My Mother-in-law came for a visit last week. She mostly likes to help with my kids and hang with her daughter. She claims to like me too, but the way I see it, I am the low man on the totem pole when stacked up against my wife and kids, so I took that opportunity to sneak out for as many hunts as possible during her visit. While I was out hunting, I got the feeling that my wife took the opportunity to reinforce her feelings to her mother that hunting is usually a complete waste of time. Appalling. Simply appalling.
If Sam and I were ever going to shoot a deer together at his age, I knew we would need a pretty dumb deer to walk by. Maybe one like a yearling buck experiencing a surge of testosterone that clouded his ability to sense danger from the dynamic father and son duo perched above him. On the evening of November 7th, we had a meeting with just such a buck.
A lot has transpired since my last update, some of it even related to hunting. Each summer I enter each fall dreaming of hunting day in and day out until shooting Mr. Big. At this point in the season, I’d settle for being able to sleep long enough to dream. The arrival of Oliver Jacob Biebel late last week has derailed my hunting and sleeping schedule, but I’m not complaining.
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.
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.