The Deer Hunter

[Rosey]

I am going hunting in 2 weeks, at beautiful wooded Rosehill Camp near
Corning. I've got my spot picked out. The last time I hunted that land,
which was two years ago, I noticed that a pine grove at the north end
of the property was serving as a hideout for deer that had successfully
run the gauntlet from the cornfields at the top of the hill, through
the forest, past the hunters' treestands and down to safety. This year,
my grizzled accomplice (old RPR) will plant a ground blind for me about
a week in advance, at a natural entrypoint to the pine grove. With no
human activity in the vicinity for a week, the blind should "cool down"
in the minds of my quarry, becoming simply part of the natural
landscape. RPR will also mark the a trail of trees with reflective
thumbtacks, to catch my flashlight's beam and get me to the blind in
the 5 AM darkness on opening day. I will hunker down in full camouflage
with a thermos of coffee, a pair of binoculars, and my Mossberg
12-gauge.
Hopefully there will be snow. Sound is dampened but visibility is
greatly enhanced; in all, snow plays to the hunter's advantage in my
opinion.
Some hunters are blasters. My uncle Steve is infamous for this. He
needs about seventeen cartons of slugs to get through the season. More
restrained hunters are grateful for the "blasters" because they are
effective at driving deer with all their noise into more apparently
safe areas. That, of course, is where I will be, patiently lying in
wait. I am not a blaster. I learned when I was a young lad that a true
hunter uses only one shot per deer season. Although I will carry more
slugs in my knapsack in case of a wounded deer that needs euthanizing,
I will pass up all shots that are not perfect, because I do not intend
to be the one inflicting non-fatal wounds. Nothing is worse for both
the deer and the hunter than a misplaced slug that leaves the animal on
its feet but wounded.
The wiliest, trickiest, mature bucks are the ones most likely to
successfully run the gauntlet to my pine grove. I don't want to take
just any hormonally-crazed 2-year buck running around in the woods
trying to get laid. I want the big guy who's made it through two or
three winters on the strength of his wits, the mature prey animal who
knows it's opening day and that there will be hunters. I want the
antlered dominant buck. I want to outsmart him, outwait him,
outposition him, and kill him. And then I want to thank him, and bring
him home to my wife.
Opening morning features perhaps the most thrilling moment of the year.
The cabin begins to stir at 4:00. Low lamps are lit, coffee is brewed,
and glances bearing the weight of anticipation are traded in silence.
The eight or nine hunters check their gear bags and firearms one last
time, each according to a routine perfected decades ago. No one speaks
as the camouflage is donned and the boots are tightened; the rowdy
jokes and card games of the night before are forgotten now. One by one
the hunters file out of the cabin into the dark and gather for the trek
to their treestands. By 5:00 all are standing in a shadowy circle, and
one obscured anonymous face speaks up: "Ok, let's move."
The hunters move through the pitch-black forest swiftly, all together
at first. The soft glow of the cabin fades behind, and the steep
descent into the seemingly bottomless Flashphaler Creek canyon begins.
As the descent through the darkness continues, the hunters one by one
diverge along their subtly-marked thumbtack trails to their treestands.
The rustle of footsteps through the fallen foliage lessens gradually as
each hunter melts away into the deep woods. Only one set of footsteps
and one flashlight beam is left, and the hunter is alone to make his
way, awed by the solitude of the night forest. For two more hours
before dawn, the notion of deer is absent. There is nothing between the
hunter and his God.

[Michael Stasyna]

Can you hunt illegal immigrants in America? You can attract them with
"opportunity", a carefully placed "JOBS HERE" sign or a welfare office
arrow. I have never hunted, but if I did, I want to go all out -
Hand to hand with a bear, with only the cross around my shoulders,
wearing only a (large) leaf over my genitalia.

I saw Jevon off today. I give him about two weeks...Imagine first day
when he is woken up at 5am...He'll moan and ask for "a couple more
hours". They are going to make mince meat with him.
Pray for him
Mike.

