Lucky In Kentucky

Every so often, you experience a hunting trip where every thing just seems to go your way. The weather is perfect, no wind or rain, your feet never get cold while sitting in your stand, the greasy, trans fatty meals you consume in camp don’t give you gas or the runs, you sleep like a baby at night although you bunk in a drafty old shack with a room full of chronic snorers, and of course most importantly, you just happen to pick the right spots when it comes to running into big deer.

Now personally I’ve never had too many of those kind of hunting experiences, in fact I’d never had one. It seemed all too often I was the one witnessing those kinds of hunts happen to other members of my hunting party. That was until November 9, 2008, the opening day of rifle season in Critenton County, Kentucky. On that particular day it was as if the moon and stars in heavens aligned just for perfectly for me and the celestial hunting gods, high in the heavens nodded their approval in my direction. It was as if I had a golden horseshoe surgically implanted up my rear-end. I could do no wrong and the world just seemed to be in perfect sync. Best. Hunting. Trip. Ever. (Insert voice of Comic Book Guy from The Simpson’s here.)

Opening Day began in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Dad, Joe, and myself awoke around 4 AM at the Country Inn just off Interstate 24. Bleary-eyed and half-asleep we donned our hunting attire and walked out into the cold darkness of a Kentucky morning resembling a team of military snipers. We stuffed our fanny packs with bologna sandwiches, Nab crackers, and Little Debbie’s, a hunting lunch prerequisite. Then after forcing down a Honey Bun and Mountain Dew, we loaded our gear and rifles into the back of Dad’s Chevy and headed for the deer woods, located on the outskirts of the sleepy rural town of Marion.

It was about twenty miles to the hunting property from the hotel and on the way we listened to static AM Talk Radio yammer on about the recent Presidential election. Normally during deer season, the three of us would stay at the old; dilapidated farmhouse situated on the hunting property, which serves as our base camp, but on this particular weekend the house was full of several college friends of the landowner. They’re a particularly rowdy bunch that doesn’t particularly care for the members of our hunting party, so the three of us opted to stay at a hotel until they left on Sunday night.

We pulled into the property a good hour before sunrise. Dad turned of the road and into the one of the many pastures that dot the property and killed the truck’s engine. Dad’s Polaris Ranger, which serves as our main form of transportation of the 1500 acres of hunting land was waiting for us at the edge of the field. We had neglected to cover it the day before with a tarp and we discovered it was now blanketed in a thick coating of frost. We scraped the ice from the windshield and wiped the cold condensation from the Ranger’s seat. Dad climbed behind the wheel and Joe and I slid in next to him, clutching our rifles between our legs and quickly headed out to our stands. The first glow of daylight was just beginning the to creep over the eastern horizon as we made our way the vast expanse of the frozen pastures, making frequent stops in order to pass through a series of cattle gates. Every couple of yards, just beyond the glow of the Rangers headlights, loomed the dark and placid shapes of cattle. Our hands and fingers quickly grew numb in the morning air.

After about ten minutes of traversing the fields, we reached the spot where I was going to hunt for the morning. With the engine still running, I unloaded my climber from the back of the Ranger and headed towards the edge of the woods. In typical hunting tradition, Dad and Joe both wished me luck as I headed for my stand. After crossing over the barbed wire fence that marked the edge of the tree line, I turned and watched the lights of the Ranger disappear over the hill.

Alone in the darkness with my climber strapped to my back and my Ruger No. 1 in my hands, I maneuvered as stealthily as I could through the forest. I opted not to use my flashlight, since I had hunted this area before and I had a pretty good lay of the landscape and plus one never knows if a monster Booner is watching you in the darkness.

