A tale of the hunt

Written by Gregory J. Ballan

My good friend Brian and I love hunting. We’ve been chasingrepparttar elusive Whitetail deer all acrossrepparttar 150734 fields and woodlands of our home state of Massachusetts. Now, Massachusetts isn’t regarded as a great hunting state, but there are deer here, you just have to gain access torepparttar 150735 privately held lands that are a goldmine for hunting. This is what happens when two guys with a knack for getting into trouble stumble upon a supposed good thing A tale ofrepparttar 150736 hunt Brian called me up one evening early inrepparttar 150737 fall of 1992. HE had stumbled uponrepparttar 150738 fatted calf of deer hunting property. The Huneywell Estate borderedrepparttar 150739 towns of Natick and Wellesley and contained several dozens of acres of prime woodlands. Brian and his brothers had been doing a barn restoration forrepparttar 150740 Huneywells and spent his lunch hours scouting and perusingrepparttar 150741 woodlands in this fine estate. Well he had worked uprepparttar 150742 courage to ask Virginia Huneywell for permission to hunt on her property this upcoming hunting season. Ms. Huneywell agreed, on top of that Brian got to drag along number 1 sidekick; ME!!. We prepared an intensive scouting foray intorepparttar 150743 woodlands in order to cut some fresh trails parallel torepparttar 150744 deer paths. This would allow us to stalk quietly and limit out exposure to allrepparttar 150745 thorns and briars that inhabitedrepparttar 150746 lower woodlands. Brian had given me some initial data pertaining torepparttar 150747 land in question and we had made our plan. We had permission to machete two paths that ran along her horse farm about 100 yards deep intorepparttar 150748 woods. We took my truck over and parked it onrepparttar 150749 corner of her property and walked intorepparttar 150750 woods. Now I've been in some nasty scrub before, but these woods were a nightmare. There were bogs, underground springs which made huge muck puddles before forming into a creek bed and more thorn bushes and briars then I had ever seen in my life. After an hour we managed to hack our way torepparttar 150751 first path. We cut a small trail about twenty feet beyondrepparttar 150752 path and then began hacking our way next torepparttar 150753 trail. These thorn vines seemed to be made of iron, and didn’t; cut too easily. We both began to sweat and drew every blood sucking mosquito around for miles. We were both carrying packs full of gear in order to set up two observation stands where we could glassrepparttar 150754 deer and study their movements. We had cover scents, treesteps and our stands along with all kinds of other hunting crap that only two morons addicted to deer hunting would even consider carrying around. As I said, our progress was painfully slow, and we lostrepparttar 150755 sunlight. We were right inrepparttar 150756 middle of this huge expanse of woods as twilight faded and darkness ensued. "Wonderful, Brian! Whererepparttar 150757 Hell are we?" I asked as I fumbled for my mag lite which had migrated torepparttar 150758 bottom of my pac. We looked at our compass and kept heading due east. Well, as if cutting through dense brush was bad enough inrepparttar 150759 daylight, doing it inrepparttar 150760 dark was twicerepparttar 150761 fun. Perhaps two hours later we stumbled onto an unlit road that seemed vaguely familiar. "We're on South Street" I reported in disbelief, "Two miles from where we parkedrepparttar 150762 truck." So we started walking, two muddy, sweaty guys in camo clothing and large machetes. Well, we passedrepparttar 150763 time talking and kibitzing like to old men at a gas station, allrepparttar 150764 while I would swing my machete performing some katana techniques while explaining each movement to Brian as we walked along. We ignoredrepparttar 150765 headlights from cars as they passed us and basically just tried to makerepparttar 150766 best of a bad situation. We got turned around somehow,repparttar 150767 two great hunters and trackers extraordinaire (we vowed to keep that little fact a secret...until now). The time passed rather quickly as we yapped and laughed. We approached my truck, finally, and spotted three other cars parked nearby. It was too far away to determine who they were so we just both took note ofrepparttar 150768 cars and approached with a little more care. I admit that I held my machete a little tighter as we got closer torepparttar 150769 truck. As we came close enough to make outrepparttar 150770 cars I realized that they were police cars, and that there were officers standing besiderepparttar 150771 cars.


Written by Theolonius McTavish

Copyright The Quipping Queen 2005

I LEFT MY TOES IN TUKTOYAKTUK -- Or, Tittynoping Tales from a Tavern Fox --

** Theolonius McTavish, a trivial talkingstock (an Old English term for an object of conversation) who inevitably forgetsrepparttar punch-lines to knock-knock jokes and consequently is rarely offered free drinks by pub patrons unless they are woebegone and desperate forrepparttar 150599 companionship of a somewhat cabobbled, copper-nosed cronk (i.e. a mystified, jolly-nosed, gossiping sort of soul who frequently inhabits smoke-filled haunts with bad lighting and belching balladeers asrepparttar 150600 only form of nightly entertainment)**

Being a mirthful mundivagant of sorts, I decided it was high time to don my gallant gumboots, garish gunnysack, and goose-down garb to take a gander at some far-flung places in need of my presence.

While some souls leave their hearts in San Francisco, I left another part of my anatomy somewhere else. If truth be told, I left my toes in Tuktoyaktuk, (along with a memorable meal of minute rice, mushy peas and milk pudding).

Why Tuktoyaktuk? Well why not! Any town with a tongue-twisting title like Tuktoyaktuk deserves to be visited … even by a six-water-grog, sky-boshing Scot like me. The fact that it’s situated in a godforsaken place, (actually it's a charming little northern outpost nestled conveniently inrepparttar 150601 dark deep-freeze and mooching muskeg of Canada), is a truly bonus.

Before departing on my jocular journey, I needed to know a little more aboutrepparttar 150602 “Land of Blizzards, Bugs & Beer”. Beingrepparttar 150603 second-largest nation on earth is one thing but having a conversation with a Canuck is quite another.

One piece of advice … begin every conversation with “So, how’srepparttar 150604 weather …over there …up there, or …down there anyway? Then be prepared for a scintillating pity pot story that capturesrepparttar 150605 essence of Canada -- where it’s blinking cold and wet outside, it's much too muggy or miserable to play outdoors, or it's downright dangerous to stick a toe outrepparttar 150606 door with allrepparttar 150607 blasted bugs or bears camping onrepparttar 150608 front porch.

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