Getting off on the scenery, waiting for the deer.
I was pondering the vintage 1972 Polaris at this stage of the game and how it will pack me and a load of essentials onto a trout lake covered with another fifteen inches of ice for another winter.
Richard scouted this clear cut and in the middle of the first week, staked a blind and sat down here. He spent the first twenty five minutes of his season watching for deer and the end of the twenty sixth killing an eleven point. You watch and listen to the old dogs in all styles of life. If you don't, you're effectively turning tail on the crystal ball.
There's gunsmoke still coming out of T-mos' 94.
A quarter mile in.
Timber wolves. The night after Richard shot his deer, they followed the trail into the blind, tore up the spot where the deer was hit, tracked the run, ate the gutpile, followed the drag, and fucked up the ground where the deer left terra and entered truckbed. In an order few or none have been privy to. The spot is near epicenter of the densest population of wolves in this country. I did think about that when going back in for a field dressed deer. Sans rifle.
Still another cutover picture. There's the truck. Halfway there. The son of a bitch didn't look this big. Thank God for snow. I should have stripped those layers. I'd have chopped those antlers by now. I wish there was a little bit more snow. Fuck those four wheelers. This is fun. I'm having a brewski when I get back.
Every time I make a cut, there's a plan. Hollandaise here, bleu cheese butter there.
And a perfect one for mucking straight.
A pic for a fellow whose love of meat goes right to his email address...