nI’ve not figured out yet why hunters think the crack of dawn is the proper time to tramp through the brush to go hunting.
About every bit of game I’ve ever harvested has been between ten and four.
Which is a cheap way of introducing the idea that yesterday about ten we harvested four Canadians. Big geese, these. Grain fed.
Just after the celebratory sip of bonded, Renter demanded to know, again, for the umpteenth time when I intended to harvest some of his tree rats down the creek bed.
I suppose I’d better get down there, I have been promising.
And I suppose I’d better get busy cleaning the geese for the freezer – Oh, by the way, the hunt was all of a hundred yards from my back door. We hunted Renters farm corn field. He has a pond behind the barn where the geese water after feeding in the dark hours before dawn. We wait for them to come in to water after feeding.
The corn field is quite large, the pond are small in comparison. It’s all the excitement the other hunters seem necessary to generate that tires one out and then the endless discussion after.
I never realize how exciting it is to sit still in a blind for four hours can be, that it takes four hours after to discuss it.
From the reaches,