Huntography's Halloween Visit

   It pains me to say this, but I love Halloween more than National Fiddler's Week.  Shocking, I know but it's true.  The only problem with my love for Halloween is that I grew up in a climate that was not conducive to cute costumes.  Ritualistically, every year, it would snow on All Hallow's Eve. The chilly precipitation would cause my brother and me to either a) cancel trick-or-treating b) force our dad to drive us around in his heated truck or c) (the most chosen selection because we were kids, and of course, complete whores for anything wrapped in chocolate, nougat, or the like) alter our costumes in order to comfortably fit a snowsuit underneath. Eventually, Dave just went as some variety of snow man or skier to avoid the hassle but I couldn't get out of my pink glitter phase.  My mom isn't the biggest fan of the holiday so I went as a princess for four years running, a "snow queen" if you will, as my costume consisted of a gigantic down jacket, thick thermal boots and a tiara.

   This year's Halloween is going to be interesting, not only because we will be spending far away from the snow-filled land of my youth, but also because Huntography will be joining us.  Obviously, this has been a long time coming but as I sit now, looking at my disaster of a house, it seemed like time sped up, forcing the day to get here more quickly.  We have been doing a lot to prepare for this monumental occasion from reconfiguring deer stands to putting out corn, speed-processing our deer to ensure venison is on hand for ingestion purposes to doing laundry and everything in between.  Besides completing all the necessary tasks one must go about in order to show his or her home off to the world, I also took it upon myself to ensure that my home looks as "fallish" as possible.  This means that I have not raked a single leaf (it takes away from the inherent colors of the season, you see) nor left our pumpkins uncarved.  In order to really illustrate how one prepares for Huntography to visit, I made a little video which is televised below. I do hope that Rudy appreciates all the hard work I've put in, I hope as well that he isn't afraid of sleeping in the basement..

    Since our pumpkins got an entire post devoted to them last year, I figure they would be disappointed without a couple of close-ups so here they are:

DU's pumpkin, which hands-down just plain rocks, was outlined by my steady hand but conceived of by my domestic partner. 

Note: Many beer cans were harmed during the making of this pumpkin. 

My albino pumpkin was just waiting for me before I plucked her from the patch.  At a loss for what to do, I carved my outdoor pseudonym for all to enjoy.  Figuring this a simple task, I started the carving at 5 in the afternoon, it was completed days after, as the process turned out more arduous than expected.

   Before I leave you guys and ghouls to your own fallish devices, I wanted to quickly direct your attention to an interview I did with Knife Depot.  It was a terribly nifty experience to illustrate the importance of knives during a hunt to non-hunters who fallow the depot's blog.  Please do check it out and follow the Knife Depot on Facebook! 

Happy Halloween, y'all!

BOO!

 

DUCK, DUCK, BOOM

   A hazy cloud of heat rises from the wood burning stove as the smell of campfire fills the small cabin.  Steam rolls off of the adjacent pond, noting to all that what hovers above is much colder than what lies beneath.  The grass is splattered with a frost that can only come when the ancient thermometer on the porch dips below 40 and settles somewhere between that integer and 20.  Our lengthy forays in the tree-covered dome are being cut short by a setting sun, a freezing chill, and a windy howl.  Oscar, the over-weight, winter-intolerant pooch, who lives for the word "outside", barely peeks the tip of his nose into the outdoors before retreating swiftly back into the smoldering confines of our bed.

  Our world is cooling, the deer are starting to move, Oscar hates everything outside of things covered in pillows, combine these with the factors above and it is clear that duck season is approaching.  Duck hunters are crazy, simply because no individual in their right mind would enjoy trekking out into this land to stand in freezing water, lips wrapped around an equally glaciated call, feet bound by bib-contraptions, in order to manipulate and kill waterfowl. I never thought that I would be lumped into this category but here I am, looking out into the chilly landscape, seeing all that I see, and knowing that soon enough, I'll be there, eyes perched to the sky, waiting.


