White Oak Mtn Ranger
Active member
- Joined
- Aug 28, 2007
- Messages
- 28
BEAR AND BOAR HUNT
It was with a great deal of anticipation that we arrived at the edge of the big wood to follow the dogs intent on chasing the bear and hog population of the Great Smoky Mountains that cascade through Tennessee and North Carolina.
Getting to base camp at sunset a day early had us casting about for a quick meal at the only available location that dispensed such a thing.
The store included a soft neon sign advertising twelve ounce refreshments. The screen door closed behind the cool mountain air as our attention fell on a pigeon breasted mountain flower deep in a mobile phone conversation with someone that obviously was not making her happy.
Before we entered the store my hunting partner and I noticed a badly slumped local on a bench surveying a damaged and apparently inoperable gas pump. The hose lay mangled on the ground like a road killed black snake that had been hit by a log truck. The slumped body on the bench looked little better than the hose.
Not wanting to appear like flat-landlers, we spoke to the local on the bench and his response registered him as totally disabled on homemade liquor. He attempted to respond but was only able to muster an Olympic effort of a try as we slipped into the store to survey the menu.
The menu was prominently displayed, but badly misspelled, presenting scant few options, so we settled on either fried bologna or a hot dog. We figured when the phone conversation was over we’d get some quick service and a cold beer and be done with it.
The phone call was delayed for a second as the sandwich maid acknowledged our waiting briefly stating that she would not be much longer. We politely lied to her and told her to take her time, saying we were in no real hurry.
Some many minutes later she concluded the call and turned her attention and a rather large, but rapidly sagging amount of cleavage towards us and asked us what we wanted.
Before we could answer she blurts loudly; “My! %$#*&! boyfriend, who happens to be on the #@! $%^& North Pole didn’t have time to talk to me, and the miserable $#@ didn’t even wish me a happy birthday because he said he was too busy. What do you think of that $@!%?”
The woman is waving her arms like she is painting the Sistine chapel after drinking way too much coffee and her arm flapping exposes a rather large hole in her tight shirt about the spot that her deodorant was once applied.
By my rather quick calculation, the one bare armpit was sporting at least a two day growth.
I quickly averted my gaze back to her cleavage so as not to appear rude.
My partner says; “Do you have any hot dogs?”
At the time I thought this was an inappropriate response to her question of what we thought about her rude boyfriend on the North Pole, so I dove in head first to try and save the situation,
“How old a young girl are you?”
That was probably a more inappropriate response to her question about what we thought of her boyfriend’s long distance behavior, but my slow realization was just a little too late. The high altitude was kicking in.
The mountain flower swiveled her gaze my way, looking me over like a used car dealer with his fly open. Sensing trouble, I braced myself and looked her in the bloodshot eye.
“I’m 45 #$%^&!@ years old today and the dumb #$% didn’t even want to talk to me. Just what in the %@#$ do you make of that?”
Neither of us had obliviously answered her first question to her satisfaction. After all, it was her birthday.
Now my partner is an astute type of guy and he had immediately seized on the bad situation we had stumbled into in our search for something to eat, so he tried to recover and he says;
“Why, you don’t look a day over twenty-one.”
Her head rotated slowly in his direction as she tried to focus on this compliment and in that instant it became clearly obvious that whatever the disabled guy out by the demolished gas pump had been into she had seen to it that is had been shared with her on her day of celebration.
“You’re hired big boy!” She smiled at him exposing most of what was left of her stained teeth. Her cleavage quivered in the pale light from the single bulb swinging above.
An eerie calm settled over me as I realized my buddy was about to ride the bull in the next go-round.
I slowly backed into the cooler and groped for a six pack with every intention to abandon the ship and the hot dogs.
“Just what in the ^%$# is there to do that’s so damn pressing on the #$%^&*! North Pole that the dumb #*$ can’t wish me a happy #$%^&*! Birthday?”
“Eskimo’s,” I offered, thinking that the option of a Polar Bear in heat would be a little too over the top of an answer right about now.
“@!$%^&* Eskimo’s, by #$% I’ll bet you’re right!” A long, almost unintelligible string of Nixon like expletives followed, slowly tailing off like tracers from a water cooled 50 caliber in the dark night.
