Velociworld

THE HUNTING TRIP

I've been deer hunting. Once upon a time. Bloodsports just aren't my thing, unless you count fishing as a bloodsport. And it certainly can be. But you can catch and release fish. Hard to take that lead, that arrow out, pat a deer on the ass if you change your mind, or it didn't measure up to your exacting Boone & Crockett standards. Just a passing thought, that.

I certainly have nothing against hunters, and hunting. Our greatest conservationists, and those who keep wild game herds at healthy population levels, are the hunters of this nation. Plus, there has to be a fucking unique adrenal rush in executing a large mammal, and then gutting its sweetmeats after bleeding it out. Well, maybe not unique. I'm sure there are people on death row who would swear making a kimono sash out of that prostitute's intestines was every bit as exciting as the first deer they bagged. Meat tasted a little gamier, though.

Just kidding, ye indignant owners of high-powered rifles with scopes. Velociman is always out of season. Hear me?

At any rate, now that I've incensed most of my readership (who, in actuality, and by an alarming percentage, are intrepid pursuers and slaughterers of the fearsome and savage Sciurus carolinensis, or Eastern gray squirrel), let me continue. What was it Longfellow said? Ah, yes... a mighty man is he...

So okay, I've had my fun, poked my ribs. And my ribs are alarmingly evident today. I need to get on a lard and Frosty diet, pronto.

Where was I? Yes! My first and only hunt. The Senator took me to his hunt club over in Carolina, near Hardeeville. One of those accursed male bonding rituals, I suspect. The kind I actually preferred at 4:30 of the PM. We arrived at the lodge before daybreak, and the wizened old cook was laying out long tables of that wonderful atherosclerotic shit we all love: bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, gravy, yak nuts (OK, that may be fuzzy recall).

And so, our bellies sated, we headed to our respective positions. This wasn't hunting with dogs, or even in stands, although these guys apparently did that, too, on occasion. This was sit on a footstool near the side of the highway, apparently the logic being if drivers were killing deer in record numbers, maybe the deer liked the roads. Go where the action is.

Pretty damned cold, and pretty boring, and the old man shushing me when I'd get up to take a pee. This was a doe day, and so anything without spots was essentially fucked. The Senator, and I'm sure his respective hunter brothers, would occasionally pull a flask, take a sip o whiskey. The only thing I had to keep me warm was my bladder, but pissing the trou for a few minutes of warmth seemed ill-advised.

Finally, when a truck came by, and the driver told the old man they were thinking of tucking tail and going back to the lodge for some refreshment, there arose a great halloo down the road. A shotgun pop, then yelling. And here came this fawn, this tiny fawn, obviously grazed by the blast, because it could barely lope, and three fat men were chasing it. It ran down the highway towards us, and when it was near enough it saw us, and crossed the road into a deep ditch.

It was too injured to maneuver up the other side, however, and so it clawed with its front legs, the rear legs too damaged to assist. And so the sweating, spittle-flecked men caught up, and encircled this creature, and in a sordid instant, fueled by frustration and Old Skullpop, they unleashed about six shells into this thing. It was like Fredericksburg. The Senator watched this scene play out with a stony face. Not what he'd imagined for the little peckerhead's first hunt.

Afterward, feeling I would imagine a bit spent, they threw the illegal carcass into the back of the truck, and we rode back to the lodge. The atmosphere was rather subdued, and we left shortly thereafter.

Now, I don't need to explain that these guys were hunting with no elan, no panache, right? No climbing the tree, and spending a quiet morn marveling at the beauty of an awakening forest, the first stirrings of the woodland fauna, listening for the telltale snap of a twig. Nope. These fellows perched on the side of the highway with double-aught buck in the gun, right next to the DEER XING sign, and waited to get lucky. Class, man. Class.

So there it is. My initiation into the manly sport of hunting. Maybe I just needed better role models. Maybe I just needed bigger deer.