It's still dark at 6am. Frost lies untouched on the long blades of grass. It's a brittle 30 degrees, barely below freezing, but the wind still makes your skin stiffen. The primitive wooden stand creaks in the gusts. Surrounding you, the forest is cold, silent, and lonely.
After 15 minutes, your thick winter jacket is completely permeated with the cold. The nine beers you drank last night no longer warm you, they only fester in your stomach. A hangover will come soon. It's so damn uncomfortable sitting in a deer stand. The required silence and stillness makes you feel like a child forced to attend a grown-up event.
Trees sway in the breeze, sending a few leaves fluttering to the ground. You grip your .260 Remington with impatience and pray for a deer to appear. Maybe two deer, both of them already wounded, so you can tag them and get the hell out of there without losing bragging rights.
When the weekend ends, you'll go home with one deer. You'll shoot it yourself, gut it yourself, and skin it yourself. You'll endure the smell. You'll treat the meat and bag it. When you get home, your wife will point out how much you spent. $400 for the gun, $20 for ammo, $80 for the license.
"Venison at the store is $15 per pound," she'll say.
"This is more satisfying and fun," you'll retort.
She'll eye you suspiciously, wondering if you hunt just to get away from her for a weekend. You do, and she knows it. The rest of your Sunday evening will be spent arguing.
But that's you, not me. I don't hunt.
It was a cold Saturday morning, but I was warm in my bed, covered in thick blankets. "Ahhh," I said. "It's 11am. Time to get up!" My cheeks were flushed with warmth as I stared out the frosty window, sipping hot cocoa from a large mug. "Ooooh, that's too warm," I said. "I better put some ice cubes in there."
The strong wind outside made the house creak. I cranked the thermostat up to 75 degrees and sat around in shorts, watching cartoons.
"It's so damn warm in here," I said to no one in particular, laughing heartily. The nine beers I drank last night were brewery beers, which I could afford since I hadn't spent hundreds of dollars on hunting supplies. The high quality lagers, which had few preservatives and were poured fresh from a tap, left me feeling refreshed in the morning, without even a hint of a headache.
The doorbell rang. It was the friendly mailman with a package for me. What's this? It's three pounds of fresh venison from one of the state's top butcher shops. The large order put the cost at a mere $10 per pound. I'll cook it up for lunch.
The wife* comes home. "Oh honey," she says. "You decided to stay home with me instead of going hunting! How about I cook you a big breakfast and then blow you under the table while you eat it?"
"Sure!" I said. "While you're doing favors, will you take a money shot on the face?"
"Okay!" she said.
The rest of the weekend was spent drinking expensive beer, eating barbecue-flavored potato chips, and watching a James Bond marathon on Spike TV.
Ahh yes. I sure do love the deer hunting season.
*I don't have a wife, but based on my "research" (watching late-night "movies" on Cinemax), this is what would have happened if I had a wife.