Now my buddy repeated that he wants a hot dog with everything on it. His voice registers the tenseness of the present situation.
This thankfully terminates the conversation about Eskimo delight just as it was about to fission out of control.
The forty-five year old with the glaring dark arm pit and the freckled and quivering cleavage slowly searches for a cold hot dog.
“We’re out of bread!” She cries excitedly.
We look at the hot dog bun selection and then back to the drunken birthday girl. She somehow sees that we’re clearly confused and wobbles through us almost falling into the mostly empty bread rack. The odor of cheap perfume and 180 proof whisky drifts by me smothering the stale bread rack.
“The buns are out of date, the #%^& bread man won’t be here for another three days.” She grabs a bag of moldy buns and shoves them in our face for inspection.
“What’s the #$%^ date on the bread?” She tries valiantly to steady the bag in front of my partner’s nose.
By now it’s nothing more than an academic question since somewhere about the Eskimo and lost love on the North Pole discussion we had inexplicably changed directions.
Telepathically my buddy and I had pretty much decided on multiple cold beers as a suitable alternative to three week old bread, ecoli laced hot dogs, stubble covered arm pits and whisky fueled birthday celebrations.
“Sorry boys, can’t sell you the bread, It’s deadly by now, is there anything else that I can give you?”
I take a quick glance at my buddy and read him like a book even when he keeps his mouth shut. His expression say’s; “$%^& NO, WE’VE SEEN ENOUGH!” but his Episcopalian sense of valor rises to the occasion and he sets more beer and cash on the counter.
As we escape into the soft glow of the neon lit edge of the big forest I notice that the bench is empty overlooking the gas pump. My guess is that a starved bear or a marauding four hundred pound hog was lured out of the mountains and into the neon light to eat the disabled guy while we were being chased by the birthday girl with the hairy arm pit.
Slipping into the darkness, my buddy who had been silent for some time now, wonders aloud just exactly what the girl with the strategically placed freckles really wanted for her birthday.
I crack a beer and the sound rings up the mountain like a small pistol shot in the cold mountain night air and offer thoughtfully; “Fresh buns like she had when she turned Twenty-one.”
The rest of the hunt was dramatically uneventful compared to the search for something quick to eat on the chesty mountain flower’s birthday.
It was with a great deal of anticipation that we arrived at the edge of the big wood to follow the dogs intent on chasing the bear and hog population of the Great Smoky Mountains that cascade through Tennessee and North Carolina.
Getting to base camp at sunset a day early had us casting about for a quick meal at the only available location that dispensed such a thing.
The store included a soft neon sign advertising twelve ounce refreshments. The screen door closed behind the cool mountain air as our attention fell on a pigeon breasted mountain flower deep in a mobile phone conversation with someone that obviously was not making her happy.
Before we entered the store my hunting partner and I noticed a badly slumped local on a bench surveying a damaged and apparently inoperable gas pump. The hose lay mangled on the ground like a road killed black snake that had been hit by a log truck. The slumped body on the bench looked little better than the hose.
Not wanting to appear like flat-landlers, we spoke to the local on the bench and his response registered him as totally disabled on homemade liquor. He attempted to respond but was only able to muster an Olympic effort of a try as we slipped into the store to survey the menu.
The menu was prominently displayed, but badly misspelled, presenting scant few options, so we settled on either fried bologna or a hot dog. We figured when the phone conversation was over we’d get some quick service and a cold beer and be done with it.
The phone call was delayed for a second as the sandwich maid acknowledged our waiting briefly stating that she would not be much longer. We politely lied to her and told her to take her time, saying we were in no real hurry.
Some many minutes later she concluded the call and turned her attention and a rather large, but rapidly sagging amount of cleavage towards us and asked us what we wanted.
Before we could answer she blurts loudly; “My! %$#*&! boyfriend, who happens to be on the #@! $%^& North Pole didn’t have time to talk to me, and the miserable $#@ didn’t even wish me a happy birthday because he said he was too busy. What do you think of that $@!%?”
The woman is waving her arms like she is painting the Sistine chapel after drinking way too much coffee and her arm flapping exposes a rather large hole in her tight shirt about the spot that her deodorant was once applied.
By my rather quick calculation, the one bare armpit was sporting at least a two day growth.
I quickly averted my gaze back to her cleavage so as not to appear rude.
