The Rites and Rituals of Modern Day Hunters

Here it is… the beginning of Hunting Season in the north country. This differs hugely from my Connecticut brother-in-law’s “hunting,” which starts with a Fish and Game Club membership and is followed by a devoted member purchasing pheasants at a local store on their way to the hunting adventure.

They then gently scatter (or “release”) these birds over one or two acres of the game club’s property.

Rugged guys alright, with their couch potato “bird dogs” flushing out these poor crate-raised critters.

They call it hunting—I call it slaughter.

Things are a bit different in the real woods. Granted, today’s hunters are no Mart Allen. They’ve got high-tech gadgets and equipment which, let’s face it, Mart and his gang never dreamed could exist back in the day.

The outfitting alone—mossy oak camo 2,000-gram-insulate wicking microfleece-lined boots were not yet invented for those guys.

And really, it’s not like the meat is actually needed for the modern family’s survival, although I do know several wives who truly believe that without their hubby’s venison mission there would be no protein for the long winter months.

This amuses me, because after tallying up the actual cost of the Gander Mountain/Cabella’s pre-hunting shopping spree, as well as the days and days of lost wages, it would appear that one could purchase an entire herd of Black Angus cattle and still be ahead.

Whatever.

This is about the Modern Day Hunter, with his sophisticated GPS tracking devices built right into his i-Phone.

Let’s face it, it’s more for sport and male bonding than a college savings plan in this day and age.

They’re usually here for four days and three glorious family-free nights, and from what I’ve observed this mini boy-vacation goes something like this:

Day One: The first day is devoted to camp set up. These guys are pumped, excited, independent.

No fluffy hotel pillow for The Hunter—most of these “camps” consist of anything from a primitive tent colony to a rustic little shack situated in a remote undisclosed “we can’t tell ya where” location.

Even the sophisticated satellite equipment utilized by Google Earth can’t find these dudes.

They chop wood for heat and cooking, unpack their boy survival supplies, brag about events from last year’s trip, and break open the moonshine.

There’s usually one guy with amazing culinary talent who sautees up some red squirrel for dinner and makes it taste “just like chicken.”

These Hunters cannot be compared to the Summer Dads who are saddled with whining wives and children—they are a totally different breed of men and I admire the hell out of them.

They plan their boy-bonding session in intricate detail, lowering their voices when it comes to the “we can’t tell ya” part.

Day Two: They arrive for breakfast all kinds of excited about the days ahead.

Slightly hung over, they order, and consume, massive amounts of hearty fare to sustain them for the long hours in the vast wilderness.

Again, they are boy/men, so the a.m. conversation still consists of how many noises the male body is capable of making with specific body parts.

No matter how old, or how young, or from what part of the country they come from, farts are funny. Go figure.

Day Three: Lookin a bit scruffy by now, they’ve been sharing tight quarters for two nights and have flooded their boy/men bodies with mass quantities of alcohol and forest critters.

I’ve never actually been inside one of these hunting compounds, but I’m guessin that by Day Three things are gettin a wee bit skank.

The successes or failures of yesterday’s hunting are discussed.

No more hushed tones. God help the Hunter who was caught snoring in the tree stand—he is crucified without mercy.

The cell phones magically appear, discreetly poking their civilized little heads out of the trazillion camo pockets in the Hunter’s garb.

Time to check in with The Wife.

This never fails to slightly dampen the boy/men spirits, reminding them that a scant twenty-four hours from now they could conceivably be purchasing a box of tampons on the way home.

Day Four: By far the most entertaining to observe. Even the heartiest Hunter is getting a little cranky by now.

They’re downright filthy with their unshaven faces and three-day-old undies.

Pete the Projectile Puker has damn near soiled the entire camp, Bob the Blaster shot up all the pots and pans in a drunken target practice session, John the Baptist has been preaching for three days straight ranting endlessly about his boring heard-it-all-before stupid stories.

Everyone is limping, some are bleeding, and someone (usually the youngest guy on board) is directly responsible for scaring all the deer away whilst performing his drunken naked dance ritual that spread the campfire into dangerous zones.

Nothing discreet about the i-Phones now—they’re out in plain sight and the body language says it all:

Yes Dear, I’ll be home by noon. What’s that? Okay, tampons AND a gallon of milk…