So I probably won’t be able to post till Monday since I indeed am a deer hunter and this weekend is the opener.
I am indeed one of those crazy ass people who get up at 4am to freeze their ass off in the woods.
And this year…
I’m bringing the BF.
Dear God Help Me.
I’ve been hunting since I received my firearm safety certificate at the tender age of 12.
The BF has shot a gun….
I think it’s because I had a dream.
In this dream we were sitting in the stand and he turned into a big whiny baby.
“My feet are cold.”
“What time is it?”
“I have to pee.”
And the dreaded…
And in this dream…
I pushed him out of the stand and shot him in the foot.
He deserved it.
And I am reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaallllllllyyyyyyyy hoping nothing of this sort happens because…
Then I’d have a dead BF.
My family would shoot him before I would even have the chance.
Deer hunting is like a sacred religion in my family.
You get up to the cabin Friday.
Play a little cards.
Throw a few back.
And go to sleep.
Whoever is not up when that alarm goes off is left behind.
And they might as well shoot themselves while waiting for everyone to come back.
The teasing and ragging and loss of respect will never ever end.
You will have effectively lost your manhood…or girl gonads if you will.
Once in the stand you are expected to sit veeerrryyy still.
Only making noise when needed.
Barely moving your head to look.
And never ever admitting you were sleeping.
If you see a wee little fawn and get that mushy gushy feeling inside because it’s so darn cute…
You’d best carry that secret to your grave.
After the first days hunt…
Dinner is a massive feast.
It puts Thanksgiving at Fat Bastard’s house to shame.
Afterwards, you go work it off by cleaning all the deer niblets.
Freezing cold water.
Freezing cold weather.
It’s very dangerous business.
Then the drinking begins.
And we drink with the best of them.
If you won the lottery and bagged one earlier in the day, the more you have to drink.
Shooting one the first day also gives you the rare privilege of deciding if you want to hunt the next morning.
You can choose to drag those gritty eyelids up and dress in 25 layers and go freeze.
You can stay snug as a bug under your sleeping bag inside the warm cabin with the crackling fire.
But you’d have to make breakfast.
Most of us choose to go.
The guilt of staying in is a nagging bitch.
You probably won’t sleep very much anyways with the..
Going on all around you for hours on end.
Might as well get up and go sleep in the stand (just don’t tell anyone).
The only person who is exempt from all this is G’ma.
She’s 67 and hunts.
She can do whatever the fuck she wants.
Grandma isn’t going to be run over by the reindeer.
The reindeer is going to get run over by Grandma.
There’s a sort of pride that runs in my family.
My dad taught us three kids how to shoot.
And how to shoot good.
Every deer I’ve shot has been a one shot kill.
I don’t mess around.
This has earned me the nicknames:
One Shot Wonder
I know my shit, I’m telling you.
And I love it.
I love the feel of the adrenaline gushing through my veins.
Making my breath come out shaky.
And my arms trembly.
I love the feel of the gun against my shoulder.
Waiting for the right moment…
To squeeeezeee that trigger (always squeeze, never pull)…
The deafening sound of the bullet shooting out of the barrell..
Heading straight for your target…
And that one instense brief moment where you question if you’re really as good as you think you are.
Then you open your eyes and see.
Yes you are…
Indeed as good as you thought you were.
So as I put on my blaze orange cap…
I wish my fellow sportsmen/women good luck.
And to the rest…
I leave this one little piece of advice…
Stay out of the woods.