OPENING DAY

The alarm clicks first. Then it goes off. It's 5:30 am. Plan is to get in the woods by 6:30am. I make the field by 6:45 am. There's three does grazing peacefully. The sun is up enough for a shot. I scope the girls and head for my stand. Half way there, three more does bust out of the woods by the river and bolt across the field followed by a nice buck (6 or 8 point). I drop to one knee and push the safety off. I should take the running shot but don't. They all disappear in the swamp. I duck in the woods and continue to the stand. Then i see one of the does come out of the swamp followed by the buck. I find a tree to steady the gun and dial the scope to max. It's 200 + yards. Christ it's a long shot. I try to steady the cross hairs as some asshole up on the road drives by blaring the horn. I shoot.

This is the story I'm telling to Junie Bogart, Bird, the old man, Milawyer, his old man, Cousin Steve Snyder and who ever else will listen, over beers and chili at Bird's house at the end of the first day of gun season '06. I'm the only one in the crowd who has taken a shot this day, so the floor is mine. Everyone listens (sort of) in between jabs, swigs of beer, and spoonfulls of chili. "My first mistake was not taking the running shot." I confess. I shoot. The buck hunches... I think. Then i look and the scope and realize i've dialed to 3 not 9. No wonder he looked so far away. I fucked up. "I never touched him." I admit and go for another beer.
These nights are precious and there won't be a lot more of them in our future. The old timers can hardly get up the hill anymore. But tonight no one gives that a second thought and we all tell war stories of shit we did as kids, and the 80 year olds and the 50 year olds square off and laugh and laugh. And my mom's in the other room with Junie and Milawyer's mom giggling and telling their own stories and Vic warns me not to put his name on the internet and I'll tell you- I'll put this bunch up against anyone in this world. Goddamnit I'll miss 'em when the crowd starts to thin. And you thought deer hunting was nothing but drunk yahoos filling blaze orange fart bladders.