ingramjri
Member
- Joined
- Jul 29, 2016
- Messages
- 60
I am a trained bowhunter. A summer of practice. 20 yards…30 yards…40 yards…50 yards. Seated…standing…contorted. In cold weather gear…in warm weather gear…in a ghillie suit. Dead on whatever the condition.
Public land scouted. I know where they bed. I know where they eat. I know where they do cute things like bounce and hop and frolic. I’m ready.
Deer archery season, day 1: I’m up at 3:00 am. I’ve beat everyone to the boat launch. My canoe glides across the water. I sneak in where nobody sneaks in. To all the other hunters out there – suck it, chumps!
I creep in to my spot…I sneak in real qui…wait…what is that? Do I have to ****? I do have to ****. Jon, can you hold it? Choke down on that bat, son! Choke down!
*grunt…grimace…gurgle*
New plan.
I scan the woods for two parallel fallen limbs. Roughly 8 inches in diameter. Roughly 12 inches apart. Relatively new deadfall – density of wood is important - you’re a large man, Jonathan. Nothing of the sort to be found. Time is of the essence. You’ve just got to squat. Not ideal…not your style…but one must occasionally compromise.
*A struggle ensues….violent sounds and crashing twigs. Pulled muscles*
Dude…next time wear your suspenders on the outside of your shirt. I’ve reassembled myself. I kick some dirt and leaves and pick up my bow.
I ascend the sticks. I hang my bow. I attach my saddle to the tree and disappear into the woods. Nobody can see me. Deer move under my feet. Nothing I want to take but watching them move around me makes feel like I’ve done something right.
It’s mid-morning and a red-tailed hawk burns through the woods and lands on a branch four feet from my face. I feel like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator. I am such a good hunter. This hawk has no idea I’m here. People should probably write songs about me. Look at the way the breeze moves clean through her feathers. Look at her sharp eyes and quick twitches as she scans the forest floor. It occurs to me that this is one of the most beautiful moments of my life…..wait. What’s that smell? Just ignore it. Focus. Be a predator. Be like Arnold. Don’t be like Carl Weathers. Carl sucks.
*The long stretch of midday day fades into the promise of twilight*
Be alert. It’s time. Stay sharp. Stay focused. I adjust in the saddle. I check the position of my bow. I range my lanes one more time.
Here comes a group of does. They move through and don’t suspect a thing. Ha! What a bunch of idiots…I’m so amazing.
*Audible gasp. Heart rate climbing*
Is that…? It is.
He’s walking right into my 20 yard window. He moves behind a cluster of large oaks and I draw back. This buck is mine. I’m at full draw and in just 10 steps...Wait. What is that smell? Shake it off. Focus.
In just two steps he will be mine. He stops short…A tree covering his vitals. 30 seconds. 60 seconds. 90 seconds. The full draw palsy is raging. The shaking angles of the broad head are covering roughly 120 degrees of visibility. Choke it down, son! Hold steady!
The buck steps into my window. I grunt. He stops. I breathe deep and muster all the control my muscles can offer. I squeeze the release and the arrow, beautiful and true, flies toward the tree canopy and out of my life forever. Much like my first girlfriend. (Side note: You know who you are and what you did)
The buck looks at me. He knows what I am. He walks away – quite slowly – a casual gait of irreverence and disregard for my person and my intentions. My heart and will sink. I am, in fact, a piss poor hunter.
The last of the light fades. I attach the lineman’s belt. I unhook my tether. I begin to climb down – as quiet as I can – cause I’ll be back, you dirty rotten son of a bit… What is that damn smell?
I turn on my headlamp and at eye level, on the top step of my climbing sticks, is a fairly aggressive escarpment of feces. It occurs to me – after several minutes of dumfounded reflection – that this feces must belong to someone…and that someone is me. It also occurs to me that if there is feces on the top step, then there must be feces on every step, and that I must touch these steps with the same tools I use to eat chicken wings.
Let’s evaluate our options.
You could live here and never leave? Some cons but maybe doable. You could jump out of the tree and die because that’s what you deserve? No…my daughter deserves to hate me when she’s 13…don’t take that from her. Just one option left I suppose. I descend in dejected disgust, my bent and hideous face advertising my state of mind. I am the unclean.
I canoe across the lake and step out of the water to find a man loading up a buck across the parking lot. I move toward him to take a look. The man comes into better focus. First his blue t shirt and new balances (**** man. Are you kidding me?) And then the buck.
It’s my buck. Was my buck? No……it was never my buck. It’s his.
