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Everybody Poops

My buddy Justin coined the term "Charmin Bear" where it looks like they paid a visit

That was comical dude!
 
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.
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.”

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.”
You can
 
That was a mighty crappie situation , ah the nightmare of poop and being a sportsmen, I have a quick one for you all. So I like to fly fish as well as bow hunt. I use to live in Oregon, Now if you want to catch steelhead you need to be up early. So I would get places pretty early in the morning. Now in general you do your business and go on your way and most of the time things are fine. Yet some mornings you get the back door knocker telling you hey man something is going on and we need to take care of this!
Well I'm at the parking lot getting my gear on and getting ready. No one shows up and that's a great thing, because I'm thinking hey I get the run to myself this morning. So the water is pretty cold out west even in the summer time. So you pretty much always have fleece pants under your waders. and your sweat shirt on over your waders. So now I'm walking in toward the run I want to fish. Well that cup of coffee I had on the way to wake up kicks in, and its a kick to gut , like an mma fighter just hit me and my bung holieo is screaming " dude run for your life!" Now I'm on the main trail where people walk and I cant just drop trowel here, The sweat beads start on my forehead, and I'm holding on for dear life. Now if you can imagine, I find a deer trail off to the side of the trail and at this point , I'm like that will work , and now my guts are screaming at me. I'm squeezing for dear life and I'm worried about someone seeing me as they walk down the trail. My mind is racing , asking myself , what the hell did you eat last night. I find a spot and now the race begins sweat shirt off , oh damn suspenders , damn damn damn ! I pop them free of their buckles. Now the draw string for the fleece pants , for the love of all things holy its in a knot! My fingers fumbling sweat dripping and the whole time I'm holding on for dear life . Finally success , bam I squat and do my business. Oh the relief! heavy breathing. I quick look around to see if anyone is around. No thank goodness.
Now I start to get dressed. As I turn to pull up my waders I see , that I've managed to poop all over my suspenders. Now I'm in a panic, my mind racing dang it someone is going to see me! So now I'm stuck with my pants down and I'm trying to grab the suspender so they don't hit me. Im trying to get the fleece pants up at the same time. Now what am I going to do? I see a big puddle and im like well maybe I can wash off the suspenders. Well the puddle is at least 20 yards away so I'm trying to hold up my pants and waders and not let the suspenders hit me. Which by the way they are sewn in at the back of the waders , I make my way over to the puddle like some kind of deranged creature with a walking problem. I get there. Dip them in the water , doing whatever I can to get the poop off. Finally I get it off. At this point I'm a sweating mess from hell! I get the waders up. I stop sit down and just start laughing. Thinking to myself if anyone saw me they would have been pissing their pants laughing. So the moral to the story fellas is this , always keep your suspenders on the outside and never trust a fart!
 
That traumatized me. Not because it’s a story about poop (although folks that don’t squat to poop, the ones that have to find something to sit on or over, really concern me), but because this has become a theme lately...

I was at a buddy’s house and he had triplets. Somewhere along the line he got a book about poop and the kids grabbed it brought it to me to read to them. It was about poop so I was intrigued. We had a grand ole time reading the book about poop.

4e70cb22a312984969f074a39089d593.jpg


Such a grand ole time that I had to tell folks about the poop book. Two of the folks I told about the poop book were my nephew and his girlfriend. A week later they are at a Baptist Collegiate Ministry conference and they send me this.....

bd6e6645ba668576d5efe30eb0730887.jpg


Now I come to SaddleHunter and again I’m bombarded with poop. But even so, I’m kinda confounded by why you didn’t just use your lineman’s belt instead of your hands to defend your steps? Weird.

Anyway, great story, I got a good laugh out of it
 
That traumatized me. Not because it’s a story about poop (although folks that don’t squat to poop, the ones that have to find something to sit on or over, really concern me), but because this has become a theme lately...

I was at a buddy’s house and he had triplets. Somewhere along the line he got a book about poop and the kids grabbed it brought it to me to read to them. It was about poop so I was intrigued. We had a grand ole time reading the book about poop.

4e70cb22a312984969f074a39089d593.jpg


Such a grand ole time that I had to tell folks about the poop book. Two of the folks I told about the poop book were my nephew and his girlfriend. A week later they are at a Baptist Collegiate Ministry conference and they send me this.....

bd6e6645ba668576d5efe30eb0730887.jpg


Now I come to SaddleHunter and again I’m bombarded with poop. But even so, I’m kinda confounded by why you didn’t just use your lineman’s belt instead of your hands to defend your steps? Weird.

Anyway, great story, I got a good laugh out of it

The Lineman's belt! I was distracted by self loathing, I'm afraid.
 
That was a mighty crappie situation , ah the nightmare of poop and being a sportsmen, I have a quick one for you all. So I like to fly fish as well as bow hunt. I use to live in Oregon, Now if you want to catch steelhead you need to be up early. So I would get places pretty early in the morning. Now in general you do your business and go on your way and most of the time things are fine. Yet some mornings you get the back door knocker telling you hey man something is going on and we need to take care of this!
Well I'm at the parking lot getting my gear on and getting ready. No one shows up and that's a great thing, because I'm thinking hey I get the run to myself this morning. So the water is pretty cold out west even in the summer time. So you pretty much always have fleece pants under your waders. and your sweat shirt on over your waders. So now I'm walking in toward the run I want to fish. Well that cup of coffee I had on the way to wake up kicks in, and its a kick to gut , like an mma fighter just hit me and my bung holieo is screaming " dude run for your life!" Now I'm on the main trail where people walk and I cant just drop trowel here, The sweat beads start on my forehead, and I'm holding on for dear life. Now if you can imagine, I find a deer trail off to the side of the trail and at this point , I'm like that will work , and now my guts are screaming at me. I'm squeezing for dear life and I'm worried about someone seeing me as they walk down the trail. My mind is racing , asking myself , what the hell did you eat last night. I find a spot and now the race begins sweat shirt off , oh damn suspenders , damn damn damn ! I pop them free of their buckles. Now the draw string for the fleece pants , for the love of all things holy its in a knot! My fingers fumbling sweat dripping and the whole time I'm holding on for dear life . Finally success , bam I squat and do my business. Oh the relief! heavy breathing. I quick look around to see if anyone is around. No thank goodness.
Now I start to get dressed. As I turn to pull up my waders I see , that I've managed to poop all over my suspenders. Now I'm in a panic, my mind racing dang it someone is going to see me! So now I'm stuck with my pants down and I'm trying to grab the suspender so they don't hit me. Im trying to get the fleece pants up at the same time. Now what am I going to do? I see a big puddle and im like well maybe I can wash off the suspenders. Well the puddle is at least 20 yards away so I'm trying to hold up my pants and waders and not let the suspenders hit me. Which by the way they are sewn in at the back of the waders , I make my way over to the puddle like some kind of deranged creature with a walking problem. I get there. Dip them in the water , doing whatever I can to get the poop off. Finally I get it off. At this point I'm a sweating mess from hell! I get the waders up. I stop sit down and just start laughing. Thinking to myself if anyone saw me they would have been pissing their pants laughing. So the moral to the story fellas is this , always keep your suspenders on the outside and never trust a fart!
That is funny
 
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