A stream in north Georgia's Blue Ridge WMA. December 2005.
Inauspicious beginning.
Got up at five am. Checked my maps. Not deer season in Union county. By six I driving east. By eight, sloshing down forest service roads in the rain looking for a new place to hunt. Icy branches crashing across windshield. Almost slipped off mountain. Very fond of four wheel drive. Found a place to which I could return. By ten, was parked next to some pastureland asleep across my bench seat with the heater running. At eleven, cows crowded near the fence and lowed at my truck. I woke up.
In the afternoon, drove back into the woods and parked. Took rifle and folding chair to a clearing. Sat two and a half hours. Icicles hanging from tree branches. Very cold. Rained. Saw a chickadee. At dark I walked back to the truck. Very cold. Truck was stuck. Put it in reverse; floored the pedal. Tires spun. Got out. Walked three miles to ranger station, found old couple. Asked for ride. Denied. Squatted in the mud. Full moon cast silhouette. Fine figure of a man. Ate granola bar. Walked another mile. Headlights behind me. Stood in road until the driver stopped.
He was a bighearted fellow who worked up at the Army Ranger camp a few miles north of where I'd gotten stuck. He gave me a lift in his Range Rover back to my truck and we pulled it out with no trouble. The only lasting damage was to a piece of plastic that used to be attached to the bottom of my front bumper. Now what was formerly an "air dam" dangles at a rakish tilt, dragging the asphalt on the left side. Kind of jaunty. Like a derby hat cocked sideways.
All in all, a fun day. Now I’m warm and dry in motel room in Dahlonega, Georgia with the time and the inclination to reflect on the type of fun that one must often be alone to enjoy.
Got up at five am. Checked my maps. Not deer season in Union county. By six I driving east. By eight, sloshing down forest service roads in the rain looking for a new place to hunt. Icy branches crashing across windshield. Almost slipped off mountain. Very fond of four wheel drive. Found a place to which I could return. By ten, was parked next to some pastureland asleep across my bench seat with the heater running. At eleven, cows crowded near the fence and lowed at my truck. I woke up.
In the afternoon, drove back into the woods and parked. Took rifle and folding chair to a clearing. Sat two and a half hours. Icicles hanging from tree branches. Very cold. Rained. Saw a chickadee. At dark I walked back to the truck. Very cold. Truck was stuck. Put it in reverse; floored the pedal. Tires spun. Got out. Walked three miles to ranger station, found old couple. Asked for ride. Denied. Squatted in the mud. Full moon cast silhouette. Fine figure of a man. Ate granola bar. Walked another mile. Headlights behind me. Stood in road until the driver stopped.
He was a bighearted fellow who worked up at the Army Ranger camp a few miles north of where I'd gotten stuck. He gave me a lift in his Range Rover back to my truck and we pulled it out with no trouble. The only lasting damage was to a piece of plastic that used to be attached to the bottom of my front bumper. Now what was formerly an "air dam" dangles at a rakish tilt, dragging the asphalt on the left side. Kind of jaunty. Like a derby hat cocked sideways.
All in all, a fun day. Now I’m warm and dry in motel room in Dahlonega, Georgia with the time and the inclination to reflect on the type of fun that one must often be alone to enjoy.
My truck, Squatter, stuck in the mud. On the tailgate is the sign I carried to show passing motorists as I walked out. Blue Ridge WMA, December 2005.
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