How a rabbit hunt turned into a hissy fit

I went rabbit hunting this morning to satisfy my increasingly itchy trigger finger, and to see if perhaps I could collect enough bunnies to perfect the recipe I tried with the fruits of my previous labors this summer.

NOTHING was moving.

The air was heavy and thick, and I did not see one little white tail bouncing into a thicket. Usually I persevere, but something told me it would be useless today, so I bailed after a little more than an hour and developed a Plan B on the spot. Read more...
I knew there were other huntable wildlife areas in the vicinity - I'd just gotten a bunch of maps from a guy at the Department of Fish and Game. Perhaps I should check them out - do a little daylight scouting so I could try something new next time I feel like setting an alarm for 0-dark-30.

The problem was, I hadn't brought the maps. But I remembered enough that I should be able to find them using my state map book.

Should.

I drove over a bridge, admiring an area that looked like it should be rich in game. But I didn't see any sign that it was huntable public land.

I continued up a road, looking for a side road that I knew should lead to an entrance to a huntable wildlife area, but I never found that road. Oh, I took a bunch of side roads. But none of them was right.

Note to self: Don't expect good signage - bring your maps.

So I returned home and immediately looked at the maps.

Interestingly enough, the first place I'd pulled over to consult my state map book was probably where I should've turned to find the area I was looking for. Dammit! Road sign woulda been nice.

Then I looked at all those maps and came up with another plan: I should compile these into a binder so I always have this information at my fingertips! I could throw it in my car whenever I go on an adventure where plans might need to change last-minute.

So I compiled the binder. And in the process, I found a map that indicated the area I'd admired from a bridge was indeed public and huntable.

Sigh.

Oh well. The binder is glorious. National wildlife refuges and state wildlife areas, and maps, and blind locations, and regulations - everything a girl with a gun needs!

And I can look admiringly at it for the next 56 freaking days while I wait for duck season to begin.

See, that's what I'm waiting for. Yes, I can shoot doves for two weeks starting Tuesday. And yes, I will go out Tuesday morning, and I'll go out again this weekend for the epic Labor Day Hunt and Feast at Michael's place (which, btw, is open to the public for the first time ever - check out details here).

And I'll start hunting rabbits again after the dove hunters are done shootin' up my rabbit place (Sept. 16), but only until the blacktail deer hunters show up (Sept. 26).

And maybe I'll even go on a nice hunting trip this year. I'm being furloughed because of the state budget crisis, and that means I have to take a bunch of days off, and that means for the first and possibly only time on this job, I can schedule a four-day weekend that would allow me to hunt out of state in the fall - you know, out of state, where the whitetail and the antelope play?

Oh, except for the fact that I'm taking a 10 percent pay cut and can't afford a hunt like that.

Dammit, how long is it until duck season? Oh yeah. Fifty-six days.

Ducks, glorious ducks! Cold weather, stormy skies, the stink of neoprene, duck calls, Wind Whackers, many opportunities to shoot, stoning some, chasing others, checking for bling, coming home, pouring bourbon, plucking ducks, drying wet gear by the fire, feasting on duck as Boyfriend begins another season of his legendary Duck Hunter Dinners.

Oh, I can feel it!

But it's 108 degrees on our front porch today, and every time I walk outside my little fantasy bubble bursts, and the sun slaps me silly, and says, "Girl, you ain't even close to needing to pull out those decoys."

I know. I know.

© Holly A. Heyser 2009