About a hundred and fifty yards inside the tree line, I reached the spot I intended to set up. I quickly set to work erecting my climbing stand. Personally I always hate putting a climber on a tree first thing in the morning-the process is aggravating and slow going in the dark and I tend to make enough noise to wake the dead. I was during this process I finally broke down and switched on my mini-mag light in order to speed along the process. About midway through, as I was noisily adjusting the chains around the trunk of the tree and cursing under my breath, I suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the darkness. I immediately froze, and almost as a precursor to the uncanny luck I would experience over the course of the next few days, a small doe walked to with ten feet of me, completely ignoring the fact I was cursing like a Marine drill sergeant and had a flashlight protruding from my mouth. The doe nonchalantly walked right on by and disappeared down the hill.

Eventually, the climber decided to cooperate and my rifle and I were soon perched comfortably high above the forest floor, awaiting first light. This is my favorite time of the hunt- sitting motionless in the inky, silent blackness just before dawn. It’s as if you are the only creature alert and awake on the earth and day is filled with endless possibilities. My mind races with countless hunting scenarios, most of them involving me placing a new world record in the sights of my Nikon scope.

As the sun slowly began to rise, the woods around me stared to awaken. I listened to chirp of birds, and the skittering of squirrels descending down tree trunks from their nightly nests. My surroundings also began to revel themselves to me in the morning light. My stand was situated on a small rise overlooking a large, open hollow, dotted with towering oaks and maples. Directly in front of me I could make out the edge of the pasture, where I could hear the low bellowing of cattle grazing. To my left, were step-wooded ridges that lead to the edge of a power line. It was an ideal spot to catch deer crossing from the field to the poer line cut. George W. would have said on this particular morning I was using good “strategery.”

About twenty minutes after daylight, I heard my second deer of the morning approach my vicinity. It came in from the ridge directly behind me, a small forked horn buck who was much too small to warrant shooting. Normally deer walking out in the open are somewhat cautious, especially bucks, but not this guy, he walked straight up to my stand like he didn’t have a care in the world. He even stopped directly under my stand and sniffed my gun rope, which didn’t phase him one little bit. He simple ambled around the clearing in front of me occasionally putting his nose to the ground. This was a sure sign that the Rut was about to get under way. And nothing gets a hunters blood pumping more than The Rut.
After a while, Mr. Forked Horn meandered out of sight up the hollow to my right. But ten minutes later a small doe walked across the same ridge to my rear and began grazing in a cluster of trees about seventy yards to my right. After a while a second doe, walked into range, but this one came in from in from of me. She eventually caught sigh to f the first doe, and quickly scampered up the ridge to join her. I didn’t pay her much attention, she was a small doe, probably a yearly, but what little did I know what was hot on her trail.

I watched the does graze together for what seemed like fifteen minutes or so but I soon grew tired of them and my mind began to wander, which is something I tend to do in the deer woods when there’s not much action.

The red Angus bulls in the distant pasture were beginning to talk to one another.

Moo. Moooooo. Mooooooo.

My mind drifted from place to place- from projects at work to the new James Bond movie that was coming out in a couple of weeks. The cows were still making a lot of commotion just beyond the tree line.

Mooooo. Mooooooo. Mooooo.

My A.D.D had by now kicked in and completely taken my mind off hunting and soon I was off in my own little world. I began mentally ranking all the actors to ever portray James Bond in order from favorite to least favorite. After some serious consideration I decided that the new guy, Daniel Craig, is the best James Bond ever, edging out Sir Sean Connery by a narrow margin. Even though he’s only played Bond in one movie, Craig's performance in Casino Royale was killer.

Grunt. Grunnttt. Gruuunt.

Roger Moore came in third behind Connery. Timothy Dalton, fourth with Brosnan and that other guy who played 007 in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service rounding out the mix. Brosnan, I was convinced had the perfect look for Bond but he played the character as too big of a wuss.

Gruuuuuntt. Gruuuunt. Gruuuuuuuuuunt.

"Hey wait a minute," I thought to myself. "That’s not a cow. That’s a deer!" Suddenly all of my senses were on high alert. Those grunts were the unmistakable sounds of a buck chasing a doe. I readied my rifle and began scanning the trees. It didn’t take long before I located the source of the grunts.