   This season will be a little bit different this year, at least for a week that is, because DU and I will be taking along a visitor on our hunting excursions.  His name is Chaos, he's a redhead (no ginger jokes, please!), in addition, apparently he has an affinity for bars, especially those seedier ones filled with whiskey and a loose woman or two.  A kind of exchange-student program, the idea was sparked by Adam Young, a dedicated and at oftentimes, overexcited young man whose overzealous nature concerning duck hunting drew me in like a perfectly placed decoy spread.  His Twitter account was full of HELL YEAH, WATERFOWL of an EXTREME nature, and all the things that make waterfowl hunting a passion that so few hold dear.  Young grouped together a gaggle of waterfowl hunters, spanning from Wisconsin to Iowa, California to Montana, Ohio to Massachusetts, Minnesota to Texas.  He then proposed an idea to this like-minded group, to share a decoy for one season.  We were to record our thoughts, feelings, experiences in not only written form but photographic as well (video for me, too, so stay tuned as you know it'll be good!).  We all readily agreed, picked our dates and now we're waiting for Chaos' arrival.

    Before Chaos set out to spread his own brand of mischievousness upon the homes of The Goose Mafia and Luke Kujacznski, Young asked me to write a story that could be used to explain Chaos' upbringing, how he came to want to fly around the country in such aberrant way, and of course, why we're partaking in such a project.  I agreed, happy to help in any way I could, and wrote the following story.  Keep in mind,  I wrote the piece before the then-innocent decoy changed his name to Chaos (must have been that Goose Mafia crew that made the innocent little redhead transform into a firecracker...) and prior to his whirlwind adventure, which means that the story took place well before Young ever thought of the project.  Young plucked the otherwise invisible decoy from obscurity, took him under his wing (possibly vice-versa but Chaos isn't talking) and let him fly.

DUCK, DUCK, DUCK, BOOM;

The Tales of a Traveling Decoy

Stewart was just the regular, run- of- the- mill decoy, from his red head to his stagnant cork tail.  His life was the same as any other decoy.  He was crafted from the hands of one more skilled than he then sat on a shelf with his fellow Aves members, waiting to be plucked and do what he was born to do. 

Sure he wished that he resembled the Mandarin down the way, his orange feathers shining like a hunter walking through dead timber on a frosty December day. 

And of course he yearned to mirror the head of the Mallard, trading his red hued dome for a richer, forest-friendly color. 

But for all the wishing he did, he never foresaw what would happen when he was finally brought home.

It was a regular Joe, sporting old school camouflage, who brought home a barrel of decoys, Stewart included.  Shoved into a mesh bag with his brethren, our main concern happily gazed out as his birthplace faded in the distance, swaying back and forth as his new owner’s feet padded across the gravel road. 

I have finally made it, Stewart said to himself.  I have made it and now I will be the most convincing duck that God ever put on water. 

Stewart did not have to wait long.

His new owner was busy with his life, kids and pregnant wife, filled with a life Stewart had never known.  So, with the time crunch, the owner only had mere days before duck season came around to put his new decoy family to deadly use.

Stewarts’s lids pulled back and began adjusting to the light as the garage door began retreating from the ground.  Wishing he could flap his feathers and stretch out his concrete limbs, Stewart sat, immobile, watching the owner run about, collecting guns, shells, and beef jerky in his monster hands as quickly as possible.  Voices were heard in the distance and as Stewart strained his ears to hear them, he noticed 6 pairs of muddy boots appear next to the mesh bag.  Laughing, a man tore open the bag and fetched our hero from his stagnant place.  The man seemed to inspect every inch of Stewart before throwing him into the air.

Stewart’s first flight was a brief one but one that would make him different from his ducky counterparts forever.  While they sat in their ignorance in that hole- ridden bag, Stewart was soaring through the air, just like a duck was supposed to do.

Stewart returned to the groundness of earth enlightened, and as his unaware neighbors were set upon the water in precise patterns, he saw them for what they were, faux ducks.

He knew he wanted to help these men, these hunters of the foggy morning but he also knew he wanted to tap into his natural instinct, to fly and be one with the expansive blue above.

Stewart bobbed along with the waves that morning, allowing his Anatidae body to succumb to the therapeutic modulation of the transparent liquid black.  When the water allowed, he looked at the hunters, huddled in the boat, laughing like drunkards at a pub, red-faced and obviously thrilled even though no ducks had graced their skies with their streaks of color.

When the ducks did come, Stewart’s blue beak turned the angry hue of jealousy, seeing the birds in flight, dipping and diving to avoid the incoming steel assault.

Some birds fell and while our main duck fell with them, he still hankered for a chance to fly with the rest.

The hunt ended.  Stewart watched as the hunters placed each of his brothers and sisters into the mesh bag.  He watched as the hunters surveyed their empty spread, finished their coffee and took off, the long-tailed motor propelling them home.

Stewart sat and waited. 

