You see, it was the first day of buck season, and if you're a red blooded American male in southwestern Pennsylvania, you'd better be dead or in jail if you miss the first day of buck.
"Oh Jesus," I thought. "Not now."
I stood quietly, trying to think pleasant thoughts while the grumbly in my tumbly grew more and more intense. Finally I couldn't hold off any longer; I realized that it was now or never.
Before we go any further, I guess I should explain exactly how I was dressed at the time. It was cold as hell, and so I was quite bundled up. The first layer consisted of long johns, followed by jeans and a t-shirt. Next came a pair of bib overalls. Then a hoodie sweatshirt, a parka, and an orange safety vest. This ensemble was topped off by a fanny pack belted around my waist (I was dressed for warmth, not fashion). In addition, I had a pair in binoculars around my neck and a rifle in my gloved hands.
I staggered though the brush down towards a stream that I had passed earlier. Finding a likely spot, I tore off my gloves, unloaded my trusty Winchester and leaned it against a tree, and proceeded to strip off my vest, coat, hoodie, boots (my overalls wouldn't come off over them), overalls, jeans, t-shirt and, finally, long johns. Not a moment too soon.
The silence of the mountain was shattered by a sound louder than the rifle fire. The newly-fallen snow was desecrated with a foul liquid that had surely came straight from the very depths of hell. As I squatted naked in the icy morning, nearly retching from the stench, I remember thinking, "Well, at least it can't get any worse."
Ha! Fat chance. It was then that I realized that I had forgotten to bring any toilet paper (a cardinal sin in the wilderness, as any outdoorsman will tell you). I faced a dilemma as old as the mountains themselves: should I just skip the wipe? Or should I do it Daniel Boone style?
Due to the nature of the poop, skipping the wipe was definitely out. So I gritted my teeth, grabbed a handful of fallen leaves, and went to work. Now remember, it was late November, and the leaves were all frozen to the ground and dry and brittle. So after several moments of wiping I realized that I was no cleaner than I was when I started, except now I had mud and leaf fragments between my cheeks and a poo-covered hand to boot.
Cursing, I quickly got dressed. And as I knelt down to wash my hands in the stream, I heard something walking down the hill towards me.
I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a huge ten point buck standing maybe fifty feet from me.
Unbelievable. A trophy deer within spitting distance and here I am with an unloaded gun and poo-stained long johns.
We looked at each other for what seemed like hours, until he slowly turned and ambled away.
I was sure I could hear that deer laughing.