The buck came down the ridge in front of me about a hundred yards a way. I could see his rack gleaming in the morning sun and I knew immediately he was a shooter. As he descended the ridge, I flipped the safety off my Ruger and got into shooting position. I knew he was trailing the second doe and once he got to the bottom of the hill he would continue up the ridge to my left, where I ‘d get a clean shot. I caught glimpses of him through the trees as he continued his downward march, but I lost sight of him once he reached the bottom. He had waked into an old, dry creek bed about eighty yards away, which was hidden from my vantage point by a huge pile of brush. I held my scope on the left side of the brush pile. As soon as he stepped out from behind the brush, I was ready to shoot.

But nothing happened.

The buck simply disappeared. I held the cross hairs of my Nikon scope right on the edge of the brush pile for what seemed like an eternity. Seconds turned into minutes, but still the buck had not emerged from the brush. I began to panic. Had I someone let this buck slip away form me? Had he followed the creek bed in the opposite direction away from the does? I took my eyes of the brush pile and scanned the tree to my right.

But just as I turned my head the buck exploded from the creek bed. He was running in a full sprint up the hill towards the does. I knew I only had a split second to make a shot, or the buck would be over the ridge and out of sight.

I placed my sights behind his left shoulder and fired. The 7 mag boomed in the still morning air. The buck stumbled and nosed dived into the forest floor. But in an instant he was back on his feet. I hadn't lead him enough and the shot had hit him too far back to put him down permanently. He was more than likely gut shot, but it had slowed him down and bought me some time. I reloaded my No. 1 as quickly as humanly possible. By the time I had a second cartridge in the gun, the buck was running again up the hill. I didn't have a clean shot; all that was visible was his back. That was all I would need.

My second shot, broke his back and the deer went down for good.

I had the post-shot shakes pretty bad, which is something every hunter can relate to. I knew I had just killed to biggest buck of my life. After I calmed my nerves, I climbed out of my stand. Once I hit the ground, I chambered a fresh cartridge, just in case, and walked to the other side of the clearing where the buck had fallen.

He lay there in a heap and as I knelt down to inspect him, I heard a loud SNORT a few yards up the hill. The two does were still standing there, stomping the ground and blowing at me. Apparently they were pretty peeved at me for shooting their Baby Daddy. I ignored them and rolled the buck over to inspect his rack. He was a beautiful wide-racked eight pointer with perfectly symmetrical tines. He was far from a Booner, but undoubtedly the finest buck I’d ever bagged.

I took off my hunting coat, unzipped my fanny pack and dug out a pair of surgical gloves that I carry for the messy job of field dressing. Now the work begins, I thought. But instead of pulling out my Case knife and slitting open the deer’s belly, I first flipped open my cell phone and powered it up. It was 7:45 AM and I knew Ridge would be up by now eating breakfast at grandma’s house; I needed to inform my little Buddy that Daddy had just killed a big ‘un.

Little did I know, that in just a few short hours, an even bigger buck would cross my path.

To be continued…

By The Light Of The Silvery Moon

I could have used Lord Baltimore in the deer woods with me the other evening. For those of you who aren't familiar with the reference, Lord Baltimore was the legendary, half-Indian tracker, hired by E.H. Harriman to track down Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. In the movie, Lord Balitmore could track anything over any kind of terrain.

I was in need of a good tracker last night, since I am apparently lacking in that department. Yesterday, just about dark, Mr. 8 Pointer and a buddy of his, finally paid a second visit to my bait pile and I made what I thought was a perfect shot on him. But at the end of the evening, I was in my truck heading to Atlanta without any fresh venison in the back.

It was Wednesday evening, and I had managed to slip out of work a tad early. I was in my stand by 4PM. Sometime around 5:30, Mr. 8 Pointer and another small buck wandered into my corn pile. Both were eating casually, and I stood and drew back on Mr. 8. He was standing next to an old stump that I had previously measured with my range finder at 20 yards. He was positioned perfectly parallel to me, completely broadside. I took careful aim just behind his shoulder and let my arrow fly. I heard a loud SNAP! and the buck whirled in mid-air and sprinted back into the woods from which he came. I just KNEW I had made a clean shot.