Other ducks came; they tried in vain to communicate with the odd Aythya Americana to no luck.

Night fell and with it our sad hero’s spirits.

He sat until the following morning when another group of hunters came upon the spot.  Laughing at the fortune of finding such a striking decoy in the middle of the swamp, they vowed to pass along the lucky duck amongst one another. 

Stewart, in his glory, saw many lakes, ponds, swamps, and creeks.

He was amused by the large number of ducks who tried, again in vain, to make his acquaintance.

He was passed between the men for years until the group began falling off, one by one.  One stopped hunting while another was too busy with his familial obligations. 

The pair who remained pledged to keep the swap going, not only between themselves but anyone who lives for the pure passion of waterfowl hunting.

Stewart has been in trains, planes, and automobiles. 

He flies weekly and has seen more of the world than the regular person does in a lifetime.

He has been across the world and back; now he is here for you.

   The following waterfowl hunters are participating in the Traveling Decoy 2011:

Goose Mafia

Luke Kujacznski

Csundsmo

Duck CommanderTS

Kerry Mackey

HookAndHuntTV

Waterfowlhunter

SDO Greg

NEWicked Sports

Writing Huntress

DuckWhacker

Be sure to follow these folks, if you haven't already, no idea why you wouldn't, as Chaos makes his way across the country!

  

Zoolander Lessons for Huntographers

   Zoolander may be one of the most ridiculous movies ever created and I, for one, never believed one could really take anything away from it, let alone a lesson about hunting.  With its walk-offs, freak gasoline fight accidents, orange mocha frappachinos, centers for "kids who can't read good and want to do other stuff good too", inabilities to turn left, gigantic male model egos and a heavy helping of some of the dumbest things you never wanted to hear come out of anyone's mouth, Zoolander is not a source of scholar nor moral fiber.  I, however, am shamed to say that this movie was the first thing I thought of when I first began preparing for Rudy, owner and operator of Huntography, to film every moment of my hunting day.

    Huntography is Rudy's baby, his project which exists in order to show how real hunters hunt, not the tanned, product-placement masters who dominate the majority of outdoor TV today. Rudy came to me earlier this year, when I first began my Twitter account.  He had sent me a message asking if I would like to be filmed while hunting.  At that time, being so new to the game, I was wary of what this entailed.  Would I have to travel? Is this going to be on TV? Will I come off like those huntresses on TV who I in no way connect with? I wanted to say no, but my fingers, knowing a good thing when they sense it, typed three little letters, Y-E-S.

   Months passed and I forgot entirely about the project. I was busy dealing with companies closing, the loss of my salary, DU's college graduation and the tribulations that go hand-in-hand with raising three crack addled dogs.  Huntography, in its vain but persistent attempt to catch my attention through the caterwauling of the rest of my life, finally won its chance in the spotlight when Rudy announced his 2011 specimens in June.  Although the little thought painstakingly had his center stage, the rest of his brethren were scattered about around him, screaming for me to attend to their need too.  Apologizing to the dear little thought, I patted him on the head then turned my attention to another lost job, another deficient bank account and more canine drama.  That is, until now.

   I am a mere two weeks from being filmed by Rudy which, of course, propelled the little thought forward, sharing center stage with an equally important interview*.  Huntography 2011 has already kicked off, visiting my Twitterbuddy, Michele and her husband, which means that I have a lot of cleaning to do.  While sitting at my kitchen table, dogs besprinkled about my feet, making my list of things to do (ie: clean up house, make basement look presentable, have a stern talking to with the dogs to implore them not to shed as Rudy's allergic, make house look fall festive, if budget allows, lose 15 pounds, get hair done, if budget allows, figure out menu, set up hunting land, sight in bow, and force myself to clean my study.), my mind began to drift, thinking about Zoolander.

   Zoolander, if you haven't seen it, why would you, really when it is just a gigantic, glitter and couture filled train wreak that you cannot tear your retinas away from, is about a male model.  The male model is breathtakingly stunning but equally phlegmatic.  He harbors an inability to turn left, a coal miner father who simply does not understand his chosen career path and a signature look dubbed "Blue Steel".  The story doesn't really make any sense and ends with the rescue of the leader of Micronesia via  Zoolander's divine ability to suddenly turn left and produce "Magnum", a look that sends out blue hues which somehow stops a razor form killing the prime minister. At this time, you should be asking yourself how this has anything to do with Huntography and if you're not, then you know me all too well.