[Joshua Jones]

i can't wait till Jev's repatriation ceremony. thats going to be a shit show for sure!!

peace

---

From:  "Michael Stasyna" <msta...@gmail.com>
Reply-To:  stavo...@googlegroups.com
To:  stavo...@googlegroups.com
Subject:  {Msg from Stavonesy} Re: The Deer Hunter
Date:  Sun, 5 Nov 2006 15:43:56 -0500

[Michael Stasyna]

Gabe,
How do you prevent yourself from farting for 8 hours while hunting?
Does that hurt or help the hunt? Do you bag it, a la Jonesy, hold it
in as a sort of "take the pain" scenario, or do you just let them fly
hoping that the wind carries the sweet smell to the tips of the dear's
glands? Maybe eat lots of Bran before, or oats, stay away from
Chicken wings and hot dogs. Do dear fart? Does that help you on the
hunt? Farting has helped advance the world in more ways than one
(Crusades, WW1, WW2, Deseart Storm), but can it help Gabe bag me some
deer burgers? I ask these questions because I care about your gas and
mine.
Farting Mike

[Rosey]

The full-body camo has yet to be invented with a "fart compartment" aka
a "comfartment." Staz, that was your huge business idea, wasn't it? (I
like the second name better, because it combines the idea of a fart
with the idea of "comfort.") So in the meantime, before such a glorious
product is released, my standard protocol is to let 'em fly to the four
winds. I eat a lot of berries and acorns though, in the hope that my
farts will smell like deer gas.
Rosey

[Rosey]

I'm peeing my pants with anticipation. Off to camp tomorrow...I'll take
pictures. If I die up there, Jevon, I leave you my alarm clock.
Rosey

[Michael Stasyna]

Ladies,
Jevon I know you are now in bootcamp. Just don't give up or I lose $50.
Gabe, bag me a deer. I love venison burgers. Fart downwind.
Jonesy, we are planning a trip to Michigan to visit Mr. and Mrs.
Rossettie. Remember to bring your own toilet paper and water.
Quick Quiz.
Quiz #1- Would you rather have an ass blister from Jevon's sister or a
be pulled apart by Gabe's fart.
Quiz#2 - Would you rather have small pox from Michael J. Fox, or have
your Choda licked by Yoda? ( A Classic)
Quiz #3 - Would you rather comb your hair with Staz's ass hair or
shave your own balls with rusty snowballs?
Good luck in life.
Staz,

[Gabriel Rossettie]

1. Ass blister from Jevon's sister.

2. Yoda

3. Rusty Snowballs

 

And a question for you: Would you rather schlozzle a Bigfoot's nozzle, or tickle a Yeti's hairy pickle?

 

Guess what fellas I shot Bambi's mom! No kidding, on Saturday morning (opening day) I sat on treestand for four hours and saw one doe in the distance, a wildcat, and a pileated woodpecker, but no deer in range. Started second-guessing my choice of location. Then, behind me and to my left, I heard something cha-cha-ing through the woods below a steep ridge behind me and to the left. I swung around and shouldered the shotgun and waited. A minute later I saw a head pop up - no antlers...I was a little disappointed but then I realized it was a very, very large doe. She was stopped, sniffing the air and wondering whether she should come up onto the bench where my stand was, or keep picking her way along the side of the cliff. She didn't like it, and ducked back down. But 20 yards later, she came up again, and kept coming. I waited until she was 40 yards from me and put the sights on the white fur covering the breastplate. The shot flipped her on her back and she was dead as a post before she hit the ground. The slug severed the aorta and she bled out completely in a few seconds. In other words, it was as good a shot as you'll ever take. So I'll have my venison all winter (she'll yield about 45 pounds of meat) and she never knew she was hit. I'm a happy hunter. Unfortunately no pictures except a couple lousy shots on my cell phone, but you can taste the evidence when you come visit me (bring your own asswipes).

 

Camp was terrific. Almost as good as Buckhorn in September. Take care fellas!

Rosey