The Hunter

He checks his watch for the thousandth time since first attempting sleep.

Five minutes.  Close enough.

The older the he gets, the easier it is for him to wake up.  Of course, it's also easier for him to shit his pants, too.

Swinging his legs off his perch, he takes a breath and shakes out the cobwebs.  He's on the couch again.  He's always on the couch this time of the year.  It's a preemptive measure, one of the many he takes to ensure he does not wake his wife or kids up because that would suck...

...on many levels...

...for quite a while.

Still though, his back's in knots.  He's lost count on how many nights since the season began he's endured the ill sleeping bastard, but it's in the double digits.  He rubs his hands together feeling every bit of his raw, chaffed, wind-cracked fingers before looking with more than a modicum of aggravation to the coffee table.  He glared hatefully at the now watered-down glass of bourbon.  It had been neat, but at that moment, felt anything but.  Smacking his lips, he became nauseatingly aware of the hair growing on his tongue.

Never shoulda poured that last one.

Running his fingers through his graying beard, he turns to the kitchen.

Coffee'll help.  

Before he can rise and feel his angry knees bitch and moan, a whine from the other room draws his attention.  The dog had heard his master's movement and knows it's time yet again.  So, he gets up and feels his angry knees bitch and moan.  A few seconds later, the dog's released to air in the backyard.  He watches as the black ball of utter consternation lopes off into the darkness barely able to keep his joy in check.  He smiles at the wagging tail which he knows is nothing more than the proverbial middle finger.  That smile though.  It was rich but also carryied an edge of sadness to it, and doesn't quite reach his eyes.  He knows their time together is getting short.  Too short.

I'd go with him if I could.

Gritting his teeth, he turns away, refusing to give the dark thoughts any purchase within his mind.  Finally, he hits the kitchen, doing what was required, and after hearing the first blessed chirps of the percolating concoction, he begins the ritual repeated every morning.  The pants that are pulled on over the long-handles are old now, with well over a decade's worth of abuse soaked into their fabric.  One leg, then another, into a pair of pants that resembled nothing of the double-tinned pair of arrogance and condescension they were when he first bought them.  The wax now dull, even missing in areas of the most heaviest wear, and they are covered in stains - blood stains.

These damned things are just reaching their prime.  Fastening his belt, painfully aware that the buckle doesn't travel nearly as far across his waist as it used to, he jealously wishes he could say the same for himself.

Next, the he pulls his top on.  It's nothing but an old, tan sweater that stinks of hard work, whiskey, and cigarettes; but, it just feels right and keeps the chill away, so on it goes.

Every hunt.

He then slides his socked feet into an old, comfortable pair of L.L. Bean duck boots and, looking into a mirror, smiles.  He's heard all the comments from his friends and agrees.  He does look like one of those candy-assed, snot-nosed, waxed-cotton and twill peddling catalogs puked on him...and, he couldn't give less of a shit.

Grabbing his lanyard with its single call and his gun, he heads out into the night, quick to peak over into the bed of his truck and go through the mental checklist.

Decoys...check.  Dog stand...check.  Waders...check.

He opens the back door to the backyard and steps aside, barely avoiding the black rocket of fur and hardheadedness that shoots past.  As the dog undergoes his own front yard ritual, which is to say pissing on every piece of ground and sprig of grass from the driveway to the neighbor's front door, he glances skyward.  Doing so, he takes a slow, contented pull from the coffee mug keeping his hand warm.  Sleet's starting to fall, and he takes a moment to relish the stinging bits of ice peppering his windburned face.  He doesn't understand the world anymore.  Doesn't understand how a human can not live for the raw sliver of nature he's about to experience.

Getting snotty.  Long drive on shitty roads. 

It's the same thing every morning.  He knows the drive is a long one and the hunt likely to be less-than-stellar, but the thought of going back to bed never enters his mind.

Never does.  Like a pig at breakfast time...he's committed.

"Load up", he commands quietly, his first words during the entire process.  The change in the animal is absolute.  The dog spins in the direction of man's voice and trots stiff-legged back across the yard, its every step coming with purpose.  An unyielding aura of confidence engulfs the dog as he leaps quietly into the bed of the truck and slips into his dog box.  In a world of uncertainty, he knows his dog tips the scales in his favor, if only slightly.  Quickly, he steps back inside for one final equipment check and to grab his thermos of coffee.

Moments later, his truck lights disappear around the corner and he's headed for parts unknown; another morning spent in the brisk wonderment that is winter with the world none-the-wiser of The Hunter's passing. 

