Three long months I have been longing to go deer hunting. Not for lack of invitation to a premiere, expansive hunting tract, but for lack of time.
Sunday 5:30 AM, I'm giddy. Barely a wink the night before from all the anticipation and last minute work hemmed up by 5 AM, I'm punch drunk by the time Joe picks me up. An hour later, I'm in the middle of nowhere = Heaven.
The climb up to the top of the ladder stand proves challenging. I'd pulled a Super Grover move the day before by falling from the barn roof thanks to an expired ladder. Plus, Sunday's 15 MPH winds did nothing to ease my angst.
The tree stand is a double.
Joe has thousands of hours of deer hunting logged under his belt. He's as nonchalant as Cesar, the Dog Whisperer, is in a room of pit bulls. I, on the other hand, was taught how to deer hunt by my former father-in-law. Viet Nam vet, explosives expert, a little twerked... We would be in silent mode the moment we disembarked from the truck. He didn't believe in tree stands. He'd pick an embankment or a log for us to hunker down behind and Lord forbid you had to cough or pee, he'd kill you.
Sunday, I thought we might be smited each time my companion whispered to me. First habits die hard.
In spite of good advice, I'd under dressed and as one of us is getting over the flu and I'm beginning mine, we pulled the plug before noon, no viable deer on the radar. On the way back to the truck, I spotted a herd of wild boars. Venison vs. pork. Who cares?
Joe was badgered into going back to his truck for a rifle.
He's very obliging and a dang good shot.
My host suggests the +200 pound pig is too heavy to haul to the road.
Never get between me and groceries.
I try to pull it by myself through the mud. Joe gets his golf cart, in an attempt to load the boar from the mud flats. Negatory. We end up sculpting Playdoh Fun Factory mud out of the wheels.
Save the cart or the pig? Both. Trading places, I let Joe push the cart, using the boar as counter weight, I keep driving and don't look back. One must uphold one's priorities.
Wild hogs are European introductions, they destroy their habitats, uproot trees, eat all my beautiful amphibians, erode the land-- a non indigenous scourge. Tasty...unless old and male.
My freezer is getting bare,so standards are lowered.
Never say die. I will brine and try other methods to moderate the taste of the two hormones (sketole and adrostenone) that accumulate in older boar's bodies.
The head will hopefully be going to a taxidermist. I need a huge boar head staring back when I'm falling asleep. Mandatory.
Back to the land of the Normal. Winter is finally upon us. The horses, therefore, play dress-up! Stay warm, wherever you are.
