When the opening day of deer season finally arrives, the months of waiting and planning and scouting and hoping don’t change one basic fact.

Four o’clock in the morning is early.

Notice I didn’t say “too early.” To say something like that to all you hardy hunters would be, I realize, a punishable sin.

We are, after all, members of a clan that has been conditioned to live by the “early bird gets the worm” credo, and those who choose to (gulp!) sleep in are either sick, lazy, sick and lazy, or (some will tell you) not REAL hunters.

That’s why I was walking around in the park at 4:15 a.m. on Saturday, dragging my confused dog around in circles, hoping that he’d take care of his morning duties so that I could head afield like the REAL hunter I imagine myself to be.

It was early. Very early.

And worse yet, I eventually noticed (as I shook the sleep from my Red Sox-addled head) it was raining.

Not that miserable cats-and-dogs, pelting rain. No. That would come later. But a chilly, steady rain, to be sure.

The official weather report said I could expect “showers.”

My own, much more practical weather report (developed after years of griping about “official” reports) indicated that someone, somewhere in eastern Maine, might be starting work on a sizeable ark before the day was out.

I was (regrettably) right.

Not that the deer were going to mind. Nope. Not these deer. I had scouted these deer for months, you see. I was (after all) a REAL hunter. Or something like that.

And come opening day, those of our ilk would be sitting in the woods … even come high water.

The deer quickly proved me right. As I rolled down a steep hill not a mile from my hunting grounds, a large doe stepped out of the woods, then turned and retreated. A fawn did not.

I touched the brakes. The fawn stomped on the gas. A crash seemed imminent … until the speedy little critter hung a hard left and darted out ahead of me, seemingly chasing the far end of my headlight beam down the road.

I chuckled to myself, slowed even more, and watched the little skipper hop off into the forest.

The woods of Otis are beautiful early in the morning. At least that’s what I told myself as I pulled on (supposedly) water-resistant pants, and my thick blaze-orange parka.

Of course, I’d have to wait to find out … sunrise was still an hour off, and all I could see of the woods was the thin line of alders illuminated by my headlamp.

Not 10 yards off the dirt road, another deer greeted my early arrival by crashing through the underbrush.

The sound of the deer’s frantic retreat echoed through the woods, then dissipated, the gentle hiss of steadily falling rain eventually drowning out the snap of twigs and branches.

So much for sneaking to my stand under cover of darkness.

Still, I was optimistic.

Of course, when you’ve been awake since 4 a.m., and you’re standing in the middle of soggy shrubs, facing a day of sitting in an equally soggy tree, waiting for a wily critter to amble by, you’ve only got a couple of choices.

Be optimistic. Or go home.

Of course, home wasn’t an option. Not then. Not yet. Not for a REAL hunter.

At my tree at last, I quickly climbed the ladder and made myself at home. The first order of business was obvious: Make the rain stop.

Thankfully, I bought a nifty tree-stand umbrella a year ago (I expected “ark” conditions on that day, too, but by the time I arrived in the woods, the sun was out).

And thankfully, I was still able to find the umbrella in the pile of hunting gear, 11 months later.

It went up nicely, and seemed pretty water-tight. Seemed.

An hour went by. The steady light rain continued. Another hour went by. The rain picked up.

Another hour … and it was pouring. Water ran off my nifty umbrella, blew onto my knees, and dripped slowly down the tree.

As any REAL hunter can tell you, when rain starts dripping down the tree you’re sitting in, it doesn’t take long for it to a) start running down your back, or b) end up in the seat of your pants.

I’m not entirely sure how rain manages its amazing fly-in-the-seat-of-your-pants trick, but I’m here to tell you (as a REAL hunter) it happens.

Every single time.

Every so often, I heard a gunshot or two, not too far away. Someone was seeing deer, at least. That was encouraging. For a bit.

After a couple hours of listening to other people shoot at deer, and feeling that all-over sogginess settle in, I decided I was tough, and would stick it out.

An hour after that, I began to rethink my toughness.

And not long after that, I changed my game plan for the day.

That’s right. I went home.

At first, I felt a bit guilty. Did this put my status as a REAL hunter in jeopardy? How could I show my face?

Then, after I reached my truck and began to peel off soggy layers of clothing, a steady parade of vehicles drove by, driven by other hunters who had apparently decided to give up for the day.

OK … it was two vehicles. And neither of the drivers appeared to have done much more than “heater hunt” all day.

But they were dry.

And to this REAL hunter, “dry” sounded like a pretty good way to spend the rest of the day.

Dry. Inside. Napping?

Who knows. A REAL hunter never tells all his secrets, after all.

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