   At one point, early in the movie, Zoolander is asked "Ahh... Derek, I don't know if you're familiar with the belief that some aboriginal tribes hold... It's the concept that a photo might steal a part of your soul. I'm mean what are your thoughts on that, as someone who gets his picture taken for a living?" . Zoolander, of course answers like a muttonhead, "Well, I guess I have to answer your question, with another question... How many abadigitals do you see modeling!?".  This question struck me as thought provoking so, as any former English major would do, I began researching this quandary.  It seems that many Native American tribes still refuse to be photographed.  Even Crazy Horse, a legendary Native American, never was photographed while still breathing.  This routes back from a superstition surrounding mirrors.  Those who refuse to look at a mirror, or even a mirror image of one's self on paper, view the reflective surface as the perfect platform to steal souls.  In many cultures, the soul is believed to have thirteen parts, each of which can be damaged or wholly removed when a picture is taken.  In addition, some cultures see pictures as a Voodoo tool, since a likeness can act as a catalyst for witchcraft.  Photography, to many aboridinal tribes, should be seen with "distrust...photography, more than any other art form, has the ability to capture a living elemnt of life, a flashpoint of the soul."  This sounds all well and good to some but to others this means that "photographyic images capture an aspect of that lived moment, a reflection of reality...that would normally be lost to history... [this process] literally steal[s] a portion of life...[this] causes a degree of damage in the life force photographed".

   Obviously, beliefs such as those featured above would make anyone second guess the next time a flash bulb explodes.  However, as I sat, mulling over all that I had come to learn, I became aware of my life force, the thing that is inherently me.  I looked through the millions of photographs that I have been taken of me since even before I came into the world.  I then thought about my presence on camera, in a tree, living the life I adopted some years previous. I, after researching the phenomena covered, agree to some extent that photography cannot be trusted (especially for unfaithful husbands, private investigators and photo-shopped models).  I also accede the belief that photographs abduct an facet of a moment that cannot be lived again but I do not see that as something to be feared**.  Although one can argue that photos (especially those on Facebook posted the morning after extremely inebriated nights) can do a degree of damage to the soul, no disfigurement is ever done when the image captures something beautiful, earth shaking, and inherently real.

   I plan to bring this new found belief to the filming of my own Huntography. I will be myself, my strange, strange self. I will not hold back when I feel a hyena laugh or pig snort rumble from deep within.  I will clean my house, because really, it's more beautiful that way.  Most of all, I will present myself as the huntress that I am, the huntress that started this project because there was no commercialized huntress that I could relate. My dogs will act insane, partially rabid and oftentimes, downright puzzling. DU and I will banter, which will make the viewing audience believe that we cannot stand one another.  E4 will be E4, which is entertaining enough.  I will show the world my little life and hope y'all enjoy it.

    If y'all don't mind me cutting this little lesson short, I have a whole lot of super-important things to do.  I have less than two weeks to get my life prepared to be filmed, which, hopefully, after today, shouldn't take long at all.  Then again, maybe I'll just practice my own "Magnum".

*Interview time! Looks like I impressed the right people at the POPAT because I am onto the next step of the process, the interview and swim test.  Since a game warden spends the majority of his or her time on the water, it is imperative that an applicant have a thorough knowledge of water, as well as how to move in it.  Apparently, I have to swim from one end of the pool to the other, which shouldn't be a difficult task but after the initial test, I never know what to expect! Once I get word, y'all will be the first to know!
** Note: I am not Native American nor a member of any aboriginal tribe.  Hence, I was not brought up learning any lessons that are shared within a tribe so my views are simply based on the research I performed which was, I admit, not as thorough of an investigation as I am normally one to perform.  If you have any issues with my theories or research, please do not hesitate to e-mail me (huntlikeyourehungry@gmail.com) or comment below!

Die Verwandlung

   I have found that I, in many ways, resemble a dung beetle.  Not any dung beetle, mind you, but a very specific and overlarge beetle named Gregor.  To those of you who have no idea as to what I am referring, let me explain.  My buddy, Gregor was an ordinary fellow, he went to work, supported his family and above all, kept order.  He led a normal life, albeit a threadbare one, until one day when he woke up and was no longer who he had been.  Squinting his beady eyes to his regular ceiling on what should have been a regular day, Gregor was regular no more.  His body had undergone a grotesque transformation, where once lay a human being now, a gargantuan dung beetle.  His hard exoskeleton shone in the morning light, his many legs squirmed aside his body, he was unable to move; worst yet, he was going to be late for work.

