By Bryce M. Towsley
The season was decaying, but we wanted one more hunt. The haircut on TV said the “storm of the century” would hit about noon, so there was time. We found a track just after daylight and turned the dogs loose.
The roaming male was looking for love and far from his home territory. He ran deep into the wild country. By midafternoon the wind was howling, the snow was building up fast and we didn’t have a clue where the dogs were.
I was standing on a remote back road pretending I might hear the dogs in this wind when a Subaru with a Bernie sticker slammed to a stop, crowding me into the snowbank.
What is it with these liberal transplants? They all think it’s fine to harass hunters? Are they clueless or just stupid? I don’t know. What I do know is that none of them was ever punched in the nose.
I remember some years before when a Karen in a Volvo adorned with ski racks almost ran over some of the dogs as she skidded to a stop. She jumped out of her car and started waving her arms around and calling us “murderous bastards!”
When she stopped for air I pointed out that she was by herself, deep into the wilds of northern Vermont, and she’d better hope the hell we were not really murderous bastards because they would never find her body.
“Lady, what do you think; that God is protecting you here because you are doing his work right now? Look around; there are six rough-looking men with guns, a dozen dogs and no witnesses. You are spewing insults and not really thinking about the possibilities. You better thank God that we actually are good guys and get back in that Democrat car and leave right now!”
You should have seen her face when she realized I was right.
So, here we go again, I thought just as this jerk rolled down his window and got right in my face. They always start the same way: “Excuse me. Do you mind if I ask what you are doing?”
I hate that I am forced to play the game, to be nice, to be polite and to put on a good front for the sake of our sport. What I really want to do is rip off their smirking heads and stuff their stupid hand-knitted mittens down the hole.
Today was not the day to be messing with me. I was exhausted and worried about the dogs. I was also worried about my home and family as the truck radio had been reporting that half the state had already lost power and my place is always among the first to check out of the grid. I knew my dirt road would not be plowed for days and I would need chains on my truck tires to get up the hill if I waited much longer.
The relentless wind was blowing the snow so hard that it hurt my face and after hours and hours of this I found my mood warming up to the idea of a fight.
He followed the script and at “do you mind —” I interrupted him with my most menacing, Leave-me-the-fuck-alone, you-moron face, and spat out, “COYOTE HUNTING!!”
Then I braced.
“Good,” he said, as he drove off. “Kill every one of those sons of bitches.”
