For years, Aurora, Colorado, neighbor Jiri “George” Heinrich hasn’t crossed my mind much. Lately, however, I find myself thinking about that Czechoslovakian every time I watch the news. Something about the rise of Russian influence and about all those refugees walking across Europe with only what they can carry (or less) seeking safety, security, a better life – freedom.
Early this week, I talked with a couple students who’d been deep into the country above Leavenworth. They packed sleeping bags and rifles, and ate what they could carry or find. No bucks they wanted to carry out, but they seemed like pretty good woodsmen. Like George.
I guess I’ve been thinking about George away from all that heart-rending refugee news, too. It comes up when I see people heading for the woods, or hear them arguing their need for wildness. I wonder how many of us could really survive out there. How many of us would know which ants add spice to a meal of grasshoppers or grubs – or even eat them to stave off hunger? How many real woodsmen (woods-persons?) are there among those of us who love wild places?
A funny guy was neighbor George. And very serious at the same time, especially about the gifts of Mother Earth. I had gardened forever, but in one summer he doubled my knowledge about growing food in the Semi‑arid West. Mostly, it was about “listening” to the plants as they spoke of their needs.
In exchange, I suppose, I introduced him to American‑style hunting. He had a knack; the guy could find game almost any time. A skilled woodsman, too; with one match in a rainstorm, he could have water boiling in 20 minutes. I mastered that trick in something over a decade.
During my years at the University of Colorado, I took groups of students backpacking in the summer. In 1976, Colorado’s Centennial year, we hiked up Mount Elbert, highest of Colorado’s fourteen thousand foot peaks – the 14ers. As we climbed to the base of the mountain the day before our ascent, George began finding orange cap boletes. He had grown up with them in the old country, and his excitement infected the whole gang. I’d never been much excited about wild mushrooms, but George was in heaven, making extravagant boasts about how we were about to experience the finest meal of our lives.
As soon as camp was up, several of us headed for the beaver ponds with fishing rods. When we had one nice trout for each member of the party, George said “Enough! Ve must hurry!” We returned to the large bed of coals George had ordered. He raved about the culinary feat he was about to perform, and laid out a long sheet of heavy aluminum foil. The fat golden and rainbow trout were carefully arranged, boletes were sliced in and around them, with pats of margarine followed by salt and pepper. George chuckled “Da secret!” as he sprinkled caraway seeds over his creation. The foil was sealed and nestled carefully into the coals as we prepared our other foods. After our feast, we laughed that “if you can do it, it ain’t braggin’.” We sang old ballads around the fire. I’ve been hunting wild mushrooms since about 7:30 that evening.
In fall, George joined Dick Stevens and me for our elk hunt. The first day of our hunt, George walked up as I stood over a bull elk. “Now you learn European vay!” He performed a rite of offering the stag a last meal, of honoring the animal and the hunter. Then he shook my hand, congratulating me as his first American initiate.
That night, after a meal of elk liver and onions, potatoes and beer, George told us of his escape from his beloved Czechoslovakia. 1968. As freedoms grew in the Czech SSR, the Soviets were growing impatient. George had been warned about his “political” views by his factory machinist overseers – that the Russians would get him when they came in to “straighten out” the Czech government. The Soviets rolled into the northeast. He grabbed his knapsack and knife, and headed southwest. For eleven days, he avoided patrols, eating bugs and whatever was given. He moved in timber or darkness, and did without the comfort of a fire. A couple days into Austria, George found the authorities and sent word to his parents that he was heading to America. At the end of his story, George said, “You vant to know freedom? Iss sitting by roaring fire and talking out loud in da voods!”
I think George went back to Czechoslovakia (now the Czech Republic) in the 1990s. I watch the news or sit in the silent deer woods and try to remember how that over-the-campfire fresh elk liver tasted. I have long felt that my life was richer for knowing him. And I keep thinking we could use more real woodsmen, willing to eat bugs and grubs to be free.