So in an act of grace and dignity in defeat, I greet the fine hunter hunter standing before me.
“Nice buck buddy….I’d love to shake your hand.”
Public land scouted. I know where they bed. I know where they eat. I know where they do cute things like bounce and hop and frolic. I’m ready.
Deer archery season, day 1: I’m up at 3:00 am. I’ve beat everyone to the boat launch. My canoe glides across the water. I sneak in where nobody sneaks in. To all the other hunters out there – suck it, chumps!
I creep in to my spot…I sneak in real qui…wait…what is that? Do I have to ****? I do have to ****. Jon, can you hold it? Choke down on that bat, son! Choke down!
*grunt…grimace…gurgle*
New plan.
I scan the woods for two parallel fallen limbs. Roughly 8 inches in diameter. Roughly 12 inches apart. Relatively new deadfall – density of wood is important - you’re a large man, Jonathan. Nothing of the sort to be found. Time is of the essence. You’ve just got to squat. Not ideal…not your style…but one must occasionally compromise.
*A struggle ensues….violent sounds and crashing twigs. Pulled muscles*
Dude…next time wear your suspenders on the outside of your shirt. I’ve reassembled myself. I kick some dirt and leaves and pick up my bow.
I ascend the sticks. I hang my bow. I attach my saddle to the tree and disappear into the woods. Nobody can see me. Deer move under my feet. Nothing I want to take but watching them move around me makes feel like I’ve done something right.
It’s mid-morning and a red-tailed hawk burns through the woods and lands on a branch four feet from my face. I feel like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator. I am such a good hunter. This hawk has no idea I’m here. People should probably write songs about me. Look at the way the breeze moves clean through her feathers. Look at her sharp eyes and quick twitches as she scans the forest floor. It occurs to me that this is one of the most beautiful moments of my life…..wait. What’s that smell? Just ignore it. Focus. Be a predator. Be like Arnold. Don’t be like Carl Weathers. Carl sucks.
*The long stretch of midday day fades into the promise of twilight*
Be alert. It’s time. Stay sharp. Stay focused. I adjust in the saddle. I check the position of my bow. I range my lanes one more time.
Here comes a group of does. They move through and don’t suspect a thing. Ha! What a bunch of idiots…I’m so amazing.
*Audible gasp. Heart rate climbing*
Is that…? It is.
He’s walking right into my 20 yard window. He moves behind a cluster of large oaks and I draw back. This buck is mine. I’m at full draw and in just 10 steps...Wait. What is that smell? Shake it off. Focus.
In just two steps he will be mine. He stops short…A tree covering his vitals. 30 seconds. 60 seconds. 90 seconds. The full draw palsy is raging. The shaking angles of the broad head are covering roughly 120 degrees of visibility. Choke it down, son! Hold steady!
The buck steps into my window. I grunt. He stops. I breathe deep and muster all the control my muscles can offer. I squeeze the release and the arrow, beautiful and true, flies toward the tree canopy and out of my life forever. Much like my first girlfriend. (Side note: You know who you are and what you did)
The buck looks at me. He knows what I am. He walks away – quite slowly – a casual gait of irreverence and disregard for my person and my intentions. My heart and will sink. I am, in fact, a piss poor hunter.
The last of the light fades. I attach the lineman’s belt. I unhook my tether. I begin to climb down – as quiet as I can – cause I’ll be back, you dirty rotten son of a bit… What is that damn smell?
I turn on my headlamp and at eye level, on the top step of my climbing sticks, is a fairly aggressive escarpment of feces. It occurs to me – after several minutes of dumfounded reflection – that this feces must belong to someone…and that someone is me. It also occurs to me that if there is feces on the top step, then there must be feces on every step, and that I must touch these steps with the same tools I use to eat chicken wings.
Let’s evaluate our options.
You could live here and never leave? Some cons but maybe doable. You could jump out of the tree and die because that’s what you deserve? No…my daughter deserves to hate me when she’s 13…don’t take that from her. Just one option left I suppose. I descend in dejected disgust, my bent and hideous face advertising my state of mind. I am the unclean.
I canoe across the lake and step out of the water to find a man loading up a buck across the parking lot. I move toward him to take a look. The man comes into better focus. First his blue t shirt and new balances (**** man. Are you kidding me?) And then the buck.
It’s my buck. Was my buck? No……it was never my buck. It’s his.
So in an act of grace and dignity in defeat, I greet the fine hunter hunter standing before me.
“Nice buck buddy….I’d love to shake your hand.”
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Pure GOLD!! 
