jim. “Get on the other side! Let’s drag him out of here!”
Wayne, also a 90-pounder, complied, and they managed to lift Henry’s 6 foot, 2 inch, 175 pound dead-weight-self off the recliner, drag him out the back door, across the driveway, then load him into the cargo area of the family’s 1958 Oldsmobile Dynmaic 88 Fiesta Station Wagon.
They then fetched a blanket, a pillow, and Henry’s hunting clothes. They put the pillow under Henry’s head, covered him with the blanket, and placed the clothes, boots, and rifles next to him.
All the while, Miss Oleta snored in the master bedroom.
Then they quietly shut the back door and craweld into the station wagon.
Jim sat behind the wheel.
“Do you even know how to get to Crocker Ridge?” asked Wayne.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been there several times with my dad.”
“Okay…” said Wayne.
Jim started the ignition and backed out of the drive.
For the first hour or so, Jim drove them out of Hughson going east on Yosemite Boulevard until they got to Coulterville, then he turned it over to Wayne to negotiate all those winding curvy roads on Highway 120, leading into the mountains and the Stanislaus National Forest.
By the way, the Fiesta Wagon was a big powerful V-8, 17 feet long and 6 feet wide — not ideal for their chosen route.
“We just took it slow,” said Wayne. The boys never got too excited about their long, adventurous trek.
Finally, after two hours, the boys rolled into a campsite on Crocker Ridge, the one often favored by Mr. Renfroe. Much to Wayne’s surprise, Jim obviously posessed a photographic memory, for his navigational skills had been superb.
Wayne put the wagon into park, and the boys got out, stretched, and took the cool mountain air into their lungs. It was dark outside, around 4:30, well before daylight, the perfect time to arrive in camp.
Suddenly, they heard a rustling noise coming from the wagon’s cargo area. Much to their consternation, they could see Henry in silhouette, wrestling with his blanket. He had been completely quiet and still through the long drive, and now he was coming to life. Abruptly, he jerked to a sitting position in the wagon.
He rubbed his eyes, then started looking around, gradually gaining his blurred bearings.
The interior light came on as the boys opened the tailgate, to reveal his bleary-eyed, bewhiskered, and disheveled self.
He gingerly slid out of the wagon and began putting on his hunting britches over his longjohns, while looking intently at Wayne and Jim.
“How did we get here?” he finally asked.
The boys nervously looked at one another, then Wayne answered.
“You don’t remember driving us?”
Henry looked at them with a tragic, confused expression.
“I drove?” he asked.
“Yessir,” said Wayne, “and you did a fine job.”
Henry continued keenly looking at the boys as he pulled on his hunting garb.
He had to believe them, for in his mind, there could be no other explanation for their being on a 6,000 foot mountain 82 miles from home.
Curiously, he said nothing — because he was not going to admit to these young men that he did not remember driving, and besides, he was somewhat shaken by the thought of driving all that rugged and treacherous distance in a trance.
As for the young men, they, too, were silent.
It defied imagination that two twelve-year-old boys had driven two hours through the mountains to accomplish their lifelong dream of being on this very ridge, before sun-up, on opening day of deer season.
And they were mighty thankful fellas to be underestimated.