After several minutes, I climbed down and walked over to the spot I shot the deer and began tracking him back into the swamp. About twenty feet from where he was standing I found my arrow, broken off at the shaft about three inches below the broad head.

AWESOME! The arrow had passed through the deer and it woud be just a matter of time before I found Mr. 8 Pointer's lifeless body. But upon further inspection, I noticed the broad head had very little blood on it-just a little hair and a fatty-type substance.

I had at least a good twenty minutes of light left so I started making circles from the spot I last saw the retreating deer. But as the light faded into night, I still hadn't located my buck. I flipped on my Mini Mag Light and called Danielle on my cell to inform her that it may be a long night in the deer woods.

For the next hour and a half I searched the surrounding area with no luck. I couldn't find so much as a drop of blood. Eventually my Mini-Mag's battery's began to dwindle and I was forced to go back to the truck and fetch my giant spotlight. For the next two and a half hours I searched a radius of over a mile, still nothing. Through creek beds, swamps, briar thickets, and cow pastures I looked for that stupid deer. Even when my spotlight faded, I searched by the light of the full moon. But I still came up empty handed.

Sometime around 11PM, I gave up the hunt. There was nothing more I could do. As I headed back to the truck and across the cow pasture which was now bathed in a silvery, lunar glow, I heard the distant howl of a pack of coyotes. They were carrying on like crazy about a mile from my location in the precise direction of my wounded buck. I felt certain they had found my deer and were enjoying a free meal thanks to Yours Truly.

"You're welcome, you filthy animals." I thought. Oh well, at least somebody gets to eat some fresh venison tonight. Bon Apetit!

Nothing Doing

Well I saw deer last night, which keeps the streak alive of seeing the four-legged critters at the deer woods. But I didn't see anything worth nocking an arrow for- just a few slick heads and yearlings. I wonder what's happened to Mr. 8 Pointer? I hoping he didn't wander off and find some other hunter's bait pile.

Still it was a good afternoon to be in the woods and to quote the wisdom of the popular bumper sticker-A bad day huntin' is better than a good workin'. Amen to that. I actually didn't take the entire day off, but I did manage to sneak out around 2 PM. When I arrived at the office that morning I wasn't about to leave my bow in the backseat of the truck to tempt some parking deck-loitering homeless vagrant. So I decided to take it into the office with me. I quickly hustled across the street with my bow case in hand, careful not to be spotted by one of Atlanta's Finest. They'd probably haul me off in cuffs thinking I was some disgruntled office worker coming to impale his fellow employees with a couple of titanium-tipped broad heads.

Slipping by the cops, I got into the building and was waiting for the elevator on the lower level when some elderly blue-haired lady walked up. There was definitely an awkward silence as she stared at my large, camouflaged bow case. Eventually the inevitable happened.

"So what's in the case?" she asked.

I considered saying a tuba.

"A bow."

"Oh...what do you use a bow for?"

Awkward pause.

"For deer hunting. I'm going hunting after work." I said.

"How CRUEL." She pronounced the word cruel as if Dick Cheney and I were about to water-board a six year-old child.

Finally the elevator door opened and as we rode up I proceeded to explain the ethics of hunting and the nutritional benefits of wild game to this lady. I even evoked the name Teddy Roosevelt. Blue Hair simply smiled politely and nodded her head in agreement. The elevator bell eventually dinged and the doors opened as we reached her floor.

"How CRUEL," she hissed in my direction as the doors closed behind her.

I really can't stand ignorant people.

Where's Al Sharpton?

I nearly ran off the road when I saw this. Utterly shocking.

This is the name of a subdivision near where I hunt in Coweta County. If there are any African-Americans that live in this housing development, I personally want to shake their hands. It takes some mighty big cojones to live in a neighborhood named after the founder of the Ku Klux Klan.

