The deer have got me discombobulated, there is no doubt. My time lugging the ol’ smokepole around the New Hampshire woods has yielded zero pounds of venison for the fridge, though I did have a chip shot opportunity at a lone doe. I decided to pass on her since it was the first day and since I know the woods are crawling with 200” class bucks. One of them is bound to walk by me in the daylight at some point. When it does, I’ll be sure to share a picture and lie about the location.
I’ve had the pleasure of knowing many bucks over the years. Their pictures take up space on my phone and cover the walls in my office. I’ve even had the pleasure of meeting a few them. Every detail of our relationship is easily recalled in my mind at a moment’s notice. I know I’m not alone here. Why is that? Remembering the items my wife told me to pick up at the grocery store only minutes before is next to impossible. But that big buck I saw three days after the season ended back in 2001 has stayed with me to this date.
Good, solid hunting mentors like I had growing up are in serious demand these days. Without them, kids are content to sit inside, warm and dry with their faces glued to electronic devices. I never had that opportunity because electronic devices didn’t exist yet. I was forced to play outside. The out of doors, as near as I can tell, was the modern-day parental version of screen time. “Go outside!” my mother would often say with a sweet and kind tone to her voice. An aging group of mentors and kids growing up with no desire to step foot in the woods is a bad combination!
Recently, my free time has been consumed with dreaming about baitfish, passing thoughts about the coming spring turkey hunt, and February. Thoughts of February are enough to freeze the fun out of anything warm that could be taking place. There is something about this month that I have grown to dislike with a passion. It could be the cold, but it could also be the snow. It could be both.
February is to blame for the lack of stories that have been on the blog as of late. Writer’s block is what some call it, but not me. I’ve never considered myself to be a writer (my bad grammar and typos are a testament to that), so it’s fair to say that the blame is squarely a result of a general apathy toward life brought on by the month of February. It was only made worse earlier today.
This morning, an old, formidable foe has reappeared in the driveway of my friend’s house. He was kind enough to send me some wonderful pictures he snapped from his back deck. The buck looked familiar, so I filed back through my trail camera photos from last fall and found him right where I last saw him. On my computer screen.
Time is running out on the 2016 Vermont Muzzleloader season. My doe tag is still unfilled, something that has me walking around looking like an angry emoticon all day and feeling like an Angry Bird that wants to topple my son’s Lego creations. A doe tag should not be this hard to fill.
It’s not like I haven’t had chances. I’ve already written about the opening day fiasco (read that here), but as the week has progressed my luck has only gotten worse. Let me be clear here, I am not complaining at all. I’m crying. There, I’m glad that’s out in the open. Now we can be honest with each other.