"The Best of Intentions"
The pending rifle season that opens in five days has me thinking about how I spent the off-season and all the things I intended to do before Saturday. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize I have had a lot of good intentions that for one reason or another just didn't quite come to fruition as it were. It occurs to me that when various seasons closed last year, I tended to hang up my coats, lock my guns away in the safe, toss my bags and belts in the corner and turn my thoughts and attention to other things. I then inevitably looked up at the calendar merely days before the open of the next season and began scrambling to get prepared. This is not to say I did not think about the upcoming seasons and the hunts I might experience - quite the opposite; I thought of little else. But somehow the best of intentions in large part proved to be just that and nothing more.
For instance I had every intention of shooting more skeet and trap this summer before dove season opened. If you have ever drawn the stand next to mine in a dove field, you have witnessed first hand how badly I need the practice. Thank you for not mentioning that eye level, fifteen yard crossing shot and the three hopeless, smoking hulls at my feet, by the way. In return for your discretion, I will continue to keep 'em moving your way and prevent them from lighting in the tree between us. The quail will not rise any slower or fly any more directly away from me because I neglected to shoot more often before the season came in. Rather, they will no doubt burst out of the grass with that much more spontaneity and will perform that many more aerial acrobatics as they wisp, cup and glide to safety in the grass in front of me because I was as lazy as my spoiled yellow lab all summer and barely fired a shell through my scatterguns to sharpen my eye.
When I watch the dirt spray up ten feet behind that nice main frame eight point with the eighteen inch inside spread a moment before it disappears in a panic, I will have no one but myself to blame for failing to sight in my .270. In fact, I am fairly certain it has been two or three years since I took it down to the range to make sure it was dialed in. The fact that it has faithfully fired on target these past few years is of little comfort. As long as I point it at a doe, it is sure to remain as accurate as ever. The first time I bear down on a trophy buck, however, it will shoot as though I banged it and bumped it on every rung of the lean-to on its way up the pull rope.
What I wouldn't give to have a dime for every time I vowed to myself and others how serious I was about getting up to the woods and doing some scouting this fall. Of all the hopeless but well-intentioned promises I have uttered, this is above all others the most laughable. That's saying something because quite frankly there are quite a few utterances that would vie for honorable mention. You are more likely to trudge through a pine plantation overrun with vines and gallberries at the height of August in Alabama and emerge without a single chigger bite than you are to leaf through a handful of outdoor magazines without being completely choked by articles extolling the virtues of pre-season scouting. Beginning with the end of turkey season - which seems to come sooner and sooner every year - the outdoor publications are absolutely saturated with tips and tidbits on how to scout, how to prepare to scout, where to scout, when to scout, what to write down after you scout, what to wear when you scout, and how your scouting will result in increased success; if there is a deer hunter in this day and age who does not know that pre-season scouting is important, it's not for the believers' failure to get out the gospel. Around May or June when I unwittingly stumble across the first magazine at the grocery store emblazened with the words "PATTERN THAT BUCK NOW! YOUR COMPLETE GUIDE TO PRE-SEASON SCOUTING," I become flush with that guilty, panicked feeling like I am the only kid in the class who forgot there was a test today and all the other kids are taunting me about how it's too late and there's no way I can wing it. Enough already! I know I should scout!
I have even caught myself waxing philosophic to others about the value of pre-season scouting. Amazingly, I have had the unmitigated gall to stand there and pontificate about the importance of patterning that wily ol' buck and locating its bedding and feeding areas to determine the most likely routes it'll use to get from one to the other next fall. I have used phrases like "deer will opt for the path of least resistence" and "always take into account the wind when approaching an area you plan to scout." Who am i kidding? I have not had the time or made the commitment to seriously scout deer before the season opened in years! Not unless you count riding through the property and asking a buddy, "Where does that trail go?" during a work weekend. But I know that I should scout before the season opens and I promise I will not tell anyone - much less a magazine editor - about the deer I kill despite my blasphemous failure to get in the woods when there's no actual season open at the time just to try to predict where the deer will be two-and-a-half months later.
