I used to hunt with some guys who were like VSOs and mortally terrified of breaking even the most inconsequential rules. Things such as whether you shot a spike or a doe during high buck, 3-point or better season. It’s not like the game warden is camped out around the corner. They even took their ammo out of their guns driving to and fro to hunt sites. Hellooooo? What if a deer crossed the road right in front of you? Its against the law to mow them down, too. That’s why I’m cocked and locked 100%. If Gomer the Game Warden jumps out on the road, I have an old Mannlicher. One push of the magazine button and Bingo- .270s everywhere but in the mag. Why destroy the front end of the Expedition deer hunting? It really messes up the meat. The license reads modern rifle, not modern vehicle.

Being the eternal jokester, I decided to have some fun with these guys. They’re just too strait-laced. They all packed 9 mils like they were going to take down a Mulie with it. Everywhere- including to the loo. Excuse me but we put that fallacy  (and calibre) to bed a long time ago in SEA. 9mils are fun when you’re out target shooting with your new girlfriend but a .45 or better yet, a .357 or .44 is de riguer for popping 200+ lbs of running machine.

One evening at the end of the first day’s hunt, I spotted some extremely fresh, warm, deer poop  and carefully scooped it up into my lunch baggie. Yes, gentle reader.  Sgt, Nod is a good steward of our environment. The next morning, after boiling water for coffee at o dark 00, I poured the boiling water into the bag. I was careful to stir, and not to shake it nor did I add vermouth.

The boys had found a shot-up outhouse somewhere and carefully installed it at camp about 30 yds away from their tent. It was magnificent with dug in pit, ashes from the fire to cover the fresh offerings, side skirts to keep the dogs out and three walls. I surreptitiously went over and dumped the poop on the path about 10 feet from the outhouse. At 3800 ASL in October, it was a nippy 36 degrees. The poop steamed nicely and looked fresh. Very Fresh. 6 minutes old fresh. Holy shit, Batman fresh. Pull out the Glock 19 and chamber a round fresh. Run from tree to tree and search fresh. OMG- run back to camp and sound the alarm fresh.

Kathy, 40ish, was first one up to perform her ablutions and she dutifully rushed back to the main tent to inform them of her find. Any thoughts of defecation flew out the window. My son and I were summoned and wisely informed to lock and load.  The poop was poked, sniffed, prodded, partially dissected and discoursed on. The color was observed to be dark green. Absent a thermometer, the temperature was approximated as being very close to 98.6. As daylight broke, the troops moved out. Several hours later no deer were found but not for lack of trying.

In order not to spill the beans,  I was forced to depart the area and hunt elsewhere. I told Buckwheat, jr. after we were about a ¼ mile away. I was positive they heard us cackling. Have you ever laughed so hard you had snot running down your lips? And didn’t care? Have you ever laughed so long that the back of your head hurt for hours? Blown hot coffee through your nose? Twice? Coughed up a hairball? About 1100 hrs we came back and had brunch. Uncontrollable giggles and smiles ran across our faces. The guys kept looking at us and each other thinking we’d been out puffing dope. That just made us laugh even harder.  I tried to ascribe it to Buckwheat tripping and falling down but it just didn’t play in Peoria. Falling isn’t that funny.

Damn it if Buckwheat didn’t tell Josh that afternoon. They’re about two years apart and always hung out together when hunting. He, in turn spilled the beans to Chris, Eric and Kathy. Oddly, they steadfastly refused to see the humor in this.  Now remember, these are the same guys who construct a miniature meat pole out in front of their camp and hang up the mice on it they catch in the tent to look like deer. What the Hell?

The guys had too many rules for me and we drifted apart several years later. I’ve had long words with my son about giving away all the trade secrets of the NOD clan.  It was a youthful indiscretion and he’s far more mature now. He’s becoming a past master at slipping a .38 or two into the fire in the evening after dinner unnoticed. That gets everyone’s undivided attention.

There’s never a dull moment when hunting with NOD and Sons, Liquor and Guns. As a footnote, if you are away from camp, you can pour hot coffee on said deer poop and get the same effect. Improvise. The sky’s the limit.