It is early morning on the first day of deer season and it is black, pitch black, and raining lightly. The kind of rain romantics and film directors like. The kind of rain that lures you outside and then, before you know it, you're soaked to the skin and on your way to pneumonia and an extended stay in the hospital. I park next to the curb outside The Palms Apartments and kill the engine. The first kill of the season? I turn my headlights off and take a quick look at my illuminated Timex watch, complete with the optional camouflaged wrist band. It is just past 3am.
Mike, my hunting partner, is supposed to be in his truck, ready to go. His truck is here, just three spaces in front of me, but I see neither hide nor hair of Mike. Now, being the experienced hunter and tracker that I am, I am confident that I would notice if either Mike's hide or hair was anywhere in the immediate vicinity. Mike is most definitely not in his truck. I briefly contemplate sounding one long loud blast on my horn, the universal sign of irritation at being kept waiting, but I have a vision of a several angry faces glaring out at me from behind the cold rain slick windows of the apartments. All the faces have sleep filled eyes and gun filled hands. All are glaring in the direction of their own irritation, namely me. My horn remains as silent as a grave. With the vision fading, I take a sip of what was once hot coffee but is now just a cold coffee like substance. I stroke my beard and thoughtfully ponder the situation for about 5 minutes. This is an age old stalling technique employed by all the best hunters and trackers while waiting for their partners to show up. I am still clinging to the hope that, at any second, Mike will walk outside and I will not have to leave the warmth of my '70 Ford Bronco. What in the name of all that is holy is keeping him.
To make matters worse, I am not wearing my insulated camouflaged rain gear. Wearing that stuff inside a truck gets hot very quickly. Besides, I was expecting to just drive up, wave good morning to Mike sitting in his truck, and then continue on to our happy hunting grounds. Then and only then was I going to don my gear. But here I am and no Mike. I have to go in and get him. Exasperated, I open the door and step out into the cold, wet morning and onto the slick wet asphalt. I pull my camouflaged rubberized rain slicker and rain pants from where I stow them behind the driver's seat. I decide to put the rain pants on over my laced up waterproof Danner hunting boots. Why risk getting my camouflaged wool socks wet. Wet socks combined with a long day of beating brush is best avoided. I also decide I can't lean against the Bronco while pulling the rain pants on without getting my jeans wet. A man can get chafed hiking in wet jeans and chafed does not make for a happy hunting experience, I always say. If you have never attempted putting rain pants on while you are wearing wet leather boots, I can assure you that its not as easy as it sounds. It is like trying to pull the wool over your wife's eyes when a boys night out ends up with the cops hauling you out of a strip club, naked and in hand cuffs. I still maintain my innocence in that. On this morning, I end up in the middle of the road, under a street light, hopping around in little clockwise circles like a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. I wonder, if I were down under in Australia, would my hopping circles be counter-clockwise? After several minutes, and considerable effort, I succeed where a lesser man would fail. A lesser man would have just jogged over to the front door of the apartments and gotten wet in the process, or at least dampened. I was still panting from the effort as I put my matching camouflaged rain jacket on and zip it up to my chin. I pull my black, non-camouflaged, stetson down a little tighter on my head, take another sip of the tepid coffee, spit it out in disgust, and then start through the rain for the front door of the apartments.
My new plan, conceived just this minute, is to go inside and knock on Mike's door. Once he opens the door I will burst into the apartment while dripping water everywhere. I will rant and rave and throw in some wild hand gestures just to ensure maximum water displacement. This was going to be fun. Make it worth the effort of having to put all this stuff on before I was ready. I am smiling with anticipation as I reach the main door to the apartment building and my hand is just reaching for the cold brass door handle when Mike opens the door from the inside.
To make matters worse, I am not wearing my insulated camouflaged rain gear. Wearing that stuff inside a truck gets hot very quickly. Besides, I was expecting to just drive up, wave good morning to Mike sitting in his truck, and then continue on to our happy hunting grounds. Then and only then was I going to don my gear. But here I am and no Mike. I have to go in and get him. Exasperated, I open the door and step out into the cold, wet morning and onto the slick wet asphalt. I pull my camouflaged rubberized rain slicker and rain pants from where I stow them behind the driver's seat. I decide to put the rain pants on over my laced up waterproof Danner hunting boots. Why risk getting my camouflaged wool socks wet. Wet socks combined with a long day of beating brush is best avoided. I also decide I can't lean against the Bronco while pulling the rain pants on without getting my jeans wet. A man can get chafed hiking in wet jeans and chafed does not make for a happy hunting experience, I always say. If you have never attempted putting rain pants on while you are wearing wet leather boots, I can assure you that its not as easy as it sounds. It is like trying to pull the wool over your wife's eyes when a boys night out ends up with the cops hauling you out of a strip club, naked and in hand cuffs. I still maintain my innocence in that. On this morning, I end up in the middle of the road, under a street light, hopping around in little clockwise circles like a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. I wonder, if I were down under in Australia, would my hopping circles be counter-clockwise? After several minutes, and considerable effort, I succeed where a lesser man would fail. A lesser man would have just jogged over to the front door of the apartments and gotten wet in the process, or at least dampened. I was still panting from the effort as I put my matching camouflaged rain jacket on and zip it up to my chin. I pull my black, non-camouflaged, stetson down a little tighter on my head, take another sip of the tepid coffee, spit it out in disgust, and then start through the rain for the front door of the apartments.
