By Jeff Johnston
In hunting, there are some unspoken rules that outdoorsmen pick up via experience. You know, stuff you should or shouldn’t do, such as: Never enter the woods without a knife, always pack shitter paper—that sort of thing. But on “industry hunts,” wherein companies host writers on high-end guided trips to entice them to publish stories about their products, there are even more nuanced rules, like: Never wear another company’s hat for photos; Don’t drink so much you puke at breakfast; and Never publicly blame the gun for a missed shot, etc. One such rule was learned years ago … in Alberta … on a goose hunt…
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We were a large group of professional sportsmen comprised of eight uppity outdoor writers, a half-dozen gun company PR-types from Benelli and Federal, a bad outdoor TV show host or two and a nerdy gaggle of giggling film crew guys—all hauling our mountain of gear into a lavish lodge. These are the kinda trips that aspiring outdoor writers like me had only heard whispers about, where everything is set up and paid for, and all a writer must do is bag some birds using the loaner products, don’t act like a total dumbass, and write a story about the entire experience that is halfway honest and entertaining to the reader yet satisfying for the advertiser.
I was young and just started my career as an assistant editor for the NRA’s American Hunter magazine. I was an avid waterfowler yet too broke to afford such luxury hunts on my own dime. I’d always dreamed of hunting waterfowl mecca—Canada’s lush prairie pothole breeding grounds before the migration begins when birds are still stupid–and here I was, being paid to do it! To strike a fitting analogy, I was the pig and Canada was the shit.
On the deck to the lodge’s main entrance was a roiling hot tub, impossible not to notice. I’d never been to a duck hunting lodge with a hot tub—or a nice lodge at all for that matter–but it really made sense. After all, nothing chills a man’s blood faster than wading up to the nips in freezing water while hunting ducks—and nothing reheats it like an adult libation and a steamy outdoor bath among good company.
You see, as any outfitter worth a damn knows, it’s the tiny details that separate great hunts from world-class fiascos. Control the variables that can be controlled—like the quality of the chow, the talent of the barkeep and the temperature of the hot tub and the coffee—and any reasonable client will understand if the birds fail to fly on a given day. Such amenities serve as a hedge against mother nature’s curveballs. But by all reports, the birds were in abundance, the weather was perfect, and the shells were free. Nothing could screw this up!
And that’s when I met her.
As we filed into the lodge we were greeted by our outfitter and guides–five or six of them if I recall correctly—but there might have been 12 or more because all I can remember in detail is one in particular.
She was about 5’8″, in her early 30s, brunette, slender about the wading belt, busty around the recoil pads, and she had the most beautiful face in all the northern hemisphere. I’d never seen Wal-Mart camouflage look so good. Suddenly the hunt had just become even more interesting.
That evening the entire group ate dinner together, made small talk and turned in early so we could rise at 4 am, arrange a giant spread of decoys and begin hammering geese at dawn.
And it all might’ve worked out had the guides actually arrived to pick us up.
As you can imagine, a large group of industry professionals—some of which have staked their professional reputations on the marketing windfall that would surely result from such a costly production—were not overwhelmed with elation as we milled around the gravel parking lot, hem-hawing in our waders, collective thumbs in asses, waiting in the dark for the guides to show up. We watched the sun rise, and we watched primetime vanish.
Just when the WTF?! murmurs reached crescendo and some of the guys had already headed in for breakfast and a nap, the caravan of guides arrived. The reason for their two-hour tardiness? They had to gas up the vehicles.
Talk about not controlling the controllables.
Not a single bird was killed that morning. Nobody was thrilled about it, but the hunt sponsors—the one’s whose companies were footing the bill—were especially pissed. But hey, it was a multi-day trip, and shit happens. Besides, our favorite brunette guide had nothing to do with the snafu; she told us she hadn’t been tasked with making sure the vehicles were fueled up the night before, and we believed her.
Like any quick-thinking, well-paid PR agent hoping to salvage the day, Ted bought copious bottles of booze and plied his guests until they were happy again, ultimately convincing us the following day would bring limits of birds and lifetimes’ worth of material for our magazines.