   He managed to swing his bulbous body to the floor amidst the empathic cries from his family and employer. Scuttling to the door in a way that only an insect can, Gregor pries open the door, much to the disgust and bewilderment of his family. They are repulsed by him, their former son, so much so that they lock him in his room, hoping his "condition" will cease to exist.  After a while, however, they begin to come around and even offer Gregor gifts of food at his door, delivered by his only sister.  She will not look at him, the sight of the family's sole provider in such a state, and he feels his own repulsion as a result.  Soon, however, Gregor begins to find his stride.  He finds joy in climbing the walls and ceilings of his prison.  He begins to relish the time spent gazing out of his window, a veritable television set for the insect-minded.

   Just as Gregor begins to feel as if his condition is not a completely cursed one, his mother walks into his room, catching the humansect unawares.  She faints, he cowers and then is attacked by his father who throws apples at the insect's fragile exoskeleton. He is wounded, but recovers.  Gregor's family, over time, begins to neglect him.  He, in turn, ceases eating and moving all together. Time passes and the family begins to take in overnight guests as a way to supplement their depreciating income. During one such visit, a group of lodgers comes to stay.  Gregor's sister entertains the gadabouts with her violin which draws Gregor from his self-inflicted confinement.  The story, obviously, goes down-hill from there.  Gregor spooks the lodgers, scars his family, and ultimately ends, dying of his own accord from love of his family, or, more likely, a broken spirit.

   A year ago on October 4th, I began this blog.  A year ago, I did not have my voice, nor did I have a great community of hunters, supporters, and friends.  I thought Twitter to be beneath me, a simple soundboard for the boring, uninteresting persons with an obscene amount of time on their hands.  After two lost jobs and two consecutive fails at blogging I believed myself a failed writer.  I stopped writing because my life did not warrant any type of special consideration, especially by way of the written word.  Like Gregor, my creative life became threadbare. While the rest of my life soared, changed, and exploded in possibility, my writing fell by the wayside; a forgotten earring, left on a patch of concrete, a crumpled up poem, never read.

    There were days in college that I never stopped writing, it being the sole lifeblood of my scholastic career. I wrote about sodium rivers running through the plentiful snow on campus, the sad life story of a rubber duck named "Mustard Quackington", Shakespeare's unabashed use of Petrarchan cliche, and of an appreciation of Walden Pond through Fourth Lake.  Once I graduated, I slowly began to live absent of the written word.  I experienced a Gregor-esque sense of work, the way it began to overpower every facet of my life, a bulldozer of creative thought. Then came that fateful October day.

    I remember telling DU that my fingers were tingling all the time, a surefire sign that writing needed to be done.  When he asked what I wanted to write about, my answer was simple but still rings true today, "hunting".  I wanted to write about my life as a huntress, but not in the way that I have seen done before.  I did not yearn to write about where we set up the blinds, who came to hunt or the exact number of animals harvested in a season.  I did not want to write about what everyone already knows or even expects of a huntress in North Carolina.  I wanted to write how I write, a curving type of writing which begins at point A, jumps to point M, then returns to tell of some lesson back at point A.  I wanted to use metaphor, analogy, simile, and irony in a way that compliments not only my craft but my passion as well.  I started out humbly enough, amassing 110 views my first month which sent me into a flurry of excitement, so much so that DU and I went out to dinner to celebrate.

   A year has passed, my thesaurus has worn thin, my ideas reaching stranger by the day and yet, my views climb.  Maybe CNN had something to do with it, or that I may be the only person on earth to blog about my obsessive (read: mythical and insane) Jackalope hunting, but my blog continues to peak an interest, which baffles me to no end. I feel like the gigantic dung beetle who discovers the rapture that comes along with climbing ceilings, scaling walls, and watching the hubbub of life below a windowsill.  I am being myself, my weird, off putting, random, iconoclastic self, climbing up the walls of traditional outdoor writing and tearing them to pieces. And, for the first time in my life, I would not have it any other way.

    I could give you all the facts and figures of my first year, but I wanted to pick out some of my own favorites from this year, pieces that I am drawn to like a dung beetle to a violin, to show how far my creative life has blossomed in three hundred and sixty-five beautiful days. Before we really get into that, I want to thank you all for your continued patronage. Without your views and comments, this blog would be nothing and I, a sad beetle, surrounded by discarded furniture, dying of a broken artistic spirit. I am humbled by each glance, each thought, and each of you. So, again, thank you, to the ends of the earth and back, thank you.