My new plan, conceived just this minute, is to go inside and knock on Mike's door. Once he opens the door I will burst into the apartment while dripping water everywhere. I will rant and rave and throw in some wild hand gestures just to ensure maximum water displacement. This was going to be fun. Make it worth the effort of having to put all this stuff on before I was ready. I am smiling with anticipation as I reach the main door to the apartment building and my hand is just reaching for the cold brass door handle when Mike opens the door from the inside.
He sees me standing there dripping with rain and says "Hey, mornin'!" Then without pause he continues "Looks like we lucked out with this weather. Rain will keep the deer bedded down till after sunrise and give us plenty of time to get up into the woods."
I remain conspicuously silent.
Mike looks at me with concern and says "You shouldn't grind your teeth like that man. Can't be good for you." As he shoulders past me he continues "Come on, don't just stand there, we're late as it is." With his backpack and rifle in hand, sans rain gear, Mike leaves me standing of the stoop and jogs over to his truck.
I walk slowly over to join Mike making a conscious effort to relax and stop grinding my teeth. He's right, can't be good for me.
"I need to fill up with gas and get some coffee." Mike said over his shoulder as he was stowing his rifle in the gun rack mounted inside the cab of his truck.
"Of course you do." I said, my teeth suddenly grinding again.
By the time we get to Uncle Walter's Mini-Mart-N-Gas my mood has recovered and I am once again excited about the hunt. While Mike fills up with gas, I take the opportunity to top off my own fuel tank. It is raining harder now and in the time it takes us to walk from the pumps to the market we are both dripping wet. We go inside and shake off the rain. The young girl behind the counter does not appear amused and tosses daggers at us with her eyes. We both fill our travel mugs with hot black coffee and I pick up a beef and bean burrito that has probably been sitting under the heat lamp since yesterday. Mike gives me a look of disgust but I really like these little morsels of deep fried goodness. The clerk just glares at us, unspeaking, when we pay for the gas, coffee and burrito. We are walking back to our rigs when I suddenly turn around and run back inside, again dripping water. The clerk hasn't moved and seems to have an endless supply of eye daggers. I duck and weave my way to the back of the store where I grab several packets of hot sauce. Can't eat deep fried mini-mart burritos without hot sauce, it just isn't done.
Once I am back outside Mike casually brushes the daggers off my back. As I munch on my impromptu breakfast, we confirm which CB radio channel we will be monitoring. It is 0325 hours. We are late and while it is not the start I anticipated we are here and we are finally ready to head off into the woods. I can not keep the smile off my greasy face. Until I burn my lip and tongue on the scalding hot coffee. Oh well, it will cool on the ride out.
"I need to fill up with gas and get some coffee." Mike said over his shoulder as he was stowing his rifle in the gun rack mounted inside the cab of his truck.
"Of course you do." I said, my teeth suddenly grinding again.
By the time we get to Uncle Walter's Mini-Mart-N-Gas my mood has recovered and I am once again excited about the hunt. While Mike fills up with gas, I take the opportunity to top off my own fuel tank. It is raining harder now and in the time it takes us to walk from the pumps to the market we are both dripping wet. We go inside and shake off the rain. The young girl behind the counter does not appear amused and tosses daggers at us with her eyes. We both fill our travel mugs with hot black coffee and I pick up a beef and bean burrito that has probably been sitting under the heat lamp since yesterday. Mike gives me a look of disgust but I really like these little morsels of deep fried goodness. The clerk just glares at us, unspeaking, when we pay for the gas, coffee and burrito. We are walking back to our rigs when I suddenly turn around and run back inside, again dripping water. The clerk hasn't moved and seems to have an endless supply of eye daggers. I duck and weave my way to the back of the store where I grab several packets of hot sauce. Can't eat deep fried mini-mart burritos without hot sauce, it just isn't done.
Once I am back outside Mike casually brushes the daggers off my back. As I munch on my impromptu breakfast, we confirm which CB radio channel we will be monitoring. It is 0325 hours. We are late and while it is not the start I anticipated we are here and we are finally ready to head off into the woods. I can not keep the smile off my greasy face. Until I burn my lip and tongue on the scalding hot coffee. Oh well, it will cool on the ride out.
