When it comes to going on deer hunting trips I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. I guess the guys going just didn’t think I would be interested, or something. It is true I have been more of an urbanite than a rural, Daniel Boone type of individual. I’m not crazy about the outdoors.

However, when the conversation turned to deer hunting I did like to, at the very least, be included. I got to where I could talk eight point bucks with the best of them. We would discuss the merits of the thirty ought six, versus the thirty-thirty for accuracy and kill power. But I had never been on any deer hunting trip until…

My buddy told me to dress warm, bring a thermos of coffee, and we were going to eat steaks, play cards, get drunk and kill Bambi. YAHOO! My buddy yelled as we did a donut across my front yard and went through the ditch. There wasn’t a seatbelt on my side, and I had to keep my legs folded under to avoid the hole in the floor, but we were on our way. I almost fell out when we exited the ditch and the rubber hit the pavement. He had forgotten to tell me my door came open without any provocation from time to time. I remembered my heavy coat, but had forgotten to bring my thermos.

Along about beer number six, after four pit stops, three wrong directions, and two hours of The Doobie Brothers’ greatest hits, we arrived at the “hunting club.” The shack we entered was leaning about 15 degrees to port; there was an old screen door, which obviously sometime had been mauled by a bear. There was an eclectic assortment of furniture in the main room which Sanford or son would have been ashamed of and the smell of something burning wafting through the area.

I was not in any stretch of my imagination comfortable. However, if anything, I am a sport. Therefore, I swallowed about a third of the raw steak, ate my cold undercooked baked potato, washed it all down with the coldest Pabst Blue Ribbon this side of Atlanta, and played cards until I passed out around two-ish.

I woke up thinking the hounds of hell were on my trail until I realized the deer hunting dogs had arrived to camp. I looked through the haze that was the best my eyes could do and discovered it was five o’clock in the a.m. There was chaos everywhere and I heard someone ask me how I like my eggs. I quickly responded, “I like them on a plate, at home.”

I heard back, “A plate? How about a fried egg sandwich, old buddy?”

“YAHOO! Give me a beer, I responded.”

“This just keeps getting better,” I mumbled to myself.

My buddy told me that since I was a guest I was going to get a prime location to hunt. He dropped me off by a bridge over a creek on a very lonely section of what looked like a walking trail. I was instructed to keep my eyes peeled down the creek and pretty soon the dogs would chase some of the deer my way. “Hot damn,” I said. Then he left me there.

I had my rifle, my heavy coat, and my dreams of my recliner back home. It was very cold, very dark, and my throat immediately turned dry as toast with no thermos of anything there to help.

All during the day, I would hear the dogs. They would be far off to my right, or far off to my left, sometimes they were far off straight ahead down the stream, but I never got a glimpse of a deer - at least not while I was awake. I will admit that the bank of the stream developed into quite a comfortable place to rest after about 10 hours of staring intently at the same three oak trees swaying back and forth, and back and forth.

My buddy picked me up right at the crack of dusk. He noticed right away my lack of bounty, and I was hoping the imprint on my cheek from lying on the ground wasn’t too obvious. “You can’t get a deer every time, y’know?” he said.

“I’ll get them next time,” I lied through my teeth, but with innocent eyes.

“Have a beer, you’ll be alright.” We arrived back at the shack in time for the “cutting the shirt ceremony.” Evidently if you see a deer, shoot at a deer, and miss the deer, you have the honor of having the hem of your shirt cut short all the way around. YAHOO!

I arrived back home around one o’clock a.m., and after waving at my buddy as he donuted across the yard and ditch again, I slowly unpeeled my clothes and kissed my recliner and television on my way upstairs. I could see my reflection in the warm half a can of beer I ceremonially poured down the sink. It did not look like a face that had a YAHOO left in it. I’ll be right back.