It begins with hearing the creak of the stove door opening, with someone throwing a few sticks on the coals from last night. Before long, you hear a little crackling and periscope one eye toward the still tightly drawn opening of your sleeping bag to find a greyish hint of daylight. No one really moves much, but a gradual, collective realization that morning has arrived seems to pervade. Before long, it’s almost too warm in the wall tent to stay inside the bag, and a restlessness follows and people start to emerge. A dog stretches before curling up and laying down again, a little closer to the heat source.
Muscles are stiff, and there’s the faint remnant of retribution from last night’s whiskey, preventing much conversation. Or coordination, for that matter. An empty bottle or two get knocked over in an effort to get the coffee pot on the stove. Someone throws on boots and trips over the tent door, cursing, on a relief mission.
Presently, frying garlic and onions awake what is left of dormant senses and the mental fog begins to lift. Sausage and peppers get added to the mix and take it to a new level. Something which probably wouldn’t be funny in an otherwise full state of consciousness cracks all of you up. Soon glorious caffeine is infusing the body with fresh fire. Yesterday’s beatdown, traversing steep cliffs, slipping and falling on greasy rock, and the ensuing aches, forgotten. Tails start to wag and a cup of coffee goes over. So the day begins anew and nothing else really matters in high, windswept country where humans and dogs and chukar sometimes cross paths.
– Smithhammer
Mouthful of Feathers 
When I’m in that place I’m often in where I want to be a better writer, I like to come here. But mostly I stay one paragraph too long.
Three paragraphs here. The first is compelling, the second inspirational. But the third, now the third just pisses me off. I should be happy that someone can think these thoughts and write these words and that I am privileged enough to read them. But I can’t because I’m jealous.
Well done, as always. And, as always, I am compelled, inspired, and a little pissed.
Wall tents? Firebox? You boys go out in style. Someday… someday.
No doubt more whiskey ensues?
Very nice read, Bruce. Reminds me of trips to the ADKs with my dad. Great memories in the simplest details.
Be well.
Matt
You write about bird hunting like I wish I wrote about hog hunting… but I think we share the same kind of fever.
Great stuff. Added you to the blog roll so I can pop in and check it out when I need a little humility mixed with a great read.