Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
proclaimed to us all that he still had some of that tasty stew left over from yesterday's lunch. There were no takers. And that evening just before sundown, the dumbest, unluckiest buck deer who ever cut a track across the northern plains came wandering by less than 50 yards from the base of my tree and died a much cleaner and more merciful death than the ones me 'n Stick had feared we were in for after our fling with Rowdy's revenge. Early the next morning I quartered my deer and then boned him out and packed him on ice in our big coffin cooler, and by 10:30 we were on the road home. It was a memorable trip, punctuated by more stops than I really care to relate. By now Stick was over the worst of his gastric escapades, but my reaction, it seemed, had only been delayed and was now beginning to manifest itself in all its glory. I hadn't felt this volatile since the time I'd asked Fernando to cook the two-day-old elk heart for me after Pat and Frank had tried to talk me out of it. Neither of us dared mention stopping for lunch, and we finally hauled in for the night just north of Paducah and then continued our tortured odyssey south early the next morning. When we got back that night, we were feeling some better and even beginning to talk about publishing a guide book listing all the rest areas and truck stops and Momand-Pop gas stations between the northern plains and our respective homes in Dixie. And now whenever we're planning another in our long and legendary line of questionable adventures for fish or birds or big game, we are always careful to first check out the credentials of whomsoever might be in charge of culinary prep. If his name happens to be "Rowdy" we simply take a pass. Note: The author always welcomes your comments, questions and input. Please keep in touch at Mike@AltizerJournal.com. S P O R T I N G C 92 L A S S I C S