Unca Walt
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2020
- Messages
- 6,156
- Reaction score
- 31,860
One mo' hawg story? This is how I got the scar through my eyebrow:
The brand-new day broke through the dark. Through the window near my bunkbed, I could see that it was windy out, and chilly, with a hint of rain at the edges. It was the kind of day that makes for ruddy cheeks and green grass. My trouble is that I believe ruddy cheeks are for girls, and green grass is for cows -- and I’m happiest when I’m good and stinking hot.
“Ah, lookit the blustery weather,” Charlie offered from the bunk across the way, “makes you feel good to be alive.”
“When it’s like this, I don’t feel either.” I was starting off cranky. We were in the bunkhouse on Brahma Island, which is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in the United States. We were going wild boar hunting this morning, and I was a little bit in the hole with the thought of mucking about in a cold, evil swamp when I really wanted to muck about in a hot, yummy swamp. Oh, well, here we were, out in the edges of Yeehaw Junction... it had to be more comfortable than being up to my gizzard in that blue snow which caused me such icy wretchedness on Mt. Everest in Colorado. Hawg huntin’ is more temperate than elk huntin’, if for no other reason than that the clever beasties are considerate enough not to climb mountains and live in sub-zero misery.
Charlie and Himself had arrived the day before. The previous day’s exploits could be summed up as a learning experience. We learned that the huge guide, who went by the name “Snake” was crazy. And that while it was a relatively simple matter to shoot a hawg, getting a trophy boar was a different matter entirely.
We had spotted a dozen or more of our quarry, but none of the size and ferociousness we lusted for.
Little did I realize that today was to be The Day.
Delicious smells were coming from the huge bunkhouse kitchen, where Doug- The-Cook was preparing great masses of concentrated cholesterol. Since it is a well-known, proven scientific fact that vacation calories and fats do not ever stick to the human body, I found myself eagerly wolfing down humongous clots of sausage, eggs, grits and white gravy (poured all over the hot muffins). A mere half-gallon of coffee, and I was ready to whip my weight in butterflies.
“Want some more coffee, Walt?” Charlie had the big pot in his clutches, waving it at me.
I declined politely; I had enough caffeine in me to make my hands shake like Marcel Marceau on crack.
“Well then,” rumbled Snake’s freight-train voice, “let’s go git us a big hawg.”
The truck awaited us outside. It was a sort of pickup truck on steroids. It had a big cage in it to hold the dogs, and a bunch of gunracks on the cab roof. The tires were about chest-high, and the bumpers would not have been out of place on an Abrams M-1 Main Battle Tank.
We climbed on.
Well, as an average, we climbed on. Charlie leaped on, and I sort of creaked on. I find it annoying that Charlie is two years older than I am, and he jogs. He’s as fit as a flea. Now, me... I’m 70. That’s not old, if you’re a tree. But I’ve had somewhat rougher mileage -- my bod looks like it was put together on a government contract out of scrap parts. But I’m not old. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am. I don’t want to pick on Charlie just because he’s so healthy. Well, not much, anyway. I always say that if you can’t say something good about someone, sit right down here by me.
The two dogs were yelping for joy at the prospect of going hunting. They raced each other to get into the cage in the truck.
A great lurch, and we were off.
END OF PART ONE (BANDWIDTH)
-------------------------------------------------------------
Rootin’ With The Hawgs
© Walt C. Snedeker
© Walt C. Snedeker
The brand-new day broke through the dark. Through the window near my bunkbed, I could see that it was windy out, and chilly, with a hint of rain at the edges. It was the kind of day that makes for ruddy cheeks and green grass. My trouble is that I believe ruddy cheeks are for girls, and green grass is for cows -- and I’m happiest when I’m good and stinking hot.
“Ah, lookit the blustery weather,” Charlie offered from the bunk across the way, “makes you feel good to be alive.”
“When it’s like this, I don’t feel either.” I was starting off cranky. We were in the bunkhouse on Brahma Island, which is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in the United States. We were going wild boar hunting this morning, and I was a little bit in the hole with the thought of mucking about in a cold, evil swamp when I really wanted to muck about in a hot, yummy swamp. Oh, well, here we were, out in the edges of Yeehaw Junction... it had to be more comfortable than being up to my gizzard in that blue snow which caused me such icy wretchedness on Mt. Everest in Colorado. Hawg huntin’ is more temperate than elk huntin’, if for no other reason than that the clever beasties are considerate enough not to climb mountains and live in sub-zero misery.
Charlie and Himself had arrived the day before. The previous day’s exploits could be summed up as a learning experience. We learned that the huge guide, who went by the name “Snake” was crazy. And that while it was a relatively simple matter to shoot a hawg, getting a trophy boar was a different matter entirely.
We had spotted a dozen or more of our quarry, but none of the size and ferociousness we lusted for.
Little did I realize that today was to be The Day.
Delicious smells were coming from the huge bunkhouse kitchen, where Doug- The-Cook was preparing great masses of concentrated cholesterol. Since it is a well-known, proven scientific fact that vacation calories and fats do not ever stick to the human body, I found myself eagerly wolfing down humongous clots of sausage, eggs, grits and white gravy (poured all over the hot muffins). A mere half-gallon of coffee, and I was ready to whip my weight in butterflies.
“Want some more coffee, Walt?” Charlie had the big pot in his clutches, waving it at me.
I declined politely; I had enough caffeine in me to make my hands shake like Marcel Marceau on crack.
“Well then,” rumbled Snake’s freight-train voice, “let’s go git us a big hawg.”
The truck awaited us outside. It was a sort of pickup truck on steroids. It had a big cage in it to hold the dogs, and a bunch of gunracks on the cab roof. The tires were about chest-high, and the bumpers would not have been out of place on an Abrams M-1 Main Battle Tank.
We climbed on.
Well, as an average, we climbed on. Charlie leaped on, and I sort of creaked on. I find it annoying that Charlie is two years older than I am, and he jogs. He’s as fit as a flea. Now, me... I’m 70. That’s not old, if you’re a tree. But I’ve had somewhat rougher mileage -- my bod looks like it was put together on a government contract out of scrap parts. But I’m not old. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am. I don’t want to pick on Charlie just because he’s so healthy. Well, not much, anyway. I always say that if you can’t say something good about someone, sit right down here by me.
The two dogs were yelping for joy at the prospect of going hunting. They raced each other to get into the cage in the truck.
A great lurch, and we were off.
END OF PART ONE (BANDWIDTH)
-------------------------------------------------------------
this year. Oh yeah,,because they labeled it Covid even if it was H1N1,Swine Flu, or Hay Fever,, its now Covid.
