Huntin is a barbaric "sport" I have never quite understood. It must stem from some neanderthal genetic mutation they cant seem to completely eradicate. Every September millions of men totally unashamed and undaunted eagerly pay for a license to sit in pastures on twirly ice chest stools in their Elmer Fud suits for hours on end waiting for poor unsuspecting dove to fly over. This crazy behavior means it is officially hunting season. Gary does this yet I love him anyway. But then, he was raised in West Texas where men are a different breed. They are mens men; wholesome, loyal to the core and honest as the day is long but they do like to hunt and eat mass quantities of meat as well as other manly things. I will say he isn't much of a beer drinker or private scratcher though, thank heavens as I can only take so much uncivilized behavior.
This year he took Reagan. I had mixed feelings about this for many reasons. I am not a hunter. Heck, truth be known, Im not much of a gatherer either. Im more of a disperser or thrower away-er. Stick me in a jammed closet or point me towards over stuffed dresser drawers and Im hell on wheels! I am the poster child for anti-clutter! But I digress....
I actually went hunting once with a friend back in the 90's. We went to the rifle range first so I could shoot, in great preparation for this event. I love love love pistols but rifles are another sort of animal altogether. This Winchester had a mighty kick that knocked me plum off the stool and bruised my shoulder to boot. I never really intended to shoot at anything but I wanted the experience and this was part of it.
You see, when I was single I thought it was important to take advantage of almost all the experiences available to me and believe you me I got the whole hunting experience. I was invited by Mike, a Sunday School friend and I jumped at the chance. We were staying at a real 'huntin camp' which was not heated and barely had an indoor toilet. So much for the vision of the hunting lodge I had in my head from watching too many movies. In this one, there were 3 small rooms with bunk beds and a really small common area with 5 gallon Home Depot paint buckets for sitting. Why, the entire place looked to be thrown together without much of a plan, by a bunch of drunk frat boys over a lost weekend. The kitchen was outside in another building (and I use the term loosely) where there was also a big ol ice box and a small Coleman stove. So far, I was not impressed with the accommodations but it was just a 24+ hour trip. This would be good for me and take me out of my comfort zone and all.
It was a very cold dreary November, right before Thanksgiving when we headed for East Texas. We arrived shortly before dark. After a 'tour' of the camp and a rundown of the next mornings schedule we ate sandwiches and played cards before finding the least lumpy bunks. We woke up early in the morning or late at night depending on how you look at it. The moon was still high and there was a thick cold wet fog blanketing the area. I shivered thinking this is the stuff horror movies are made of and at any moment church bells would start clanging in the distance and "John Talbot" (aka the werewolf) would emerge from the mist and rip us to shreds. Uhoh, did anyone know where I was going?
We loaded up the 4 wheeler with huntin' gear and our thermoses of coffee and guns; oh, and I had a Ninja Turtle backpack (borrowed from Reagan) filled with my own huntin necessities; lip gloss, antibacterial wipes, a baggie of Honey Nut Cheerios and a 'The Cat Who....' mystery I was reading. Off we go on the 4 wheeler into the murky darkness. We went to my stand first. Mike gave me instructions on how to climb up there and what to do if I shot something (like, not to scream) and then he tore off to his own stand and I was grateful for a couple of hours of solitude even under these extreme conditions. By this time I figured the trip could be considered a success if I didn't wet myself.
As I approached the "stand" I tried to arrange all my gear so I would have my hands free to climb this wobbly beast. Im here to tell ya, they aren't nearly as sturdy as they look in the Cabela parking lot and it was more than a little scary climbing up there. When I got up to the tiny sitting box I was trying to unload my gear thru the opening when my backpack got hung up on a piece of metal. I was all but dangling there, one hand on the stand opening and the other trying to unhook my Ninja Turtle backpack, my feet slip sliding on the wet metal! How embarrassing would it be if Mike came back a couple of hours later and found me hanging off the side of the deer stand by my backpack, arms flailing? The thought of how humiliated I would be somehow propelled me into the little box. Once I got in there, I was beyond disappointed. Why, there wasn't enough room to swing a cat so I could forget any notion of hunting in comfort. But I had my coffee and my book and my Cheerios so I knew it would be tolerable for a couple of hours anyway. Then I started thinking... if I drank the coffee there would be repercussions to deal with and that meant climbing back down and finding a place in the brushy swampiness and Lord know what all was lurking in the bushes and then climb back up. What was I thinking? I just wanted to go home.
I propped the gun against the far side which was merely inches away and tried my best to get in some sort of semi-comfortable position where I could see out of the opening. It was still very gray and foggy and well before daybreak so I got my Cheerios and just a sip of coffee to enjoy while waiting for all the wildlife to emerge into the clearing below. The cold fog was stubborn but it gave everything a dreamlike quality. I must have dozed off because suddenly the sound of footsteps crunching below startled me. Taking a peek out I noticed a big feral hog with several babies playing and foraging in the clearing. They wondered off and then 2 small deer were off to the side grazing. What an incredible view. How could anyone shoot at these animals after watching them for any length of time totally and blissfully unaware of any pending danger.
When Mike came back for me a couple of hours later I was thrilled he didn't have anything thrown over the back of the four wheeler. My hopes were quickly dashed when he said he had deposited his deer back at the camp and would take care of it when we got back. I was silent. When we got back to the camp I immediately went inside and tried not to think about what he was doing. I was so thankful for my book as a means of escape. But I was also thankful for the beauty of what I had witnessed that morning. For a couple of hours I was a fly on natures wall and it changed me forever.
Hunting, seriously?
Monday, September 5, 2011
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