Sweating out 1st day of season

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So, opening day has come and gone. You made it out of the woods (finally). You got your deer … or you didn’t.

Did you have fun? Of course you did. Did you learn anything? Of course you did.

And how was my opening day? Well, Chummy, I thought you’d never ask. Here’s how it went:

4:10 a.m.: Alarm goes off. Scares me to death. I swat at it. Push buttons. Pull knobs. Try to knock it off the nightstand, then realize that I’m sleeping on a camp mat … on the floor … after having recently discovered the joys of home ownership (while having not yet rediscovered the joys of moving all of my junk into the new home).

4:20: Shower with no soap or shampoo (everyone keeps telling me those wily critters can smell you a mile away, so I figure a simple hose-down will have to do).

4:45: Hop into Hunting Buddy’s truck and head to breakfast.

5 a.m.: Eat. Gobble. Chow. Yum. Yum. Yum. After backing away from the feed trough at what has been tabbed as “The Ultimate Hunters’ Breakfast,” I realize that I probably smell like a big slab of bacon … and sausage. Then I realize that while a random bear may think that odor is worth checking out … I’m not going bear hunting.

5:45: Arrive at the hunting grounds. This year, I planned ahead. I targeted some private land that is owned by a large corporation. I talked to one of the company’s foresters, just to see if hunting there was OK. I headed to the town office, just to make sure the afore-mentioned company still owned the land.

Then I scouted.

I know. I know. I don’t know much about deer (yet). But as I said, I planned ahead. (Read this: I asked a veteran hunter to walk the land with me and point out all the things that he, as a deer-hunting genius, saw. The trip, as you might imagine, quickly deteriorated into two grown men stumbling around in the woods, pointing at various piles of deer poop.)

But we found a place to hunt. I thought. Then opening day came.

5:46: Find a truck already parked at my turnout.

5:47: Find three more hunters heading into my woods.

5:48: Realize that a swarm of other hunters has descended on my piles of deer poop.

5:50: Head deeper into the woods to look for a new spot.

6 a.m.: Find one. Get out of truck with Hunting Buddy. Load rifles. Put on stylish and comfy blaze orange parka (which, unfortunately, was the only option, because my more-practical blaze orange vest is still back at the old house, with my end table).

6:15: Sweating profusely, decide to sit on a large rock and wait for deer to show up. Hunting Buddy heads into the woods to wallow around in a swamp for awhile.

8 a.m.: Hunting Buddy returns. While wandering around in the swamp, he has seen two deer and a moose. While sitting on the rock, I have seen three big white birds that I can’t identify.

8:10: We head back to the swamp.

8:15: We see nothing. The deer (and perhaps even the moose) are probably sitting on the rock I just vacated, catching a tan.

10 a.m.: We head to another area that Hunting Buddy knows well. He points out a well-marked trail of blazes on trees and tells me, essentially, “head thataway.” I ask him to point out the next blaze … just to make sure I’m heading in the right direction.

He can’t find one.

But he leaves anyway.

10:45 a.m.: I am knee-deep in soggy moss, making (slow) progress through another swamp. Hunting Buddy radios me. He has found three more deer, and is sitting on a rise, watching them feed. I tell him his trail is wonderful.

11:15: It is 100 degrees in the swamp (though the radio weather-guessers will tell us it never got this hot, believe me when I tell you: It was). My nifty blaze orange parka is now sodden with sweat. According to my handy GPS, I have traveled one-tenth of a mile in the past 30 minutes. Hunting Buddy is waiting at the truck. He has another commitment this afternoon. So do I. I make faster progress and head for a clear-cut I know is nearby.

11:20: I get to the clear cut and sit on a rock to rest. I hear a branch snap and think it’s Hunting Buddy (or the paramedics he thoughtfully called in).

It’s not.

It’s a doe … feeding … I sit and watch until she leaves, then make my way back to the truck.

I’m hot. I’m tired. I’m done for the day.

But I’m heading back. You can count on that.

At various times, you may have found (good-natured, of course) stabs and jabs in this space, directed at various friends and relatives.

In the interest of fairness, I’d like to point out that no matter what else I say about my brother-in-law (who, I may have mentioned, has twice been a member of the losing team in our biennial family Calvinball World Championship), he knows deer.

And though he may well lose his third straight Calvinball title on Thanksgiving, let me forget that for a moment and give him his due.

On opening day of deer season, Carl Urquhart of Alna bagged a healthy eight-pointer that weighed in at 194 pounds while hunting in Chelsea.

Why do I mention this? Is it just “fairness” driving this announcement? Is it guilt?

None of the above.

Don’t tell Carl, but considering my track record, I just thought my chances of ending up with a package of venison steak would be a lot better if I buttered him up a bit first.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailiynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.