It was sometime after dinner, during the midst of our evening social, when the lady asked if anyone would care to indulge in the medicinal qualities of the hottub. Although I privately thought it a glorious idea to cap a fruitless day afield—hell any day at all—I respectfully declined and turned in with thoughts of honkers, cupped up and landing in my face.
Now, dear reader, before labeling me a pansy who shirked my gentlemanly duty to chaperone a lady keen on soothing her aches, please consider my position: I was on a work trip, and the NRA is a professional, conservative organization that cannot afford any more negative PR than it already receives from its enemies. I cannot understate the swiftness at which a junior editor like me would have been shit-canned if mere rumor got back to my superiors than I fraternized with a member of the opposite sex while on official NRA duty. So please forgive me if I have disappointed you…
The next morning dawned and the guides were late again. Not as late, but late enough to miss the critical 15 minutes after sunup when geese leave the water to feed in the fields. All 20 some-odd guys laid in coffin blinds for several hours, yapping as bored men do while staring at the wingless sky. At the conclusion of morning number two, we still hadn’t killed the first bird. Fuck me, we hadn’t even drawn feathers! The din of cursing steadily increased as the dekes were bagged and we were shuttled back to the lodge. During lunch, I overheard the guys with the checkbooks vocalizing their displeasure directly to the outfitter.
That evening was a repeat of the night before: Ted made sure everyone’s cups were topped while subtly reminding us that hunting is hunting and nothing is guaranteed. Besides, he said, having to work for a few birds would make for a better story. Yet still, it seemed like something was off about the outfitter. Hunters understand when birds don’t fly; what they can’t understand is when guides are late, unprepared or act like they just don’t give a damn.
Then once again, the gorgeous lady with the brunette hair and deep brown eyes–sensing the worsening mood of camp–did her part to inject some cheer by offering to unfurl the cover of the hottub and hop in. And once again, sensing some sort of trap that could leave me unemployed and destitute, I politely declined. She teased me a little and jokingly accused me of preferring members of my own sex, but I steadfastly endured it and slithered off to bed.
If you guessed that the following morning the guides were late and we killed no birds, you’d be wrong. The guides were on time, and we killed a handful of diving ducks consisting of a miserable redhead, some stink-ass ringnecks and a few shovelors. That’s right, spoonies. Call me a duck snob if you will, but in my mind one doesn’t travel 2,000 miles through Canada’s self-righteous customs department to shoot a few divers. The pressure upon everyone was now immense.
By lunchtime on the third day of a four day hunt, we had no TV show, only a handful of bad photos and a steaming pile of malcontent. There was a near-fistfight between the TV show host and his camera men, and everybody began pointing fingers at everyone else. If we didn’t miraculously have a waterfowling day for the ages the following morning, no doubt someone would be fired over this $50,000 debacle. Words were hurled between clients and guides, and finally it all boiled over into an ultimatum: Either the outfitter find birds somewhere and take us to them, or we would find another outfitter, pack up and try to salvage what was left of our trip.
That evening we nursed our sorrows with even more booze, and the all-out mutiny against the outfitter soon turned into an all-out party. The relief was evident.
At some point during the hootenanny the brunette approached me and asked if I’d like to join her for a cool libation in the hottub.
“You guys are leaving tomorrow, so what could it hurt? she said. I love it when chicks are right.
“Oh, what the hell,” I mumbled as I followed her out the door. And here’s where it gets interesting:
Being the shy type, I simply removed my camo and stepped in the tub wearing my boxer shorts. But egads! The lady and I were not on the same page! As I found a seat against a massaging Jacuzzi jet, I glanced up to spy my new friend removing it all!
As she sat down so that the waterline was strategically undulating just above her cleavage, I witnessed a lythe, lovely big toe breach the surface of the bubbling brew to fling her micro-thong underwear out of the tub as deftly as Indiana Jones snaps a whip!