Skunked

Obviously, being the obsessive hunter that I am, I'm passing on my wisdom of the outdoors to Ridge. Since he's only 16 months old, I'm starting with the basics-being able to properly identify animals that a hunter may encounter in the woods. He can accurately ID and pronounce the words buck and doe and being a true Bryson he overtly prefers the ones with the big racks to the slick-heads.

I've also taught him the word skunk, which is good because as any deer hunter will tell you, more times than not when hunting you get skunk-ed. Which is exactly what happened to yours truly yesterday in the deer woods.

I had high hopes of putting a hole through the side of Mr. 8 Pointer after our little run-in three days ago. But unfortunately he was a no show today. It was however a good day to be in the woods. I played hooky from work and headed down the the hunting land in the wee hours of the morning. At 5Am, coffee cup in hand, I was cruising south on I-85. I was shocked at the amount of traffic at such an early hour. Does Atlanta traffic ever stop! 45 Minutes later I was climbing into my stand a good hour before daylight. I couldn't have asked for better conditions-temperatures in the low 50's, low humidity, and no wind. The woods that morning were still and calm.

But unfortunately, the deer, unlike myself, decided to sleep in that morning and skip the hearty breakfast of shell corn and golden delicious I had laid out for them. It wasn't a total waste however. I did see a pretty red-tailed fox, which marked the second time I've seen him. I think he has a den in the base of an old tree on the creek bank.

Even though I wasn't able to introduce Mr. 8 pointer to my good acquaintance, Mr. Fred Bear it was a great day to sit in the woods. In my opinion, there is isn't anything finer thing in the world than to be in the woods before daybreak and experience the forest come alive with the day.

I felt blessed to just to be alive on God's Earth, to paraphrase Capt. Agustus McCrae.

Since I was spending the entire day in the deer woods. I came down from my sniper perch around 11 AM and drove into Newnan for lunch. I dined in Newnan's finest eating establishment, the Chick-Fil-A, and after my exequisite meal of chicken nuggets and waffle fries, I passed the time writing and reading the paper.

I returned to my stand around 3PM to see if the evening hunt brought any action.

Well, it did, but not much. Right around dark, a big doe and her two twins came into the bait pile to feed. I watched them for a good 45 minutes or so with was pretty exciting. It's always fun to watch deer, no matter how big they are. It gets my blood pumping. However, they did start to annoy me after it was getting dark, to dark to shoot, and it was obvious the big boy wasn't going to show, and they wouldn't leave. I always like to let deer leave on their own without me spooking them. Normally I wouldn't mind sitting a little longer but tonight was the season premiere of The Office, my favorite show and I really wanted to get home.

Finally, Ms. Slink and the twins ate their fill and crossed the creek and I was able to climb down and head for the house. Not sure when I'll be able to get back in the woods, but I'm hoping Mr. 8 Pointer is there when I do.

Game Day

Four days ago, I headed down to Sharpsburg to put out some corn and apples on the the property I'm hunting. After putting out my bait, I shimmed up a big hickory tree in my climber to see what I could see. I didn't really expect to see anything, since this was my first time checking things out on the property, plus it would take time for what deer, if any, on the property to find my newly created bait pile.

Around 5Pm, after battling a demon horde of mosquitos from the depths of hell, a good sized coyote came out of the river bed to my right and started making circles around my tree. He never knew I was there, and I came close to putting a broad head through his pump house, but after some thought I decided against it. The economy is in the toilet and arrows are expensive- I dern sure didn't want to waste one on some smelly coyote. After about an hour, he finally made his rounds and lopped off up the trail. After spreading his scent all over the place, I felt fairly confident I wasn't going to see any deer that evening.

Boy was I wrong, just before dark, a large doe came out of the river bed and began nibbling on sweet gum samplings just 20 yards from my stand. She caught me off guard, and I wasn't ready to shoot, and I couldn't move in fear she'd see me, so all I could do was sit there. Unfortunately, that's when the big boy decided to come out.

I heard the characteristic heavy footsteps that I've heard so many times in my hunting career coming from behind me. As the footsteps got closer a large dark shape came into my field of vision. It was nice buck, at least a 8 pointer. Not a huge rack, but definitely a shooter.