One...Last...Hunt

One day I'll write something about it, but right now, it just doesn't feel right.  Feels too much like an obituary.

Took the old man out for one last hoorah on the last weekend of season.  We've both lost a step or three, but can still get it done when it counts.

Gauge, you've been my main man for nearly thirteen years.  You've earned some couch time.

Love ya dude.

The Skank

     DISCLAIMER:  I should probably go ahead and get this out of the way, if for nothing else than to say - I WARNED YOU.  I started this blog two or three years ago, not sure which and it doesn't really matter now, with the simple mission of getting my story out, of saying what's on my mind, and hopefully, gaining and audience and adding to their happiness.  At first, it was a blast, it was fun, the photos came and went, the stories much the same...and then, it became work.  Real work.  I literally found myself forcing an to find meaning on every sunrise.  It was tough, made hunting not quite what it had always been, made it a grind versus anything like it should be.  About the same time I was trying to get some more viewership, thinking that would make it more worthwhile.  I approached a friend who also had a blog and discussed the situation.  Long story short, he didn't want to link to my blog from his site due to content.  At first, I was aggravated, but at the end of the day, he's my friend and the one or two references to drinking and the like were probably not the best thing for what he had going on.  So, I got to thinking, Who in the hell am I writing for?   

     Answer, mydamnself.

     After that, I started looking at my writing, looking at everything about it, and it dawned on me.  I'm not a it's all about the sunrise type of dude.  I'm me.  I cuss, drink, fart, have fun with my friends, get loud, and at the end of the day, come home to my family and attempt some semblance of sanity.

      Beyond this point you're gonna get me, for better or worse.  No, it ain't gonna be Penthouse Forums type stuff because let's face it, describing the morning as it was hot and wet, is just weird...and wrong...and pretty damned creepy and you should be ashamed.

The Skank

     For years I've written about a little piece of ground and water in glorified fashion.  I've exulted this duck hole as near perfection personified and to be sure, the day God stood above the Earth and waved his hands over Grey Duck, he had his big boy pants and thinking cap on.

     Watched over by towering tupelos and lined by merciless buckbrush, Grey Duck would have made Nash Buckingham speechless, and for years I tried to describe Grey Duck in Buckinghamian prose...and today, on January 6, 2014 at the ripe old age of 37, I'm done with that slant of colorful writing.

     In short, Grey Duck's a bitch.

     Decoys, waders, shells, dog stand, the list is long and distinguished, and makes for suffering.   Grey Duck's over a mile of merciless, pitiless Hell.  It's beaver runs and cypress knees, it's low-hanging vine and thorny bush, it's a wall of buck brush, a hat-floater, a soul-reaper, a chode-drencher...

     A true, in the flesh, dictionary defintion of a dick-dragger.

     About five years ago I came to the conclusion that Grey Duck should only be hunted on just the right kind of day.  A day like we had today.  Big front, strong north wind, sunny.  Wanna know why I decided that?  Because, I suck, I'm getting old and dammit, I've done enough to not have to go into that kind of Hell but a few times a year.

     But on those precious days, few as they may be, Grey Duck becomes the drug, the last beer, the skank at closing.

     Don't deny it, you had a skank.  Every college student does.  The chick - or DUDE, we're equal opportunity here - that you migrated to about once a month and found that for the next 4.6 hours, you just couldn't live without.  She/he/they turned you inside out.  Maybe that fluffy headed dude from US was singing 8675309, Jenny just right, who knows, who cares, but at just the right time you migrated back to the skank.  The person (remembering, he/she) that the next day was just as likely to hook up with that SAE or Kappy Sig down the road or your own damned fraternity brother (never did this to a brother, but I heard stories) as she would you.  Considering all that, every bit of it, you just sashay right up to her like a mule eating sawbriars, maybe even do the worm across the dance floor because you're drunk and looking for attention.

     Meanwhile, your fraternity brothers are behind you going, "Dude, do not do this shit again....Do not do it."  

    But, you do, with a smile on your face and no regret.

   That's Grey Duck.  Pretty and available when the situation is just right, enough of a sure thing to make you go back for more...and more....and more.

   But, I was 21 once and I remembered fumbling through life.  Remembered wondering if anyone, anywhere was paying attention, and I'm sure that Grey Duck and everything that involves hunting the hole is God's way of saying, "Dude, I got this, just enjoy."

     Grey Duck would probably be an easier deal if I asked anyone to go with me, but I have yet to know anyone who knew the secret handshake and afterall, she's my skank.

Until next time, Justin