Time to Kill

      I don't mind hunting and not killing anything. I mean, if I wanted to just kill things I could shoot, stab or stick anything that crawls, flies, or hops--well, rabbits, I must say, if in season, probably won't get a pass this year as I discovered last year that (A) my wife can and will cook them, and (B) they're delicious.

     No, what I do mind is not seeing a living thing all morning, afternoon, or whenever I've taken the notion to take a gun for a walk...or lengthy sit down. Is there anything as pointless as getting out of a warm bed, gulping coffee in the truck while you drive with gusto to get to your spot before the sun peaks up, only to sit and see....nothing.

     The disappointment will chap your ass as sure as the wooden plank, wet leaves, or crusty, tiny folding chair you're perched upon. Rarely do I settle in and not see a little something that catches my eyes through binoculars, and when that does happen, it sorta makes the whole experience a bust.

     Sure, I see a sunrise, but I see those all the time at work, when we have work. Watching the world get warmer and warmer is part of my daily life so, I can't really sit back and find solace in the miracle of astronomy--call me jaded.

     But if there's nothing flying, or feeding in front of me, then the haunting feeling that I have just wasted four or so hours of my life creeps into my mind. The feeling's worse when I hunt alone because of the lack of available suckers with which to commiserate after the long, boring pause, but hunt with someone and hear them shoot off in the distance after you've stared at a grey, barren landscape all morning, and you fill with a new kind of easy, good-natured hatred.

     Waiting around in the woods when utterly alone will make you question your sanity a little. And it only gets worse the colder it gets as the season gets further towards the shortest day of the year. So that not only may you not see another living creature, but you might also have a 50 mile an hour wind in your face, blowing up your pants, or a nice driving sleet, or worst of all, a hearty soaking rain.

     Couple the indignity of wiping your nose with your rough-as-a-cob mittens, or worse, on your eighty dollar coat sleeve with the fact that you haven't seen so much as a blue jay all day and you begin to feel pretty small in the face of Mother's grand plan. Maybe game animals know better than to step out and get shot on a shiny, Saturday morning.

     Well, maybe the only saving grace is spending time with yourself, learning how cold your feet can get before they snap off, or how full your bladder can get as it distends and tightens your pants. Perhaps it is the hunting trips that end in sheer boredom that teach us the most about ourselves...yeah right.

     I paraphrase the late (probably by now) Haston Reynolds who, though speaking about sex, said this which can be construed to be about hunting as well: "Even the worst I ever had was better than nothing." And to that, I say, amen, Rummy.