This is the most beautiful time of year and I love the cooler days, the smell of fall, and the colors of autumn.
But I hate hunting season, especially the first day of deer hunting. No, I am not a vegetarian, and yes, I love meat. I don’t care if you shoot Bambi as long as you eat the venison.
What is it in the air that makes guys come out of the woodwork with their shotguns and turf wars? What kind of craziness cause normally sane men to lie and trespass? It can only be a combination of gun powder, blood and caveman instinct that appears when the moon is full, or in this case, when antlers have sprouted.
The land we farm zigs and zags through canyons and draws. Most of the fences have been torn out, and the fields run together. Only the farmers seem to know exactly where one field ends and another begins. To add to the confusion, what is fallow or unplanted one year is in crop the next, so the landscape changes from year to year.
All the more reason for hunters to know their boundaries and not wait until the last-minute to contact the land owners for hunting favors. The hunters come, leaping for joy – their only care in the world to shoot the elusive 10 point big buck. They can’t understand why you don’t want to hunt with them or listen to their stories about the big one that got away.
Unfortunately, they don’t realize farmers here just finished harvest. Now they are seeding thousands of acres within weeks. My husband has tunnel vision, and all he can think about is getting the next crop into the ground. This is a busy and critical time of year. Unless a farmer hunts, he probably isn’t interested in stories and camaraderie right now. He’s tired from twelve hour days on the tractor, and it isn’t a picnic to have people camped on your living room floor – it is a royal hassle.
I love the company. And I love the treats hunters bring…wine, cheese, smoked salmon – yum! But oh, I feel like I am in the middle of a kindergarten class of children pointing fingers. Yes, I know who is lying and telling the truth – especially if they mention some long-dead relative who gave them permission to be here.
Run Bambi Run!
Hoards of ”friends” and long-lost cousins come out of the woodwork. They fight each other for canyons and draws, arguing over who was first and who said who could hunt where.
“But last night Kevin told me I could hunt here.” No, actually Kevin said you could hunt there if no one else was already there…ah, semantics.
“What do you mean this is your ground? Kevin said it was his.” No, Kevin showed you the borders and you forgot where they were. You crossed the road or fence line you shouldn’t cross, and now you’re scared you’ll be thrown in jail, so you throw Kevin under the bus to deal with the problem instead. Nice.
Every year we end up telling people they can’t hunt here anymore. “Don Macnab told me I could hunt here. He gave me permission.” Hmm, Uncle Don has been dead fifteen years at least.
Miles and miles of land. Who would even notice if I trespassed to shoot just one little deer?
When you catch them in a lie, they back-pedal fast. But what makes them lie to begin with? Who does that? Some of our landlords have land leased out for thousands of dollars…others come to hunt on their own ground. You can’t trespass – they will call the sheriff.
And then there are the idiots on their four wheelers or in gas pickups who go cruising through the tall grass and wheat stubble. We haven’t had rain for so long that I could start a fire just by rubbing two sticks together. My girlfriend almost lost her house today. Maybe this isn’t my favorite time of the year after all.
I might have to get my gun-toting neighbor to come help me deal with trespassers....
Look out, here comes my neighbor!!
Okay, some parts of hunting season are fun!
The end!