Posts who are are the apple of my eye and some who aren't;

A year of posts, in review.*

1. I hate this post. Granted, it was my first and I had a lot to learn but I still hate it. After months of contemplating if I was going to take it down or not, it's still there, a testimony to how far I have come. 

2. A post that garnered practically no views but I love it for the day it was, when we slept in but didn't really care.

3. This was the one that started it all. The post that Albert Rasch highlighted in his blog, a mention that without which, I may not be still writing today. 

4. I adore this post because 100% of it happened exactly as I recreated it.  That, and it was, at least to me, my introduction to the hunting world.

5. This post sucks. It just does. It's short, has no real literary content and is not me at all. I think I wrote this because I wanted to write something about tacos but couldn't really tie it in with anything else. Oh and the pictures are terrible too.

6. This one isn't really good either. Conceptually, it was a home run but practically, it just didn't work. I hated it while I was writing it but I figured I'd post it anyway, just for an occasion such as this!

7.  I had just taken a bunch of pictures that I really dug and wanted to put them in a post. Then this happened and I loved it. One of my absolute favorites.

8. It was on CNN and Sarah Palin looked like an idiot. I guess if you combine those two factors, I should love it but I don't.

9. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE this post. Really. It is in the top three for me not only because it happened but it rings so true with any hunter who has a job they hate. 

10. This is also in the top three. It made me laugh as I was writing it and, again, it was 100% true, from the Chuck Norris jokes to the drug dealing neighbors. 

11. I cry every time I read this one. Every time. My granddad was such a great man.  I really cannot wait to hear what he has to say about my lost deer.. 

12. I mention people killing one another over excessive adoration, which means I really liked this post. This one came out of nowhere but I loved where it ended up. 

13. This one is pretty terrible. My message and my wordage conflicted, so what I meant to say didn't really pan out which made readers confused. Hence, not good. 

14. Poetry isn't fun and it doesn't really belong here but it's here anyway. I don't hate it, but I don't like it either. So I'm Sweden on this one, nice and neutral.

15. If I read something and it tugs at my heartstrings, even though I was the author, then it must be a nugget of genius. Which this post is, funnily enough. 

16. The South is a weird place. Very weird. So weird that I needed to write about it, a post that I love because it is so, insanely enough, true.

17. The introduction for this video is great because I bodily threaten my readers. I think this is funny so I love this post, the video is pretty good too. 

18. I didn't like this post until my dad asked me which TV channel my fictitious show was going to air. I found this amazing as my rhetorical prowess must have reached its zenith without me even knowing it. 

19. This day will live in my mind forever. I wrote this post moments after getting home from the hunt which made it raw and extremely real.

20. This post didn't really get the love I thought it would but it didn't really matter to me. Tree stand days are the best days that exist, which I had forgotten about until sitting down to craft this post. It is in these small realizations and remembrances that I come to adopt the ability to hug my own writing. Years will pass, things will change but I will always be able to look back on this year because my creative spirit awoke, not as a beetle, but as a writer. 

* Please note: I included just a small collection of those writings I like, there are more that I abhor and adore but I figured twenty was a good, clean number which would keep you interested.  This is not my attempt to toot my own horn (I still love this awkward saying) but to simply share with you my year in the only way I know how. Cheers!

POPAT For Dummies

    Fayettville, NC is home to the largest population of gentleman's clubs in the wold. This statement is not rooted in fact but given that I was privy to more of the sleazy establishments yesterday than I had in my entire life, Amsterdam's red light district included, it must be true.  This has nothing to do with anything, much less what I have to say here today, except I figured it was a great hook. A hook being the first sentence in a body of literature that pulls you in like an anglerfish's transfixing glow. I feel that these few words perorated with some sort of sentence completing punctuation are the most important in an essay because if you cannot grab a reader within the first few strokes of the typewriter, you've lost them forever in a mist of bad writing. (Note: I always wanted to start a piece with something like "It was a very, very cold day that freezing July morning when the elusive Moose came to dinner", then start in with an overly explanatory explanation about why Moose prefer muffins to anything else which makes their meat that much more succulent.)

