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.
When extended family comes to visit, I’m not one to spare the good stuff. “Hey, wanna grill a woodchuck?” I asked my brother-in-law as we were chipping golf balls around the yard one evening. Brock is not one to back down from a challenge and he claims to know how to grill, so I fished the poorly packaged woodchuck out of my chest freezer and plopped it on the table. Silence filled the air as intrigue descended upon the crowd of young children gathered around.
“So, I noticed a charge on the credit card to Vermont Fish and Wildlife for your Moose application. When is the season again?” my wife questioned me the other day.
“Oh, you know….early October,” I replied.
I tried to leave, but before I could she hit me with a dose of her reality. “You do remember that I’m due at the end of September, right?”
I’ve often thought that, despite the hard work, hosting a hunting show would be fun. Obviously, the show would be immensely popular and leave a lasting, positive impact on viewers. It would combine the sexiness of a Mariah Carey music video to attract the shallow minded viewers, but also bring the intensity found in a Bob Ross “The Joy of Painting” episode for those who desire the many qualities Ms. Carey lacks. That big buck in the first episode won’t be standing behind a half dead tree, it’ll be behind a “scantily clad, happy little hemlock.” See what a mean? That’s television gold if I do say so myself.
Where have I been? I haven’t been in woods chasing after turkeys, I’ll tell you that. Most of the past month has been spent focusing on my day job (or at least doing my best to portray that), working on my house, and getting yelled at during a public meeting as a bonus.
It never fails that when a hunting season rolls around, unforeseen deadlines pop up. Who would have thought that the grass would need to be cut during the month of May? Ridiculous. I’m seriously considering entering my .6 acres of land into the Crop Restoration Program. At least that way I’ll have a reason for why my lawn looks so terrible. Plus, I hear 200” whitetails like to bed down in the cover provided from CRP fields. It’ll be like my own guilt-free hunting mecca. Who needs a yard anyway? There is plenty of room to play catch in the street.