© 2014-2021 Copyright by P. K. H. Groth, Denver, Colorado, USA All rights reserved - See contact page for for permission to republish article
excerpts.
Hunting Humor - B
Too
Many
“Lady”
Hunters:
Michigan
hunters
are
trough.
They
really
hunt
hard
separately
pursuing
elk
after
the
long
pickup
truck
rides
to
Colorado
with
comrades
spieling
the
same
old
hunting
stories.
A
former
Flat
Tops
elk
hunter
friend
related the following tale, swearing it was true.
A
businessperson
arranged
to
have
his
office
remodeled
while
he
and
his
hunt
buddies
would
be
off
on
the
annual
November
secluded
back
woods
deer
quest.
In
a
few
days,
his
creative,
loving
spouse
organized
the
other
wives
for
adventure.
“Let’s
surprise
the
guys
with
an
unannounced
catered
deer
camp
party.
Put
on
saucy outfits for the occasion, and let’s go!”
The
five
women
generally
knew
where
the
annual
camp
was
supposed
to
be,
but
not
exactly.
They
drove
around
searching,
and
then
stopped
at
a
remote
general
store
to
make
inquiry.
The
crusty
old
sutler
suspiciously
eyed
the
group.
Then
he
snapped
“Get
out
of
here,
you
damn
whores!
Your
hunter friends will not need you this season. THIS year they brought their wives!”
I
doubt
you
can
barely
visualize
the
problems
this
caused
everyone
when
the
hunters
returned
home.
It
was
much
worse
than
you
might
think
for
the
businessman
annual
hunt
organizer,
because
he
was
the
town
dentist.
So
much
for
that
business!
No
woman
is
going
to
sit
in
his
chair
again and open her mouth for him! (Thanks, R. M)
A
Bear
Snookering:
I
pretty
much
gave
up
bear
hunting
after
uselessly
traipsing
through
the
high
backcountry.
In
mid
afternoon,
we
were
sitting
in
our
campsite
along
the
Colorado
River
eating
cookies
and
focused
on
beautiful
up-river
views.
“That’s
an
odd
muskrat
coming
across
the
river”
chimed
Linda.
Binoculars
disclosed
a
nose,
two
water-level
eyes
and
the
tops
of
round
ears.
The
crafty
bear
a
hundred
yards
away
dog-paddled
slowly
toward
us
without
causing
an
unnatural
ripple!
The
bruin
kept
perfectly
calm
while
Pete
slinked
to
the
truck
for
cased
gun
and
stored
ammo.
Once
the
bear
gained
river
bottom
traction,
it
changed
tactics,
bolted
out
of
the
river
and
streaked
safely
up
a
very
steep
hill.
Being
royally
outwitted
by
a
close,
wise,
sly,
sneaky
bear
was
a
lifetime
wonder,
something
that
would
be
lost
to
a
younger
hunter
who
would
have
been
more
alert,
faster,
had his rifle ever ready, and gotten a freezer of food.
Getting
Rid
of
Road
Kill,
Sort
Of:
T
he
Pennsylvania
Department
of
Transportation
had
to
investigate
complaints
that
a
private
contractor
paved
over
part
of
a
road
killed
deer
that
had
been
lying
on
the
roadside
for
three
to
four
weeks.
Penn
DOT
engineer
Walter
Bortree
said
“it
was
against
state
policy
to
pave
over
a
deer.”
(But
does
state
policy
permit
encapsulating
smashed
raccoons?)
Bowmantown
Mayor
Billig
was
astonished,
saying,
“The
deer
was
in
a
straightaway.
If
they
couldn’t
see it, then they can’t see the numbers on their pay checks either”.
Treasured
Socks
Go
One
Way
For
a
Pack
Outing:
Grandma
Karin
was
an
ardent
knitter
and
became
so
adept
that
she
could
still
make
mittens,
socks
and
small
items
when
the
darkness
of
diabetes-caused
macular
degeneration
slowly
robbed
her
of
sight.
Knitting
became
an
obsession for donating to charity Christmas party gifts.
I
always
liked
handmade
thick
wool
socks
to
pad
my
hiking
boots.
I
hardly
knew
they
were
on
my
feet.
Linda
does
not
darn,
so
I
rebuilt
many
sock
heels
to
get
a
few
extra
miles
out
of
my
mother’s
hand
knit
socks.
Then,
like
Mom,
they
were
gone
-
except
for
the
most
soft,
fluffiest,
smoothest,
light
gray
wonders
you
could
imagine.
I
honorably
saved
this
last
never
worn
pair
to
savor
in
my
old
age
while
reading into the wee hours.
Old
age
came
and
I
decided
to
wear
the
socks
for
a
three-day
hunt
preparation
solo
backpack
over
Loveland
Pass.
They
were
heavenly.
Thanks
Mom!
At
noon’s
lunch
break,
I
drew
my
legs
up
as
I
leaned
against
a
tree.
Dang
it,
that
tree
had
been
“scraped”
by
an
elk.
The
next
three
trees
similarly
were
urine
graced!
Moving
on,
I
comprehended
my
only
shirt
and
trousers
were
contaminated.
The
night’s
evening
breeze
permitted a tasteful repast.
Removing
my
boots
at
sack
time,
I
was
overwhelmed
by
back-flashing
memories
of
my
industrious
mother.
She
was
always
taking
some
art,
pottery,
garden
chair
woodworking,
flower
arranging,
starter
pig,
fancy
chicken
entrepreneur,
or
obscure
challenging
evening
course.
She
raised
some
sheep
to
convert
to
knitting
projects.
Then
the
recollection
of
her
wool
processing
night
school
class
emerged
from
childhood
memory.
I
recalled
how
joyful
Mom
was
when
an
Irish
wool
expert
taught
her
to
soften
wool
–
in
sheep
urine!
I
suspect
Mom
found
horse
pee
easier
to
collect.
Mom
had
obviously
missed
the
follow-up
class
detailing
how
to
“desensitize”
the
pee
that
re-emerged
thirty
years
later
on
a
too-long
trek.
(Brother
John,
I
kept
the
woolies
and
will
l
ship
the
socks
if
you
tick
me
off!) PS: Thank the angels I did not wear the rancid wonders to go elk hunting!
So
what
is
the
moral
of
this
story
?
Hide
your
hunting
clothing
(skivvies
to
top
hat)
from
your
wife!
Don’t
let
her
wash
our
clothing
with
scented
detergents
or
with
fabric
softener.
You
too
will
reek
of
Downey
as
soon
as
you
heat
up
in
the
field.
And
the
darn
stuff
is
near
impossible
to
eliminate
from
most
fabrics.
Use
a
special
scent
destroying
detergent
after
you
smell
the
bottle;
some
of
these
detergents deteriorate and revert to a chemical odor.