    I believe the beginning of this post is a good hook because it provides some sort of psudofact, includes a scandalous additive that many have frequented but refuse to tell about, and makes readers wonder how in the world the statement will connect to anything I have to say.  Which, of course, will make it all the more ironic when I said it has nothing to do with anything in this juncture, possibly in the future, but not now. However, since you're reading, and why would you stop when you have invested so much time and effort in this excrutiating process anyway, then the hook must have worked so I can really begin with the lesson of the day.

   DU has wanted to be a game warden since before I met him. He wanted to help people enjoy his most treasured pastime, and at the same time, help preserve it from those who take advantage of all that mother nature has to offer.  Hearing that the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission was recruiting, DU applied. Not realizing that I was applying for the same position as he was, I blindly followed weeks later.   I had completely forgotten about the application until I received a letter 19 days ago, informing me that my POPAT, Police Officer Physical Assessment Test, was scheduled for September 28th. I was in the proximity of being excited until I read what was required of me.  I began to cry, a disgruntled DU looking on, and realized there was no way I could complete the course in 8 minutes, 26 seconds.  My domestic partner, always one to encourage me at any turn, informed me that he would be jumping for joy if he received such a letter so I should man up, take the thing and do my best. It took me twenty minutes of feeling sorry for myself that I saw the situation through his eyes. He would have loved to have a shot at this job, even just to try out, and there I was, a crying three year old whose beloved Barbie's head was just shoved into a radiator and partially melted. I gathered the pieces my self-loathing person scattered around the room like confetti, told myself I could do it, and started my work.

    The POPAT is the assessment that is given to see if a person can do a series of tasks that normal officers would have to do everyday. The modified test that was laid out before me in black and white did not resemble the one I stumbled upon online, the test I had been recreating in my yard thrice weekly.  I changed up my game plan, tapped into my inner juice head who had begun another round of roids, then started getting ready.  I did Yoga as much as possible, stretching myself into poses that would make a contortionist proud. When I hunted, I was the only one allowed to drag deer, decoy sleds, or anything remotely burdensome.  I kicked my way through Kenpo, pushed the world down as I rose myself up, and ran, a lot.

    However, nothing truly compared to what I experienced yesterday, test day.  I had risen at 4, mere hours after my eyes finally closed through a cloud of nervous energy, to make the trek to Salemburg, NC.  The hamlet is positioned just outside of the strip club capital and home to Fort Bragg, Fayettville.  The drive was ensconced by darkness, much to my joy during my retreat when the neon-lighted, scantily clad edifices rose seemingly out of no where. When I finally dropped anchor at my destination, I was overcome with the humidity, a dank pother whose presence I haven't encountered in months.  I arrived at the auditorium a half hour before the test time of 8:00 was to begin.  Seventy eyes stared back at me as I cascaded down the isle.  We were registered, taken to the test site, shown what would be required, then all but twenty-five of us returned to wait our turn.  While we waited, more of our number decreased when the officers began divulging aspects of the job.

ASPECTS OF A NORTH CAROLINA WILDLIFE OFFICER'S JOB

(as told to me by a very stately looking NC representative. Please note: If you want to take this test or go for one of these positions, please find out as much information as you can PRIOR to going to the test site.  I learned many things that would eliminate a vast majority of people, DU included, even before testing began which is why I am telling y'all this now.)

* You will have to work holidays, weekends, nights, days, whenever but you will get extra days off for your efforts. 

* You will be on-call 24/7, if they need you, you go, no matter what. 

* It is impossible for you to work for the county in which you dwell right out of officer school. That transfer can only happen after three years of toil, so get ready to move. 

*Officer school spans 19 weeks at the training facilities. You must live there. 

* If you have been convicted of a crime that forced you to go to jail, you cannot be hired by the state. 

* You will be issued a truck, boat, and four wheeler once you complete your training. These belong to the state so they pay all the expenses, gas included. 

* If you can't swim, either learn how to or do not apply, they will not teach you how. 

* If you have tattoos on your upper arms that reach more than three quarters to your elbow, be ready to remove them. NC does not allow tattoos showing in a demi-sleeved (more than short-sleeved) shirt. If you do have such a body marking, you can test but you must consider taking an eraser to the art.  (This rule, which forced many of my testing compatriots to vacate the premises, would have forced DU out of his chair as well.)

* If you cannot read nor communicate the English language in a 10th grade reading level, do not apply.  You will not pass the English equivalency test.

*The wildlife officer is primarily focused on hunting, trapping, boating, and fishing violations.  If you want to bust drug dealers, apply somewhere else. 

* Besides some of the more negative aspects of the job, the officers stated they loved their jobs, even after working for more than half their lives. 

