Never hunted in Pennsylvania, well, not since that first ever hunt. Actually, it was just more of an opportunity than a hunt. I was six or seven, and lived in Levittown. I had found a railroad spike in our yard. A cottontail appeared in my vicinity. I heard this rhyme in my head:
"Bye Baby Bunting
Daddy's gone a-hunting
To fetch a little rabbit skin
To wrap Bye Baby Bunting in."
I heaved the spike at the bunny. In the back of my mind was the knowledge that I would be in a world of hurt if I actually connected and slew the rabbit. My mom was real handy with a hairbrush.
I deliberately missed. I didn't know how to turn a skin into furs anyway.
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Up on top of the ridge was an expanse of fresh-fallen leaves, untracked, uncompressed, unpromising. Not a bed, not a rub, not a scrape, not a single smart pill.
The fluorescent pink flagging tape turned out to be a malicious prevarication produced by a maple, still having flashbacks to the sixties. Having suckered me good, I heard it snickering in the rear-view as I headed toward Doe Police Knob. The Doe Police were at a convention or something, as they were not here. I headed in, as I needed to check in with Mockingbird, mostly to make sure that he had gotten home safely.
The rain started at dusk, and I sat in the vestibule reading, listening to the calming slap of fat sloppy raindrops spattering wetly on the nylon fly. Having gone through one of the driest summers that I can remember, the sound was a welcome balm to my parched soul. I always enjoy a good rain, but there is a particular satisfaction that comes from enjoying it in rude and rustic accommodations, when one is snug and dry inside as the world outside becomes soaked and sodden. Thunder rolls across the mountains, making my little shelter even more precious.
I go inside the main body of the tent. The headlamp is making my eyes cross on the page that I am reading, and I want to light a lantern and relax on the airbed with the book. Sitting flat-butt on the floor, I screw in a propane cylinder. There is a flash and a clap, a strike on the Shelter Ridge or close by. The ground shakes under me and I am frightened a bit. The thunder goes on and on and on. How fragile we are. How transient.
(Dopey me, the first brief coherent thought I had was that a transformer blew... :rolleyes: )
A guy came into camp yesterday, in a little jellybean car and carrying a GPS. Gaming, he said. His license read "NO GODS". I had chuckled and said to Clark, "He's never spent the night out here!"
He for sure never spent one of THESE nights out here!
There are trees everywhere, no matter where you set a tent, there are trees. There is one maple that is an old friend, but I worry about it on windy nights, as it must be over a hundred years old and is getting fairly well hollowed out.
It told me that it wanted to blow down in early spring, but we don't all get our wishes, do we?
Killdeer
Topic: Killdeer in the Wood (Read 19153 times)
