My dream the other night—a true story, incidentally—is Freudian confirmation that the hunting season is close. Very close. Standing in the cab of his combine, I was asking a farmer permission to hunt his land.
It was a perfect evening in late October. Minutes before, just outside his long, meandering driveway, I sat in my truck and watched mallards by the dozens pitch into a low spot in his corn field. I couldn’t see the water, but I knew it was partially flooded.
I wanted that spot locked up for the morning, and I was ready, if duty called, to beg and/or grovel to seal the deal. I was salivating.
The good news: I didn’t have to beg. The bad news: I didn’t have to beg. He turned me down coldly and dispassionately before I could open my mouth.
“It’ll never happen again,” he said, referring to a group of hunters who tore up parts of his fields and minimum maintenance roads. “I’m not giving permission to hunt my land anymore.”
Ouch. Getting rebuffed stung, but he had a point: We hunters can be our own worst enemies.
