BACKROADS AND BOBTAILS
Why Oh Why Can't Big Boys Cry?
by Bob Kornegay

Journal Entry, October 25, 2007:

Daybreak - Late October in the south Georgia woods. Cool, crisp fall morning. Fair. No wind. Great day for deer hunting. Great day, period. I am very much alive.

7:45 a.m. - Barred-owl alarm clocks resonate throughout the hardwood bottom. Diurnal woodland creatures awaken and begin to stir. Their nocturnal counterparts make ready for bed and a well-earned day's rest.

8:00 a.m. - A tiny, tail-flickering, black-capped Carolina chickadee alights and perches fearlessly on an upper rung of my ladder stand. It sits there awhile before nonchalantly relocating to a fruit-laden sparkleberry bush a few yards away. An adolescent bobcat moves carelessly across the clearing. Neither bird nor cat is aware of my presence. Smugly, I tell myself what a fine woodsman I am. I am part of the scenery, concealed and unobtrusive.

8:15 a.m. - Small twigs and acorn shards pepper down upon my head and shoulders. The gray squirrel dropping them sits directly above me, fortunate that I'm armed with my .30-06 and not my trusty .22 this morning. He pauses in his feeding just long enough to answer the chattering challenge of another bushytail across the creek.

8:30 a.m. - Almost an hour and a half since I climbed atop my 12-foot perch on the trunk of this venerable old post oak. My rear end reminds me I forgot my cushion. One cheek is numb; the other begins to ache. Carefully as possible, I butt-walk in place in an attempt to renew my gluteal circulation. In the process, a spare rifle cartridge escapes my pocket, glances loudly off the metal ladder and lands on the forest floor. The woods get quiet as the critters go on alert. I mutter under my breath, words my mama wouldn't appreciate.

8:45 a.m. - All is again normal. Peripherally, I spy four wood ducks paddling up the creek. The acorn crop is good this year. They'll feast well today. The woodies pay no attention when a hickory nut falls from the overhead tree canopy and bombards the water in front of them. I smile and think how just one soft sniffle from me would probably send all four frenziedly skyward, squealing loudly.

9:00 a.m. - The sore numbness in my buttocks has been replaced by pins and needles. Lord, how I miss those halcyon days when I could sit like this for hours on end. And now, wouldn't you just know it, the old bladder decides it wants to

20 get into the game as well. Was that second cup of coffee really necessary? Gee whiz (no pun intended).

9:15 a.m. - Off to my left, shadowy movement and the rustling of dry leaves. Urinary distress momentarily forgotten, I feel my pulse rate quicken and my breath shorten, just as they did years before on my first-ever deer hunt. My senses go into anticipatory overdrive. Buck or doe? How big? Points? Spread? Mass? Be still, my heart.

9:20 a.m. - Big indeed. Big turkey gobbler. Sonofagun! Now where were you last spring when I was purring, clucking, and yelping all those sexy hen come-ons? Most likely hiding in the same place the deer all seem to be today.

9:30 a.m. - Breathing again. Quiet. Motionless. Attentive. Alert. But, man, I sure gotta go! Can I maybe hang on just 15 minutes more?

9:35 a.m. - Nope.

9:37 a.m. - Down I come, gingerly, gun unloaded. I move away from my stand with but one thing now in mind.

9:40 a.m. - Aaah, relief.

9:45 a.m. - One brief glance back toward my clearing as I step off up the trail toward the truck. Yep, might have known. I see his big old heavily antlered head for one split second before getting a long, yearning look at his wide hindquarters bounding gracefully away.

Gentle readers, may I trust y'all not to begrudge ol' Bob a second glass of bourbon this evening?

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@ windstream.net)