The problem is that I lead a charmed life. I’ve just returned from a hunt in Kansas. In fact, my well-Gorilla-taped roller bag full of dirty Kansas clothes is still in the garage. (The garage is a kind of no-man’s-land for stuff you don’t want to face. It’s not outside the house but it’s not inside the house, either.) Thing is, pretty soon I’m going to either have to wash those duds or repack them dirty, because tomorrow I get on a big silver bird to fly to Montana for—yes—another hunt. Between now and then I also have to check back into my life—you know, pay the more pressing bills, refill prescriptions, trim some of the prominent hair protruding from my ears and nose, and try to remember the names of my wife and children.