Hunting stories have been told since the dawn of time. Some are told for the purpose of handing down family tradition. In a dimly lit cave, Thak used cave paintings of hunting expeditions to explain the family lineage to his son, Grog. Today, most stories are told purely for entertainment, though plenty are still told around a campfire and many of the storytellers still act like cavemen. Some constants will always remain when hunting stories are told.
Stonewalled by my intellectual inabilities, I reached out to followers of The 4 Pointer on Facebook for ideas to write about. As a disincentive to participate, I offered a signed copy of a trail camera selfie of yours truly as a prize for the idea that kick started my brain. The first few comments had a serious tone or at least were topics that would require some research. As Sweet Brown would say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!” I will admit that they were fantastic ideas, and should I find the time to sit down and write at some point I have no doubt I will take up a few of the topics.
I have yet to find a good explanation for why the month of January exists. Everyone is on edge. Deer season is over, cold weather has set in, and our esteemed state legislators that seem hell-bent on taking away more rights and increasing restrictions are back on the job. It sure would be nice if they had the opposite goal. Seriously, who wakes up in the morning and says to themselves, “What burdensome law can I come up with today?” And why does it have to be cold?! AND WHY DID DEER SEASON HAVE TO END?!?!?!
Forgive me for the outburst. It’s been rough around here lately.
If there was one way to describe Rayna the best, it would be that her presence was always felt. If I was clearing snow from the driveway, she was there catching it as it shot from the snow blower. If I was mowing the lawn, she would drop a rock right in my path and force me to stop the mower. If Steph and I tried to watch a movie, she would sit in front of the TV and block our view. If I forgot to latch the bathroom door while doing my business, she would push her way in and expect a good head scratching while I was unavoidably detained. If she’d been able to talk, she’d have been an introvert’s nightmare.
My increase in concern over how much time I’ll have to hunt this fall is inversely related to the decrease in time until Baby Biebel arrives. My concern hit an all-time high this past weekend when I made my first scouting trip of the season. It’s hard to adequately describe the feelings of anticipation that I feel when standing over a pile of deer poop in an acorn infested stand of oaks. Knowing Mr. Big roams through this area, even if at night, is enough to get my heart rate up. That, and the mile-long hike to get there.