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Booshway |
Some years ago a few men and I went on a trek with only bare necessities relying on hunting for food. The problem was hunting was very poor and after two days without food I finely killed a squirrel. Nothing tasted so good or gave me strength more than that one little squirrel. When you're very hungry hunting becomes a very serious matter and you turn into a desperate predator. From that experience came this little poem. Walk slow, step soft watch ahead, look aloft rifle ready, thumb on the cock prime in the pan of the rifles lock The hunter's senses aware and keen his belly is empty flat and lean If luck be with him he'll make a kill meat for the pot to get his fill hunger satisfied for another day giving strength to be on his wayThis message has been edited. Last edited by: NWTF Longhunter, | ||
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Booshway |
I like it! "Return unto me, and I will return unto you," saith the Lord of hosts. ~Malachi 3:7b | |||
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Factor |
Good 'un! 'Bout time you got your poemin' back out. Seems to me some of these newer fellas need to know about the Ghost of Armstrong Creek . . . Fiddlesticks As long as there's Limb Bacon a man'll eat! (But mebbe not his wife...) | |||
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Booshway |
The Ghost of Armstrong Creek by Ron LaClair Armstrong Creek is a special place where Whitetails get real old no one ever goes there for it's haunted, so we're told. Years ago a man named Armstrong came to pan for gold Hostile Indians took his scalp and left him naked in the cold. They say his ghost is still around that he's looking for his hair most folks believe the story and no one ever hunts there. I don't believe in ghost and such my blood's not made of milk I just know there's Bucks in there with horns as big as elk. Come this week end I'll be there just me with my flintlock gun no ghost is gonna scare me off I'm gonna have some fun. Saturday morning in pre dawn light I crept along the creek the smells were old-- I heard a noise! I felt my knees go weak. A monster Buck suddenly appeared as he sprang from where he lay up came the gun the hammer fell the ball was on it's way The buck was down--His rack was Huge! I'd need help to get him out I turned to leave but something---- made me stop and turn about There he stood, beside my Buck He was ghostly pale and thin His scalp was gone, his naked body wore nothing but a grin I was frozen in my tracks I couldn't move or speak I was standing face to face with the ghost of Armstrong Creek. He spoke to me, the sound was strange like nothing I'd heard before "Good shot old coon" He said to me I thought he might say more. But he turned and vanished in the shadows my legs suddenly found life I flipped that buck upon his back and pulled my hunting knife. A slash, a pull, his guts were out I grabbed him by a horn Two hundred pounds of whitetail pulled as easy as if newborn. Now there's more big Bucks back in there boys but they're not for the meek If you think you're brave my friend, Try hunting Armstrong Creek. | |||
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<mtnmike> |
After a couple days no grub,the stalk gets harder,the belly goes into growl mode and scares the critters | ||
Factor |
Wow,how'd I miss this? Beer is proof that God loves us,and wants us to be happy-B. Franklin | |||
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Free Trapper |
Great poems Longhunter. That last one gived me the willies! And I don't even believe in hants and windigos. "They do not live their lives 'by your leave'! They hack it out of the wilderness with their own two hands, bearing their children along the way!" - Cora Monroe - "Last Of The Mohicans" | |||
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