The elk hunt commences one day hence and I have been hard at it, gathering my woolen garments and my excuses.
In this way I hope to protect my skin as well as my ego, although I’m too pragmatic to expect much as to the latter.
I do own a closetful of coats — enough insulation, probably, to keep
several versions of myself toasty in all but the most frigid weather.
Except probably it will just rain.
As for the actual hunting, I lack anything like the creativity
necessary to conjure tales that would diminish, in any meaningful
sense, my incompetence.
To begin with I’m not what you could call stealthy.
I can usually stay upright, even on uneven ground. The trouble is I
tend to snap twigs and kick stones and snag low-hanging limbs with my
sleeves and in general upset the normally tranquil woods with the sort
of cacophony which not even the most naive elk will tolerate.
Last fall I didn’t see a single elk. I don’t know if this is because
there weren’t any elk around, or because I made such a racket that all
the elk heard me before I was close enough to see them, but I suspect
the second theory is a lot nearer the truth.