Hunter’s Nose
Posted: Friday, June 20, 2008
by Ted Gragg
Myrtle Beach Shooting Range
Hunting deer by stalking methodically through a forest or sitting in a tree stand over a well-traveled deer run requires constant scanning of the terrain, alert senses, camouflaged appearance, and disguised scents. One attains the first two by learned skills, the third by innovation or purchased apparel, and the fourth by the use of masking scents like musk, deer urine extract, or some sort of food scent. Most hunters carry a small bottle of scent extract with them while hunting as the scent wears off due to exertion and perspiration.
Like all of us as we approach our middle years, Howard began to need longer arms in order to read the newspaper. He grumbled about blurred vision and faded newsprint so much that one wonders why he disdained wearing his glasses. No one seems to know, but common speculation is that it might have been the fact that he didn’t feel as dapper while wearing them or perhaps they were just plain hot. Never the less, he kept them in his shirt pocket more often than not, especially when out of doors.
Howard had geared up for the hunting season with a new rifle guaranteed in minute angles of accuracy and replete with the best of the newer telescopic sights, the best ammunition available, and the ever-trusty pocket-sized bottle of doe in heat estrogen that was guaranteed to out-stink any glandular odor on the market.
And, furthermore, he was having the best season ever until the morning of the grandest hunt of the year. Sure enough, the morning moon was ripe, the graying sky was as clear as a bell and it promised to be a perfect day. In fact, the portent of the coming dawn was so good that Howard just knew he would harvest the state record on this day.
So, before daylight, Howard had loaded his gear into his Chevy Tahoe and headed for the neighboring county and his deer stand. Alas, he forgot to pack his eyeglasses. But being an intrepid hunter and knowing that daylight was fast approaching, he chose to make the hunt without the aid of his prescription eyewear. He parked his truck within fast walking distance of his tree stand, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and headed into the brush. He managed to get into his tree stand just before sunrise, settled down, equipment checked and ready and double-checked and everything was just about right.
The birds were beginning to react to the rising sun, rustling the brush, feeding, and chirping merrily to one another. A squirrel scampered over to the corn pile below Howard’s stand, sat upright on his haunches, and began to nibble the sweet dried corn kernels. The breeze was blowing toward Howard and….there was only one small nagging problem.
His sinuses were beginning to act up. He reached into his jacket pocket and grabbed the small bottle of inhalant, the bottle that was shaped like, colored like, and felt just like the bottle of the greatest blend of Doe Pee and Estrogen ever collected; unscrewed the top, inserted the spout into his left nostril, squeezed hard, inhaled deeply…filling his sinuses with guaranteed top of the mark Estrogen of Doe!
Howard screamed! He tore at his clothes in anguish….He stood up and slid down the ladder from his tree stand, skinning his shins, banging his elbows, rifle forgotten, staggering, trying regain his balance and …..Gagging….Eyes watering….Estrogen of Doe scent plunging into his lungs with every excruciating inhalation of air that his gasping and pain-wracked body demanded. He choked, he coughed, he wheezed as only a dying man can…or at least one who thinks he’s dying. He jumped up and down, tore open his collar, knuckled his eyes, and fell into the corn pile. He lay there in agony for moments gasping for breath, flopped over onto his back, and beat on his chest.
Finally his lungs began to clear and he could open his eyes slightly. Scattering corn, he lunged to his knees, and then with a mighty shove to his feet, and stumbled madly through the brush and the waitaminute vines toward his truck. His face and hands scratched and torn, clothing twisted, disheveled, and in disarray, rifle still back in the forest somewhere, he managed to reach his truck. He plunged his head into the Igloo cooler full of drinking water that he kept in the cargo space of the Tahoe in a vain attempt to wash the horrifying attractant from his nose. Over and over again he plunged his face down into the frigid ice water, sputtering, muttering, and coughing. Finally, he was able to breath without gagging and could stand somewhat erect. He managed to gain the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, start the engine, and turn onto the road out of the forest. It was just that every few moments after a deep breath, every time that he would exhale, he would notice that the air had a horrifying stench. He opened the trucks windows and the roof hatch over the front seat, increased the fan speed on his air conditioner, all to no avail. He could still smell the masking odor of the Doe in Heat scent.
Several days passed before he could tell anyone his woeful tail. Every time that he started to speak of the story his listeners would have to leave to answer the telephone or go see what their wife wanted or something. Most folks shunned him for the first 48 hours, claiming that it was impossible to stand downwind of him for more than a few seconds at a time. As weeks passed though, people allowed him into their homes again and welcomed him to social events. Most folks have noticed though, that even if he’s still searching for that elusive Boone and Crockett whitetail, he sees better than ever with his new eyeglasses.
©Ted Gragg, 2008. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.
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