Luckily I was saved from my own tongue-tied awkwardness by the timely arrival of three of my comrades who had noticed the lady’s exit from the party and hastily hound-dogged her outside. In unplanned unison they disrobed and cannonballed into the hot tub like drunken spring breakers at the Holidome. Moments later Ted walked out, considered his options, opted for the more interesting conversation, stripped down and plunged in, all while expertly minding his wine glass. If they say two’s company, five hairy waterfowlers and one damsel in a hot tub is definitely a crowd!
Now, dear reader, you must believe me when I say that nothing nefarious happened over the course of the evening. We talked, told jokes and laughed about the all-out flying-fiasco that the hunt had become–i.e., we engaged in hunt camp camaraderie. The lady informed us she’d only met the outfitter a few weeks prior and was not likely to stay employed there after having witnessed such disorganization. But just as we were about to pluck our prunish bodies from the steamy cauldron, the outfitter pulled up in his truck. He hopped out, walked up on the deck and stood over us, hands on hips, disgust on his lips. He didn’t say a damn thing, but just stared down at us creepily.
I’m sure someone offered him a drink.
Then he swiveled like a drill sergeant, stormed back to his truck and fishtailed down the driveway, kicking up gravel. We looked at each other, shrugged, laughed and cracked jokes at his expense.
The next morning at dawn I was awoken by pounding, and it wasn’t just my head.
“Johnson, get your shit packed and get in the truck,” came Ted’s gruff voice through the door.
Evidently, the hunt was over. We were heading home.
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Monday morning was not at all that unusual–until I received a call from Ted.
“Johnson,” he said, “There’s a shitstorm brewing. Evidently the outfitter called our office claiming one of his workers was harassed in camp. General counsel needs to get a handle on this ASAP.”
And at that moment my heart stopped and my stomach lurched. The blood drained from my cheeks and I wanted to curl up in a fetal position under my desk. At this point it really didn’t matter if I or anyone else harassed anyone or not. I’d be fired faster than a Goose Gossage heater when Major Jim Land–the father of the Marine Corps Sniper Program and NRA’s secretary–found out that I even dangled a toe in a hottub while boozing it up on a work trip. My future flashed before my eyes, and I envisioned a Greyhound headed back to Oklahoma for a life of dealing blackjack at an indian casino.
I was packing up my few worldly possessions in my office and preparing an exit email when the phone rang again.
It was general counsel. Ted was on the phone too. I was too nervous to speak.
“Is it true you were in a hot tub naked?” asked the attorney.
“You’re damn right!” Ted said. “Is there any other way to get in one?”
“Good point,” said the attorney. “Was a lady naked in there too?”
“Oh yea,” he said. “Would’a been weird if she weren’t.”
“And what happened then?”
“Nothing,” said Ted. “We told a few stories, got out and everyone went to bed–separately.”
“Well,” said the esquire. “This guy says $250K will make him go away.”
“A quarter million? Fuck that!” said Ted. “It was a group of adults in a hot tub, and nothing happened.”
“Ok, gentlemen. Hold tight. We will be in touch.”
A few hours later the phone rang yet again. I figured it was HR with my marching orders, but it was Ted.
“Good news, Johnson,” he said between ciggy puffs. “The attorneys contacted the chick, and she told the truth; she confirmed nothing happened and that her former boss–the outfitter–is an asshole who’s trying to extort us for money. So when our attorneys informed him of what she said, he lowered his deal from a quarter-mil to 25 shotguns.
“Twenty-five shotguns?” I said, doing quick math in my head. That’s still a shitload of money.”
“Yea but it gets better,” said Ted. “Our attorneys told him they’d sue his ass for extortion, and now the whole thing has blown over.”
“So …” I stuttered as I began to re-envision a future of shooting birds in faraway lands–and not sharing an address with my folks, “Everything’s cool?”
“All cool,” said Ted. “Except,” he paused, “I have no idea what the hell you’ll write about. The hunt was a goddam shitshow!”
“Well,” I said, “I was thinking maybe I could write something about the great lesson I learned.”
“And what’s that?” asked Ted.
“Never, ever–under any circumstances,” I stressed the words for dramatic effect, “get in a hot tub with your goose guide.”
“Rules to live by, son, rules to live by,” said Ted.
