© 2019 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 fo r 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: The 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 trip 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!
© 2016 -2017 Copyright by P. K. H. Groth, Denver, Colorado, USA All rights reserved - See contact page for for permission to republish article excerpts.