My partner says; “Do you have any hot dogs?”
At the time I thought this was an inappropriate response to her question of what we thought about her rude boyfriend on the North Pole, so I dove in head first to try and save the situation,
“How old a young girl are you?”
That was probably a more inappropriate response to her question about what we thought of her boyfriend’s long distance behavior, but my slow realization was just a little too late. The high altitude was kicking in.
The mountain flower swiveled her gaze my way, looking me over like a used car dealer with his fly open. Sensing trouble, I braced myself and looked her in the bloodshot eye.
“I’m 45 #$%^&!@ years old today and the dumb #$% didn’t even want to talk to me. Just what in the %@#$ do you make of that?”
Neither of us had obliviously answered her first question to her satisfaction. After all, it was her birthday.
Now my partner is an astute type of guy and he had immediately seized on the bad situation we had stumbled into in our search for something to eat, so he tried to recover and he says;
“Why, you don’t look a day over twenty-one.”
Her head rotated slowly in his direction as she tried to focus on this compliment and in that instant it became clearly obvious that whatever the disabled guy out by the demolished gas pump had been into she had seen to it that is had been shared with her on her day of celebration.
“You’re hired big boy!” She smiled at him exposing most of what was left of her stained teeth. Her cleavage quivered in the pale light from the single bulb swinging above.
An eerie calm settled over me as I realized my buddy was about to ride the bull in the next go-round.
I slowly backed into the cooler and groped for a six pack with every intention to abandon the ship and the hot dogs.
“Just what in the ^%$# is there to do that’s so damn pressing on the #$%^&*! North Pole that the dumb #*$ can’t wish me a happy #$%^&*! Birthday?”
“Eskimo’s,” I offered, thinking that the option of a Polar Bear in heat would be a little too over the top of an answer right about now.
“@!$%^&* Eskimo’s, by #$% I’ll bet you’re right!” A long, almost unintelligible string of Nixon like expletives followed, slowly tailing off like tracers from a water cooled 50 caliber in the dark night.
Now my buddy repeated that he wants a hot dog with everything on it. His voice registers the tenseness of the present situation.
This thankfully terminates the conversation about Eskimo delight just as it was about to fission out of control.
The forty-five year old with the glaring dark arm pit and the freckled and quivering cleavage slowly searches for a cold hot dog.
“We’re out of bread!” She cries excitedly.
We look at the hot dog bun selection and then back to the drunken birthday girl. She somehow sees that we’re clearly confused and wobbles through us almost falling into the mostly empty bread rack. The odor of cheap perfume and 180 proof whisky drifts by me smothering the stale bread rack.
“The buns are out of date, the #%^& bread man won’t be here for another three days.” She grabs a bag of moldy buns and shoves them in our face for inspection.
“What’s the #$%^ date on the bread?” She tries valiantly to steady the bag in front of my partner’s nose.
By now it’s nothing more than an academic question since somewhere about the Eskimo and lost love on the North Pole discussion we had inexplicably changed directions.
Telepathically my buddy and I had pretty much decided on multiple cold beers as a suitable alternative to three week old bread, ecoli laced hot dogs, stubble covered arm pits and whisky fueled birthday celebrations.
“Sorry boys, can’t sell you the bread, It’s deadly by now, is there anything else that I can give you?”
I take a quick glance at my buddy and read him like a book even when he keeps his mouth shut. His expression say’s; “$%^& NO, WE’VE SEEN ENOUGH!” but his Episcopalian sense of valor rises to the occasion and he sets more beer and cash on the counter.
As we escape into the soft glow of the neon lit edge of the big forest I notice that the bench is empty overlooking the gas pump. My guess is that a starved bear or a marauding four hundred pound hog was lured out of the mountains and into the neon light to eat the disabled guy while we were being chased by the birthday girl with the hairy arm pit.
Slipping into the darkness, my buddy who had been silent for some time now, wonders aloud just exactly what the girl with the strategically placed freckles really wanted for her birthday.
I crack a beer and the sound rings up the mountain like a small pistol shot in the cold mountain night air and offer thoughtfully; “Fresh buns like she had when she turned Twenty-one.”
The rest of the hunt was dramatically uneventful compared to the search for something quick to eat on the chesty mountain flower’s birthday.
