In the early 2000s, some psychologists and outdoor-adventurers devised what they called the Fun Scale. Type 1 fun was something enjoyable while it happened. Good, simple fun, like plinking in the backyard, reeling in a fish, or sitting by a campfire. Type 3 fun is no fun at all. The marathon during which I tore my ACL at mile 18 is a good example. Then there’s Type 2 fun. It sucks in the moment, but in hindsight it was a blast. This whitetail hunt was shaping up to be that sort of fun. Very little of our time afield had been remotely pleasurable. Each day, we were being eaten alive by mosquitoes, soaked to the skin, overheated, and sunburned. Yet somehow the suffering seemed worthwhile. We were living out a story that we all knew we’d laugh about later: the best, most miserable deer hunt ever.
We just needed the deer to cooperate.