FUN, LEGAL STUFF CONCERNING THE POPAT

*The state does not have any insurance covering you or what you do while on their land. Hence, if you hurt yourself, you cannot sue them. 

* If you feel that you cannot complete the test, do not do the test. 

* You have 8 minutes, 26 seconds to complete the test, if you do not complete the course in that time, you fail. 

*There are no considerations made for sex, age, race, or ethnicity; the test is the same for everyone, regardless of those characteristics previously listed. 

* Someone broke their leg yesterday and five people have been sent to the hospital in three days.  Again, if you feel you cannot complete the test, do not do the test. 

   After that bout of information followed by a show of hands from those who were taking another crack at the POPAT, (about 20 hands arose from what I could tell, a group of big, burly men who looked as if they would complete the course simply by looking at it, which boosted my confidence to no end.) we were left to our own devices until our group was called.  My number was 56, a set of integers that I somehow figured adumbrated good luck, so I waited about an hour before being called to the course. 

   My group waited on the sidelines as the remaining individuals from the last group took their turn around the course. One man, one of those who looked so much like Arnold Swarchenegger I had to do a double-take, was attempting, and failing, to complete his second round of sit-ups. He was supine on the mat, sweat dripped from his red face as he struggled to effectuate the remaining exercise.  An officer stood over him, telling him his time until 8:26 passed, the numbers acting as a crushing blow to the man's ego. He stood and began walking away.  An officer followed him, spoke some words, and allowed him to go on. I stared, balked at the man's size, then seriously considered giving up at that precise moment.  But, my number was called before I could flee.

    My POPAT began with my small self being offered a seat on a picnic table surrounded by uniformed men. One of the officers, a nice portly man with a bald head and square face, told me to memorize the two street names he circled on my test sheet. I repeated the names as many times as I could, out loud, before the officer told me to prepare to run to the cone 200 yards away.

His thumb hovered over the stopwatch, engendering my time as I propelled myself to the cone. 

Not too quickly but not too slowly, I made my way back to the table where I was told to fold my arms around "Survivor", a 150-pound dummy filled with sand, and drag him 50 feet. 

He looked a lot lighter than he weighed. 
I dragged his sandy, lifeless body the required distance with a lot of help from the officers whose encouraging directions propelled my feet the inches they did not want to travel.
"Survivor" was then dropped to the surface which mimicked his innards while I tackled the stairs. 
Okay, I didn't tackle them, exactly, but I did run up, then down them three times, always exiting to the left.
I pushed through a weighed door, completed seventeen sit-ups, seventeen push-ups, a crawl through a culvert, and another seventeen sit-ups, seventeen push-ups.
I then ran. Again. Another 200 yards.
Without even realizing it, I came to the end of the line, the last required task which of course, was the one my legs and arms were the most hesitant at completing. 
"Survivor", the immobile jerk, needed to moved, again, to exactly where I had put him before.
Before attempting this feat which amounted to running up Kilimanjaro in ten minutes flat, I took a deep breath, focused on how badly I wanted the job and grasped "Survivor's" midsection. 
One foot turned into two, two turned to twelve, twelve to forty, and with just three more feet to go, my grasp slipped; my mind reeled, my feet had had enough.
 But then I heard, "three more feet, just three more feet" from somewhere above. 
My strength came from nowhere and when the officer asked what were the two road names I asked you at the beginning?, I answered without even thinking.

I completed the test in 6:59, crushing the allotted time of 8:26.



Many who have taken the test may have done it quicker than I, they may see the test as simply that, a test to be considered for a game warden position.
However, I didn't believe I could do it.  In my heart of hearts, I was in a low place.  I couldn't find a job, I had no idea how I was going to afford presents this Christmas, I felt useless, and above all, I doubted myself to the fullest degree.
I arrived at the test believing that if I just finished the course, I'd be happy, even if it was past the 8:26 mark.
I arrived believing that I was not good enough or strong enough to do what was required of me.
I arrived believing that I couldn't do it, and I did.

  Once the testing was over, those who passed took the English Equivalency exam.  I, of course, got the highest score out of my group, this being the part of the day I was the least stressed.  We then reconvened once more. This phase was just the beginning, as we now wait for letters. Letters that will contain our sentence, either come back for an interview or stay home to resume the job hunt.

   In my exuberance and new lease on life, I believe I will get a letter beckoning me into a new career, a new chapter; and when I do, y'all will be the first to know.