I dont remember a wetter spring. I recall winter weeks when it was too cold to spend much time outside, but I cant recollect a more miserable spring for an outdoorsman. I realize the farmers, excavators, and roofers are suffering a lot more consequences than I am, but I still feel a need to complain. My groundhog rifle is in the safe, unfired so far this year. Worse yet, the boat is still in the shop instead of docked up at the lake.
Besides weekend dog trials in the rain, I have only had one foray outdoors in the last couple of weeks, and it was hardly worth mentioning. Last week my wife asked me to take her mushroom hunting. We wandered around the woods for a few hours without a sighting. The highlight of the trip was when she stumbled on a kiddie pool that had blown into the woods. Returning home with her new found treasure, she begged a few spores from a family friend, prepared them for supper, and considered her day a success.
The worst part is I havent even been able to practice the cowboy mounted shooting thing with Buford. The event I hope to participate in is in three weeks, and I still suspect he will not take kindly to discharging a firearm over his head. I am really excited about trying this new sport, but the combination of my age, and weight, coupled with the animal I will be competing with have me just a little concerned. At this point I think the best way to describe this new adventure is disaster pending.
I ran into an old buddy last week that I hadnt seen in years. DB has actually known me longer than I have known him. He was dating and later married the woman who would babysit for me and my sisters when we were infants. I remember him taunting and teasing me as a youngster. He is one of those guys that loves to work, and takes a dim view of those of us that prefer to goof off. We didnt spend a lot of time together, but we were close enough that he was in my wedding. My fondest memories of him were the few times that he would take an hour or two and go deer hunting with me. That consisted of driving out in one of his hay fields and sitting in his pickup, waiting for some deer to walk by. We never had much success, but we did solve all the problems of the world in those hours spent together. I killed my first deer on his farm, and have many fond memories of gun and muzzleloader hunting on his property. That was the gathering place for all the unsuccessful hunters toward the end of the week. We would meet in the barn before and after the hunt, and make excuses for our failure to harvest a deer. Some things never change. DB is still working full time and farming at the age of 70. He even still takes a dim view of us guys that would rather goof off.
Catch you later, Rick
