Last week was Deer Hunting Season. That magical week when flocks of Orange Vested Great Armed Hunters, sporting their Fall camo plumage, migrate south from Chicago in their Hummers and Escalades and proceed to erect tree blinds, drink excessively and fire off enough rifle rounds to quell the insurgency in Iraq. As the hunt draws to a close the younger, less experienced Hunters, anxious to prove their prowess to the Alpha Hunters, begin to shoot at anything that moves ... your dog, your cow, your horse ... you, if you aren't careful.
On Sunday we were privileged to witness the culmination of all that testosterone-soaked activity ... the Caravan of Carcasses! Yes, it's true. It's only my first year here, and already I've been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time when the Great Armed Hunters returned to their northern caves bearing the Gift of Gutted Meat to sustain their families through the long, bitter Chicago winter.
They bear them home draped over the hood, tied to the roof rack, jammed in next to the ATV, piled on the trailer, stuffed into the trunk and stacked on Grandma's wheelchair lift. We saw one being hauled home in a boat, and I wished I could ask if it was caught with a nightcrawler or one of those little cheese ball things.
As the formation changes and one Hunter passes another along the migratory route, you can almost hear the honking and trumpeting.
"Mine's way fuckin' bigger than yours!"
"What a pussy deer!"
"My kid sister's got a bigger rack!"
"Fuck. I'll bet he didn't really shoot that."
I can hardly wait till Goose Season!
Kwach
No comments:
Post a Comment