The thing was, I was still in a sitting position, due to the fact that both he and the doe would see any movement I made. So I just had the sit there anxiously biding my time, while this buck walked within 20 yards of me, stood broad-sided and proceeded to take a leak. I couldn't believe it.

Eventually he turned his back on me and I finally managed to stand and turn my body enough to fire a shot. But by now, the buck had walked a good 30 yards away from me and into the deep creek bed. He was well out of my range and there was no way to get off a shot.

I just had to stand there and watch him eat his fill of acorns until he eventually moseyed off up the opposite side of the creek .

But I can't complain- my first night in my new stand and I saw a good sized buck. It really got the adrenaline pumping and it was great way to cap off the weekend.

However, come first light tomorrow, I'm going to be back in my stand, ready to go. I'm laying out of work tomorrow and I'll be hunting from dawn til dusk. I haven't pressured the deer for the past three days, and I'm hoping by now they've discovered my bait pile.

So tomorrow, if Mr. 8 pointer comes in for a early breakfast, me and Fred Bear will be there to greet him.

Scouting

Well, at least I don't have Lyme Disease. I came down with a cold two days ago and I was convinced it was due to my latest scouting trip. Thankfully the Internet relieved my fears, since my symptoms don't match.

Last weekend, Dad, Joe, the oldest nephew aka Ben, and myself traveled into the wilds of Kentucky to do a little scouting and hang some stands before the start of bow season. Dad and I stayed at Joe's Friday night and awoke around 3AM (waaaaay too early) to start our 5 hour journey to camp. Unfortunately only 45 minutes into our drive, we ran into a snarled traffic jam just on the other side of Chattanooga. We sat parked on the interstate for over two hours until traffic started moving again. Ben and I napped in the back seat.

We finally reached camp around 10:30 or so and we quickly unloaded Dad's Ranger off the trailer and started scouting the property. We've leased close to 1000 acres so having the 4 wheel drive Ranger really came in handy. I absolutely love our hunting land. It's made up of vast sprawling pastures and hay fields that mingle with thick hardwood forests. Perfect whitetail habitat.

We spent a good part of the morning scouting the west side of the property. Around 2PM we went back to the dilapidated old farmhouse that serves as our hunting cabin and base camp, and ate a perfect deer woods lunch consisting of potted meat, sardines spread on saltine crackers, and Little Debbie's for desert. All washed down with a cold Dr. Pepper. Bon apetit!

We spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring the rest of the land. It was perfect weather except for the stifling heat and the property's apparent tick infestation. I've never in my life seen anything like it. We were covered up in deer ticks. And the size of these things blew my mind. Some of them were the size of a pinhead. At one point, Dad had hundreds of them crawling up his pants. It looked like pictures I've seen of the annual red crab invasion of Christmas Island. Of course I was a little freaked by this, since deer ticks spread the dreaded Lyme Disease.

Late in the afternoon we headed over to a spot on the southern end of the property so I could hang a archery stand. We hung it near a spot where I killed a nice buck two years earlier, so I figured the spot was good luck. While we were busy with the stand Ben spent his time picking up turkey feathers and playing with turtles. I think at last count he had found seven turtles within a 50 yard radius. We decided to name the place Turtle Hill, but come bow season, I'm hoping to rename the place, Buck Hill, Gut Pile Ridge, or Ten Point Hollow. I'm setting high expectations.

Around 5Pm we finally loaded the Ranger back on to the trailer and the four of us hauled our sweat, tick and chigger covered bodies back into the truck and headed for a hotel to stay the night. We promised Ben a hotel with a pool and it took us over an hour to find one.

We checked in and the first thing we did was strip down to remove ticks. We pulled over 20 off Ben alone. Joe, Ben and myself, swam in the hotel pool in our underwear since we had neglected to pack any swimming trunks, but we didn't give a flip. (We're rednecks and proud of it!) We were covered in potentially disease infected parasites and we were convinced the high chlorine levels of the pool and hot tub would kill the little buggers.

