The Old Arrowmaker, w/c by KSR
Hunting season is practically a religion with some people. My father was a deer huner. He tried very hard to convince me that if the herds were not controlled, they would starve to death in winter. That may be true, but if I were a deer, I’d rather go hungry than to see all those maniacs running through my forest dressed up in their camo and crazy red hats, and waving the latest model rifle my way. Of course the deer do make a game of it by hiding behind bushes and trees and making the hunter work for every shot.
Hunters spend a lot of time readying themselves for the hunt. Cave man simply had to pick up his club and grunt goodbye to his wife. But today’s hunters go into a fervor getting properly outfitted in the attire of the proper hunt.
A number of years ago, two young grandsons retreated to their ancient memory of the Hunter. Armed with new bows and arrows, camping gear and boys, we set off for a spot near Lake Almanor in Northern Caifornia to take them on their primeval deer hunting experience.
Dr. Advice and I are not hunters, unless you consider a sale at Nordstrom in my case. We have done a great deal of scrounging the depths searching for fish, and he did some pheasant and duck hunting in the past, but I don’t think we could be considered part of the Hunter economy.
Day One of the hunt. With a number of other seasoned hunters readying themselves in the campground, the boys dressed in their new camo clothing, dirtied up their faces, pocketed their compass,and as a final addition, sprayed on Fox Urine! (It was described in more colorful language). It is female fox hormone and smells so bad you will never forget it, but is supposed to attract prey. However, how fox hormone can attact deer is beyond me, don’t they have their own scent?
We drove them to the dropping off point, and set the pickup time. Since they had no watch, I gave the youngest one my “Rolex” watch to wear.
We arrived at the appointed time to find both hunters sitting on the side of the road, the youngest one with tears running down his face, saying he had lost my “Rolex”.
I could have let him suffer, but instead I told the truth, that it was a phony his Dad had given me anyway. I told them the good thing was that some hunter was going to find it and think he had found the real McCoy, saying to his wife “Honey I didn’t get a deer, but I found a real Rolex!”
As a dyed- in- the- wool Gatherer, I fed them large plates of “Hamburger Helper” and told them to wash their faces.