After hunting together as a group, our intrepid deer hunters generally know what the other members of the team are doing and perhaps even thinking.
We do not waste a lot of time planning the individual hunts or even the weekend. None of the guys are really detail oriented people.
Before deer season, my wife asked when Dick and Mary were going be at our place. Friday was as close as I could come to exact time. I had talked to Dick a couple of months ago and asked if he would make it for deer season. "Yes" was as far as we got into details. We do not spend a lot of time on the phone planning the next move.
It is much the same with Doran. He and I do not spend a lot of time chatting on the phone, either. When it is deer season, we show up. When it is a good day to go fishing, he comes to the farm. We do not require a lot of detailed planning.
On a drive, we place our blockers where the deer are supposed to exit and the drivers go into the timber at pre-determined intervals. When the drivers meet up with the blockers, we find any lost hunters, field dress deer, and spend a lot of time discussing the good shots, misses, and telling lies about the ones that got away. The person nearest a truck is expected to get it, pick up the other blockers, and helps load the deer that are ready to be packed back to camp. We have done this together for enough years; we know the routine (usually).
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At the end of one drive, I jumped in the nearest truck and drove over to Doran, who had been blocking next to me. Tom, one of our drivers came out of the timber and I could see a couple others, so I headed over the next hill to pick up Dick, our third blocker. Doran, who was as cold as was I, for some reason, must have thought I was going to the cabin, leaving everyone standing in the middle of the pasture to freeze to death.
As I drove over the hill he grabbed his cell phone and punched my number up on speed dial. A voice answered and Doran said, "A person could get shot by doing that."
The person on the other end, rather startled said, "Doing what?"
Doran did not recognize my voice, but cell phone reception is not the greatest out there. "You know we have loaded guns," Doran answered.
The guy on the phone seemed to be getting nervous. "What are you talking about?" he asked.
"You can not drive off and leave cold people standing in the middle of nowhere. Where are you?" Doran asked.
The guy on the phone was by now totally confused and I am sure wondering what kind of wacko was stalking him. He finally said, "I am just south of Lancaster. Who is this?"
Doran, beginning to see the error of his ways stated, "This is not Walter, is it?"
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When I got back from picking up Dick, Doran was still on the phone talking to some guy from Lancaster, Mo., who was unfortunate enough to get the cell phone number I had a couple of years ago. I am not sure he was successful in convincing the guy we were not going to come do him major bodily harm, but he did his best.
If the unfortunate soul who was so needlessly threatened is reading this, I would like to apologize for both Doran and myself. I did give Doran my new cell phone number in case he might need to communicate with me in the next couple of years.
Walter Scott is an outdoors enthusiast and freelance writer from Bloomfield, Iowa.
