Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/769056
26 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S Then som'in' jabs you softly. You jerk awake. Your hunter has his finger to his mouth, points. "Ready?!" Switches on the torch. He's in the lower fork, the most beautiful and simultaneously terrifying tomcat you've seen in your lifetime. The pain, the suffering, the tedium—vanishes like smoke in a hurricane. There's nothing but the soaring, momentary thrill of him, the thumping of your heart at him, the gun going off at him. The desperate hope that you've done the damn thing right, cause you're scared-er of the PH than the cat. The riotous clap on your back that says you did. The consummation of that much pain and pleasure is like climax in a feather bed, gloriously delirious. With that, I'll leave you to bargain out the rest of your suffering, June to December. Just remember how big an issue trade deals were in the recent election, and accept a smidgen of advice. For the sake of the swap, and particularly if you're going to bring some seemingly innocent partner into the deal, make it all out to be as desperately wonderful as you want someone to believe it will be. But be sure it's with nobody who really knows better—like your wife, or China. n and you dread pullin' the trigger. Feels like Heaven when you don't. "Hurts so good." Bring on May. Deepest, lovliest, darkest Africa. The Niassa. Mozambique. A spotted pussy cat. Not one, but two big males worrying the baits. How bloody enchanting should you get him the first day? But now it's the evening of the 11th. Your PH won't say, of course, but he's cheesed off at you for miffing a chance at the biggest tom in East Africa on the third, and now it's turned into the Siege of Candia. Ever'thing's gone wrong that could, along with most of what couldn'. With each day, each wait, the air has thickened with sweat and suspense. Moreover, with fear. Fear that he won't come. Fear that he will. Fear that you will botch it again when he does. The whole of your body aches. You're tired. Got to stay awake. Damn the ants, damn the flies, damn the ticks, damn the scorpions, damn ever'thing. You itch from earlobe to tippy-toes. You got to scratch? Don't. Don't talk. Don't move. Don't even think about talking or moving. Only thing you can ask, if you do it silently, is why the hell you're here heaping sadism upon yourself?! hen yelps her head off somewhere behind, he thunders in like a dumb-gum two-year old, and when I hobble and stumble out to retrieve him, it smarts so bad you ain't never felt so good. And then there's April. Well, the ice is not out of the rivers in the West. There's predator huntin'. The shad run in Eastern Carolina. Ice fishing up north. But wait, how 'bout Cordoba? A gazillion paloma—not the cocktails, mind you, (well, maybe the cocktails) but the birds—an' Oh, Goodness, decoyed picazuro. Break out the Guerinis. The first day goes great; your bird boy can't keep up with the counting machine. There's every shot from Sunday, and you're shootin' fabulously. Second day you get a little tired, your shoulder's a touch ouchy, but the birds are phenomenal. Who's complaining? Third day the birds are coming thicker than once swallows did to Capistrano, you can't quit . . . it's worse than heroin addiction, but your shoulder's pleading for a time-out. Fourth day you're approaching the lodge record, but you look like a coal miner that's been in a bar fight, your shoulder's bunged out, your left eye twitches, you're flinchin' 20 feet, the damn birds still haven't surrendered, "Home is the sailor, home from the sea . . ." by JOhn trOy – cOurtesy skyhOrse pubLishing