T’was the night before Opening Day

T’was the night before Opening Day

We have a hunting ranch in far west Texas that we have owned since 2002.  It is a beautiful, remote area with huge vistas, broad low hills, and majestic sunsets.   We love being out there.   I don’t particularly like the drive to it, since it is over six hours each way so we typically only get out there on three day weekends or special occasions.  But once there, it is the most peaceful place you can imagine.  We are not in any flight patterns so no planes are heard or seen.  No vehicle noise except other owners who might be driving on the caliche road that divides up the properties.  

When out here, you hear no mechanical devices.  Think about that.  Nothing.  No trucks, no horns, no voices (most of the time) and no irritations.  It is a great place to be.  I credit my wife, the fetching Mrs. Intrepid Traveler, for encouraging us to invest in this property.  We bought a small slice of a 10,000 acre Wildlife Management Area.  All the other owners are like minded and want to preserve the beauty and quiet of the area like we do. 

We bring our friends and family out here to deer hunt or to just kick back and enjoy the solitude.  I am not a big deer hunter but that is a major activity here.  So I got to thinking about our hunts from the white tail deer’s perspective.  They are smart and cautious animals.  But they don’t have weapons other than their vision and incredible hearing.   So, I wrote a poem from their point of view, sort of, if they could even the playing field between themselves and the hunters.

A Visit from St. Nicholas

My apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, 1779 -1863, for borrowing his classic poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas", and using it for my own self-gratification.  This is my homage to that poem, and to the deer population that we cherish out here.  

T’was the night before Opening Day

T’was the night before Opening Day, where in the camp house
The hunters were all sleeping, including my spouse
The rifles were stacked by the chimney with care,
In hopes that another trophy head soon would hang there.

The hunters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of white tails danced in their heads.

I was about to turn in when I heard a loud clatter

I ran to the living room to see what was the matter.

From where I stood I could hear someone speak
It was out in the yard, so I decided to peek.

So quick to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a swat team of dark cladded white tail deer.

There was a large older male; strong and well-bred
I knew in an instant he was this group’s head.
More rapid than eagles his soldiers they came,
And he quietly signaled, then called them by name!

Report in!  Bruiser, Guido, Buster, and Ken!
Come in, Miguel, Robert, Bubba, and Ben!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
“Commence the action and round up them all"

Each had weapons, a backpack and blackened faces

Their combat boots were tied tightly with laces

It was not quite the sight one wants on Opening Day

The tables have turned and now we were the prey.

There was a sudden explosion from a flash bang grenade. 

I knew in an instant they were about to invade.

My buddies stumbled into the dark smoky gloom

They tried to make sense of it as they entered the room.

There was a tinkling of breaking glass and the shards fell in
The walls shook with vibration in the erupting din
As my astonishment grew I glanced all around,
Bursting thru the windows and doors, deer came with a bound.

Their leader was dressed all in black, from head to his foot,

His uniform had pockets and zippers to boot.
A bundle of ammo he had stuffed in his pack,
He looked like a Commando, on a determined track.

The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke encircled his antlers like a wreath.
He had a long face and flat hardened waist,
When he stared at me I turned to white paste!

He was muscled and tough.  A mean looking fellow.

And I cried when I saw him, my legs turned to Jello!
A squint of his eye and a twist of his head,
Made me think I soon could be dead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
His team snatched up our weapons with a quick angry jerk.
And soon had our guns all gathered together. 

Then stuffed them all into a bag made of leather.

The leader sneered at us in our pitiful shape

We were scared and knew we could not escape

He grabbed the deer head from the wall and walked to the door

His glare made us all quickly dive for the floor

He slipped out to the darkness, while to his team yelling orders,
And away they all dashed, disappearing in the cedars.
I heard him exclaim, “Good job, tonight”

“Men without weapons makes for a fair fight”.

We stood there amazed.  Did this really just occur?

It happened so quickly it was all a blur.

How could deer dress up in uniforms, or lace up a boot?

And just what the hell will they do with our loot?

And did we just hear talking deer and see them proceed

To swarm thru our camp like trained soldiers? Indeed!

Before this, we were just hunters and not known for a brain,

But now when friends hear this they think us insane.

We never replaced any guns that hunting season

We had no wish to hunt, and we all knew the reason.

We were afraid they’d come back and do us real harm

So instead we decided to take up knitting with yarn.