Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, I leave with my husband for the wilderness to…HUNT.
Yes, I said, hunt.
I can’t believe it either. The fact he wants me to go along is mind-boggling because, well, he knows me. I’m the kind of gal that can’t travel down the road 50 miles without having to pull over to see the world’s largest ball of string, or stop and do something. So I can’t quite figure out, after all these years, why he would want me “out there” with him, wherever “there” is.
I never thought in a million years that I would be hunting game…in the freezing cold…no indoor plumbing for hundreds of miles…no attractions…and no restaurants. I’m no Sarah Palin.
So I’m psyching myself up for the big two-day event. I’m trying to marshal enthusiasm for this trip of a lifetime. How does one muster enthusiasm for such a thing? I never did get it to begin with. What pleasure can there possibly be in submitting your body to the harsh elements while you traipse all over the land (with 50 million other hunters) looking for the same something to shoot. It’s all so primitive.
This trip will be the true test of patience and so much more.
Sitting completely and utterly still waiting for one of God’s creatures to pop its head out of the brush, is not one of my strengths.
I won’t be pulling the trigger. No, not me. Uh-uh.
But I am told that I will have the distinguished and all so important job of “glassing” or spotting or scouting or whatever you want to call it. Indeed, it will be my job to reconnoiter, to scour the hills and valleys with my keen eye (not) for the largest buck in the state for my husband to shoot and, yes, kill.
I know, I know, there are about a billion of you out there that say: Aw, how can anyone shoot a cute little doe-eyed deer. Trust me, I’m with you. I have trouble killing a spider. At some point on the trip, Marisa Tomei’s lines from My Cousin Vinny will no doubt ricochet between my ears…Imagine you’re a deer. You’re prancing along. You get thirsty. You spot a little brook. You put your little deer lips down to the cool, clear water. BAM! A bullet rips off part of your head! …yada, yada, yada.
A real challenge for me other than remaining quiet will be stealth–you know, like a cat, stealth. I’m not good at it and my husband knows it. Yet it will be required of me.
I’m much more like a bull in a china shop.
No, coordination is not one of my strong suits either. I just can’t see myself leaping over boulders and crawling on my belly through the prairie grasses (and what kind of surprises might be lurking in those prairie grasses now that I think of it), much less keeping up with the billy-goat men that can climb and maneuver over, around, and straight up any obstacle. Oy vey! I can just see it now.
I can be counted on to have questions for my husband at inappropriate times–though I won’t know the timing is inappropriate, until I get that are-you-kidding-me, really? look of disgust.
A question that I am bound to ask will be:
Where should I go to the bathroom? I mean for men, it’s pretty easy to just stand and go with nary a thought for the dangers that lurk. For us, not so much. It takes proper planning, survey, and cover.
I know I will get bored and I’ll start fidgeting. With all my might I’ll try to be still…but I can see it coming now–no tablet, no phone to pass the time.
And then what about lunch? I know I’ll be sending ever-so subtle signals (in the form of constant bellyaching) that I’m hungry and that’s not going to work out well either. I’ll be told to wait, which will necessarily elicit more questions from me like: Wait until when? Dinner time?
I guess I should look at this as an adventure and hope for the best.
I figure worst case, I will drive my husband mad and make so much noise and clatter as to drive away every deer within 150 miles; and best case, he will get his deer in spite of me and my squirming and I’ll have rich fodder for a follow-up blog post.
What could possibly go wrong?