Then there's the general maintenance I have gone another off-season without tending to. There's the missing rifle scope lens cap; the Thermacell with the dried up butane and the pale, crusty repellent strip; the mateless gloves; the skinning knives that need sharpening; the bullets rolling around on the floorboard of my truck; the sun-faded maps, directions, recipes, catalogues, and other miscellaneous papers sitting in the back seat just like they were when I pulled into the driveway after returning from last year's last trip; the unattended list scribbled on the pad on the dashboard; the 10-22 that has shot three inches high since it came out of the box and still needs to be looked at by the gunsmith; the rubber boots that are no more waterproof than a pair of flip-flops; the stack of towels, framed prints, photos, crockery, and other detritus lying on the floor that is bound for the camp as a sort of pergatory before its final interment in the landfill.
It's not that I am lazy or that I do not care about these things. And it is certainly not because I am not reminded at every turn how important all these considerations are to the serious outdoorsman. Rather, time is at a premium and I have precious little of it to spare. I am lucky to get up to the camp at all these days when there is any season open, what with two small children and a loving wife who deserve my time and my attention at home.
Fortunately for me and the wildlife, however, the quality of my experiences in the woods and at the camp is not measured in terms of scorable inches or beard lengths. I am satisfied to my core simply with a cold, gentle breeze in my face as I pull up a slightly rusty gun with the scope that's missing its lens cap before settling into an old climber that's missing half its padding on the rifle rest, even if I don't see a deer for hours. The six dollars I just hurled harmlessly at that covey of bobwhite was frustrating, yes, but it won't take away from the hunt or dominate my memories of our time out here together among the high grass and towering pines the way the sounds of our laughter and the panting of your bird dogs will. I may not know where the really big bucks bed down on this property or where the good acorns are dropping like others do; but I know that most of hunting is being in the right place at the right time. So being with you all here around this fire now with this drink in my hand and my feet propped up on this stump while we marvel at the haunting sounds of the coyotes baying in the distance sure seems like the right place and time to me. Seems like I've taken care of the best of intentions after all.
(c) Roger Guilian 2007
For instance I had every intention of shooting more skeet and trap this summer before dove season opened. If you have ever drawn the stand next to mine in a dove field, you have witnessed first hand how badly I need the practice. Thank you for not mentioning that eye level, fifteen yard crossing shot and the three hopeless, smoking hulls at my feet, by the way. In return for your discretion, I will continue to keep 'em moving your way and prevent them from lighting in the tree between us. The quail will not rise any slower or fly any more directly away from me because I neglected to shoot more often before the season came in. Rather, they will no doubt burst out of the grass with that much more spontaneity and will perform that many more aerial acrobatics as they wisp, cup and glide to safety in the grass in front of me because I was as lazy as my spoiled yellow lab all summer and barely fired a shell through my scatterguns to sharpen my eye.
When I watch the dirt spray up ten feet behind that nice main frame eight point with the eighteen inch inside spread a moment before it disappears in a panic, I will have no one but myself to blame for failing to sight in my .270. In fact, I am fairly certain it has been two or three years since I took it down to the range to make sure it was dialed in. The fact that it has faithfully fired on target these past few years is of little comfort. As long as I point it at a doe, it is sure to remain as accurate as ever. The first time I bear down on a trophy buck, however, it will shoot as though I banged it and bumped it on every rung of the lean-to on its way up the pull rope.
