The blog on sitting still touched on the fact that some of the stuff that happens while you’re just waiting is sometimes more memorable than the actual hunting. My late friend, Norm Strung, was once in a stand of live oaks in Louisiana, and there are few places eerier than a Deep South live oak forest with the trees all hung with Spanish moss. It’s dead still; even the air seems unable to move. The light is dim, and
filters weakly through the branches. So Norm was waiting for a deer to come by and what he saw instead was another hunter creeping toward his tree just like Natty Bumpo. Norm waited until the guy was right underneath him and, in his deepest voice, he bellowed:


The guy on the ground screamed in terror, flung his bow away, and went bounding down the trail in great leaps. Norm never did learn what became of him.

Another F&S editor was once hunting ducks in Canada, and it was a true bluebird day. Nothing was flying, and the hours dragged by. His guide, a Cree Indian, had said nothing all morning, but finally asked:


Our editor replied with a single word, a vulgar euphemism for the reproductive process that none of us would ever dream of using. There was a long, long silence, and then the Cree said: