RICHLAND CREEK – After nearly a decade of trying, Carson Kelly of Sheridan killed his first squirrel Oct. 25 during the annual Crutchfield family squirrel hunt.

Appropriately, it was the much celebrated highlight of a tradition that has occurred unabated for at least 30 years. The headquarters changes periodically, but the hunt always takes place in the Ozark National Forest. We’ve held it at Ozone, Fairview, Haw Creek Falls and Wolf Pen national recreation areas. Richland Creek National Recreation Area has been the venue for the past several years. It’s a peaceful spot tucked into a remote hollow about 10 miles down a dirt road off Arkansas 16. It’s an arduous route for any vehicle, and it’s especially formidable for Wayne Crutchfield to pull his camper trailer.

Crutchfield is the trail boss. His camper is the official headquarters for the hunt. Meat is grilled outside. Crutchfield prepares the side dishes in the camper, which he parks beside a giant tent canopy. A big campfire roars regardless of the temperature, and there’s always enough folding chairs to ensure that nobody has to stand.

Accompanying me was my daughter Amy, who has been working in New Zealand and Australia for the past five years. She returned home to pursue a masters degree at the University of Arkansas. While still overseas, she surprised and delighted me by asking when the Crutchfield family hunt would take place this year. I relayed the question to Wayne, who set the date based on the weekend nearest to Amy’s return.

Amy last attended the hunt nearly 12 years ago at Wolf Pen. When we rolled up to the campsite on Oct. 23, Wayne and his cousin Paul Crutchfield greeted her like family.

“This is a first,” Paul Crutchfield said. “We usually don’t see you until midnight Friday.”

“Or about midday Saturday,” I retorted.

This, of course, prompted the retelling of the story about my taking a wrong turn in the middle of the night several years ago. I got so hopelessly lost that I spent the night at Carver Recreation Area on the Buffalo National River. To this day we can’t figure out how I got there.

While the adults caught up, Grayson Kelly, Carson’s younger brother, put the finishing touches on a replica of a hunting knife that he whittled from hickory with his pocketknife. Grayson and Carson are very reserved initially, but once they warmed to us, they chattered and bickered non-stop. Their energy was doubtless fueled by continuous infusions of Red Bull.

Grayson also whittled a new handle for Wayne’s sledgehammer, whose main purpose is driving a maul through oak logs.

Supper that night was pork steaks and bratwurst. Wayne is very particular about food preparation, so I was mightily surprised when allowed me to tend to the grill. If I messed up, I would not get the opportunity again. I cooked the meat to perfection.

That night, we averted a near disaster. The boys stayed in a big two-room tent heated by a Coleman Power Cat. Long after they retired for the night, we heard a continuous clicking from inside their tent.

“It sounds like the igniter is trying to fire,” I said. “I don’t know how that could be because you have to do it manually. That’s hasn’t stopped since they got in there.”

I stuck my head inside the tent and gagged at the acrid stench of burning plastic. The igniter appeared to have gotten stuck, and it kept firing until the heater’s plastic housing melted. I removed the heater from the tent and put it safely away from the site while Wayne and Paul rousted the boys from their slumber.

“If that thing had caught fire, the tent would have gone up like a torch,” Paul said.

Naturally, the heater needed replacing if the boys were to get any sleep. That provided a legitimate opportunity for Wayne to drive to Russellville the next day. A detour to town is another one of Wayne’s traditions. We assume he does it to get a few hours of peace, and I always accompany him.

Wayne approaches and leaves Richland Creek via Pelsor on Arkansas 7 and 16. I offered a different, faster route down Old Highway 27 through Hector to Atkins. This sparked a vigorous argument. Wayne insisted that my route could not possibly be faster.

“It’s probably not faster going to Russellville,” I said, hedging my bet, “but it’s faster coming and going because it cuts off that stretch on I-40 between Russellville and Atkins.”

Wayne agreed to the route. I accused him of driving unusually slow to pad the time. He denied it, of course. When we reached Weir Road, he grudgingly ceded that my route “might” be faster.

He bought a Dyna-Glo Grab-N-Go heater at Tractor Supply Company. It’s similar to a Little Buddy, a favorite in deer stands and duck blinds across the land, but it’s a little wider. Because it’s in a metal housing, there was no threat of another meltdown.

Rain came Friday night and continued all day Saturday. It did not dissuade the boys. Carson brought a Beretta AL-391 Urika shotgun, and he was eager to use it. He accomplished his goal early, and we all congratulated him heartily. Wayne showed Carson how to skin and clean his squirrel, a chore he embraced.

Later, we talked about the hunt’s legacy. It encompasses five generations, of which four were present. Wayne, Paul, Bryan Couch and I are now the senior generation. Someday, Carson, Grayson and their cousin Karter will be in charge. Hopefully, they will bring their children.

In the meantime, the seniors are all well and strong, and we blessed the hunt to thrive for generations to come.

Carson Kelly (left) bagged his first squirrel while hunting with his brother, Grayson Kelly, in the Ozark National Forest. (Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/Bryan Hendricks)