What I wouldn't give to have a dime for every time I vowed to myself and others how serious I was about getting up to the woods and doing some scouting this fall. Of all the hopeless but well-intentioned promises I have uttered, this is above all others the most laughable. That's saying something because quite frankly there are quite a few utterances that would vie for honorable mention. You are more likely to trudge through a pine plantation overrun with vines and gallberries at the height of August in Alabama and emerge without a single chigger bite than you are to leaf through a handful of outdoor magazines without being completely choked by articles extolling the virtues of pre-season scouting. Beginning with the end of turkey season - which seems to come sooner and sooner every year - the outdoor publications are absolutely saturated with tips and tidbits on how to scout, how to prepare to scout, where to scout, when to scout, what to write down after you scout, what to wear when you scout, and how your scouting will result in increased success; if there is a deer hunter in this day and age who does not know that pre-season scouting is important, it's not for the believers' failure to get out the gospel. Around May or June when I unwittingly stumble across the first magazine at the grocery store emblazened with the words "PATTERN THAT BUCK NOW! YOUR COMPLETE GUIDE TO PRE-SEASON SCOUTING," I become flush with that guilty, panicked feeling like I am the only kid in the class who forgot there was a test today and all the other kids are taunting me about how it's too late and there's no way I can wing it. Enough already! I know I should scout!
I have even caught myself waxing philosophic to others about the value of pre-season scouting. Amazingly, I have had the unmitigated gall to stand there and pontificate about the importance of patterning that wily ol' buck and locating its bedding and feeding areas to determine the most likely routes it'll use to get from one to the other next fall. I have used phrases like "deer will opt for the path of least resistence" and "always take into account the wind when approaching an area you plan to scout." Who am i kidding? I have not had the time or made the commitment to seriously scout deer before the season opened in years! Not unless you count riding through the property and asking a buddy, "Where does that trail go?" during a work weekend. But I know that I should scout before the season opens and I promise I will not tell anyone - much less a magazine editor - about the deer I kill despite my blasphemous failure to get in the woods when there's no actual season open at the time just to try to predict where the deer will be two-and-a-half months later.
Then there's the general maintenance I have gone another off-season without tending to. There's the missing rifle scope lens cap; the Thermacell with the dried up butane and the pale, crusty repellent strip; the mateless gloves; the skinning knives that need sharpening; the bullets rolling around on the floorboard of my truck; the sun-faded maps, directions, recipes, catalogues, and other miscellaneous papers sitting in the back seat just like they were when I pulled into the driveway after returning from last year's last trip; the unattended list scribbled on the pad on the dashboard; the 10-22 that has shot three inches high since it came out of the box and still needs to be looked at by the gunsmith; the rubber boots that are no more waterproof than a pair of flip-flops; the stack of towels, framed prints, photos, crockery, and other detritus lying on the floor that is bound for the camp as a sort of pergatory before its final interment in the landfill.
It's not that I am lazy or that I do not care about these things. And it is certainly not because I am not reminded at every turn how important all these considerations are to the serious outdoorsman. Rather, time is at a premium and I have precious little of it to spare. I am lucky to get up to the camp at all these days when there is any season open, what with two small children and a loving wife who deserve my time and my attention at home.
Fortunately for me and the wildlife, however, the quality of my experiences in the woods and at the camp is not measured in terms of scorable inches or beard lengths. I am satisfied to my core simply with a cold, gentle breeze in my face as I pull up a slightly rusty gun with the scope that's missing its lens cap before settling into an old climber that's missing half its padding on the rifle rest, even if I don't see a deer for hours. The six dollars I just hurled harmlessly at that covey of bobwhite was frustrating, yes, but it won't take away from the hunt or dominate my memories of our time out here together among the high grass and towering pines the way the sounds of our laughter and the panting of your bird dogs will. I may not know where the really big bucks bed down on this property or where the good acorns are dropping like others do; but I know that most of hunting is being in the right place at the right time. So being with you all here around this fire now with this drink in my hand and my feet propped up on this stump while we marvel at the haunting sounds of the coyotes baying in the distance sure seems like the right place and time to me. Seems like I've taken care of the best of intentions after all.
(c) Roger Guilian 2007
posted by Days Afield Host | 8:01 PM