That night we dined on fried grease and sweet tea at a local Choke-n-Puke and fell asleep watching USC trounce Ohio State. We were up 5 short hours later at 3 AM, (again waaaaay too early) and headed for home.

I can't wait to get back up there in month when the season opens. I just hope it comes an early frost and kills off the damn deer ticks.

Welcome to The Scrape Line

I had always been under the impression that a blog was essentially a glorified diary and from where I come from men do not keep diaries. I had always felt that diaries are strictly reserved to two types of people: Holister-wearing junior high school cheerleaders with crushes on varsity quarterbacks or for overweight British chicks named Bridget.

Diaries are definitely not for individuals like myself- red-blooded American males with an affinity for firearms, four-wheeled drives and Sam Elliot movies.

But this isn't a diary, it's a blog and this blog is essentially going to deal with the oldest sport known to man: Deer Hunting.

In my family and to most folks in the mountains where I'm from, there is no greater date in the calendar year that is met with more rabid anticipation and unbridled enthusiasm than that of the Opening Day of Deer Season.

We are fanatical hunters in every sense of the word. In this part of the country, to even label deer hunting a mere sport would toe the line of blasphemy and sacrilege in certain social circles. To us it is an absolute way of life. It’s what binds our family together. And for those brief three weeks each autumn, when the whitetails are in full rut, nothing comes before deer hunting.

What you are about to read is my humble attempt to capture and chronicle my hunting adventures. Some will be personal hunting stories while others may be simply inane ramblings from the a.d.d riddled mind of a hunting junkie. Sprinkled throughout will also be hunting yarns and tall tales that have been told so many times around countless campfires and supper tables, that I’m not entirely sure where fact stops and fiction begins. But I’ll do my best to keep to keep it honest to the best of my ability. However to quote a line from one of my favorite films, THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE, “When the truth become legend, print the legend.”

Good advice.

Now before you get too far along reading this blog, I'd also like to explain a few things up front and apologize in advance to certain individuals. First off, I'm not a writer. Well, not a very good one anyway. I've never had any formal writing classes beyond my freshman year in college, in which I made a solid C. So to any literary elitists out there who only crack the spines of great literature, you might as well stop reading now. The following entries will be loaded with atrocious grammar, run-on and fragmented sentences, and miss-spellings galore. My wife even loves to remind me on a regular basis, that I barely have a grasp on the English Language as it is. Too many years spent in the grammar-deficient mountains of Western North Carolina I guess. I'm the sort of writer who makes Hemingway, Hawthorne, and Fitzgerald spin in their graves.

I would also like to issue a warning to any left-wing, liberal, animal rights activists out there who might perusing through this blog. You probably want to stop reading now in order to prevent yourself from gouging your eyes out with a blunt instrument or your head exploding in a fit of rage. The following stories and essays describe in detail the stalking, slaughter, mutilation and consumption of furry woodland creatures. I will not be held responsible for any bodily harm you may inflict upon yourself while reading this blog. I would recommend that if you are a left-wing, liberal, animal rights activist, that perhaps you should stop reading now, go to your nearest Blockbuster Video and rent Bambi (which is nothing but anti-hunting propaganda anyway), sing Cum Bi Ya and munch on some tofu. This blog is not for you.

In addition to left-wing, liberal, animal rights activists, the contents of this blog are also likely to offend the following, listed here in no particular order:

The family and friends of Coach Mike Krzyzewski, Duke University, The Humane Society, The French, Hippies, The Department of Fish and Game, Bobby Cox, Vegans, Afghanistan, The A.C.L.U, George Lucas, The Walt Disney Corporation, P.E.T.A, Nancy Pelosi

If you fall in to one of the above categories, again I suggest that you either stop reading immediately, or proceed with caution and a very thick skin.

And with that I leave you, Dear Readers, with the immortal words of Uncle Ted Nugent,"I don't hunt for sport, I don't hunt for recreation, I don't hunt for meat, I hunt to hunt."

Those are the words that I live by. Welcome to the Scrape Line.