Archery elk season is just around the corner, and Ol’ Dutch is as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Most days I think I resemble a squirrel trying to cross the road — flitting from chore to chore — just trying to fill the hours until I can get up in the forest. Even though it’s still two weeks away, I’m anxious for it to begin. What’s strange about that is that I’m also sad when it ends. You just can’t make a man happy, so it seems. 

But come it will, and soon I’ll be in the high country every day chasing the elusive wapiti. The Shawnee Indians called the elk wapiti, meaning “white rump,” for the obvious patch of fur they carry. Other tribes called them “ghosts of the forest” because they seem to appear out of nowhere without a sound. Ol’ Dutch can vouch for that — more than once they’ve snuck right up on me. And now with my hearing fading, I swear they’re mocking me for sport. 

Still, hunt I will, and Miss Trixie will once again become a hunting widow. Which means she will run her little jeep ragged hitting every bazaar, dinner, sale, gathering, function, pig roast and 4h fair and attending to multiple crises that seem to follow her around like yesterday's news. She will finally be happy and free from having to drag me along on her “adventures.” 

For you see once the season begins the whole world stops for Ol’ Dutch, and everyone knows better than to expect much out of me. Which may not be as unusual as the norm either I guess. Popeye the Sailor’s famous words — “I yam what I yam” — pretty well sums me up this time of year. Miss Trixie nodded at that little nugget of truth, too. 

I think it’s the same for most men worth their salt. A man who can’t hunt or fish is bound to be restless and half-starved in spirit. Not that Miss Trixie has ever gone hungry since she hooked her caboose to my train. With a freezer full of fat angus beef or elk, she seems content to ride along at least for now. 

I do worry about her, though. She’s developed this strange eye condition. When Ol’ Dutch starts dispensing wisdom to my readers or friends, Miss Trixie's eyes lose their sockets and roll around in her head like a marble at the roulette table. And these episodes are happening more and more often, the longer we’re together. I keep telling her that she ought to get that checked out.  

The Mighty Rio Grande isn’t so mighty at the moment, so there are no rafting trips on the docket for us. A person might still get down it in a tube, though you’d be bouncing over rocks like a pinball in a cheap arcade. Still, on these hot August days, that might not be the worst idea you ever had. 

Meanwhile, I’ve been busy sprucing up the extra little camper we picked up. Son #1, Bub, has a New Mexico elk hunt coming, and I’m hoping to join him. Of course, that hinges on how fast I can tag an elk here at home. If the good Lord blesses me early, I’ll point the truck south and spend some time hunting with him, telling lies and tending the campfire in the evenings.  

So, here’s a hearty “good luck” to all the hunters out there. May your aim be steady, your arrows true, and your tags filled. But not too fast, mind you — because every hunting widow deserves her own season of peace and quiet while we men are off chasing the ghosts in the timber.

Kevin Kirkpatrick spends his days fishing, hunting, ATVing, hiking or making people laugh. His email is Kevin@TroutRepublic.com. Additional news can be found at www.troutrepublic.com or on Twitter at TroutRepublic.