My best skunk story:
Last fourth of July, James and I went fishing. We had scouted a cove in a nearby lake that where fish had doing jumping jacks and were salivating at the prospects. For four hours we sat in the cove watching these fish continue their acrobatic show without utter disregard for anything that we threw their way. Live bait was our last hope. When a flock of geese assaulted our little pink bobber and absolutely nothing was interested in the poor little fish that we had tortured to catch bigger fish, we gave up an sauteed venison sausages on a camp stove and watch dusk settle over the water.
The funny thing about this lake is the way it comes alive at night. Walking out in broad daylight, the most wildlife that could be seen was the girl smoking a cigarette and swimming at the same time--an act which, in its own right, commands some kind of reverence. "Cast over here, maybe you'll catch me." That's one I'd throw back. At night, though, theres a constant shuffle through the reeds of deer, birds and other small animals. It was while we were walking back to the car, still with half a mile of beach in front of us, that we saw through the pitch black the white stripe lining the back of one of these small animals.
Let me tell you this, a skunk is not a creature with a master plan. For 45 minutes we would take 10 steps down the beach and the skunk would drunkenly stumble a few feet further, never retreating into the reeds, never making a beeline in the prefered direction. Our skunk would bumble down to lake, scratch around, meander back to the reeds, lift his head, look at us and in the process net a frustratingly tiny distance towards our car. It was truly the slowest half mile I have ever walked in my life.
Eventually out of frustrated we decided to go high up in the reeds ourselves. This basically scratched the bejesus out of us, got our lines tangled beyond repair and also made for slow going. When we finally figured we had to have gotten passed the skunk we made our way back down to the beach. The next five minutes went fine.
"What's that?"
"I don't know, dude. It's small, though It ain't no deer"
There was. another. fucking. skunk. This one we had snuck up on and our hours' previous efforts were about to go to waste. Maybe it was psychological, but James and I both thought we smelled it just starting to go. Thats when we looked at each other and decided to book it, waders, boots, gear and all. After the worlds most inefficient 100 yard dash, we fell to the ground laughing.
And that is the story of how, and why, I chased a skunk down a beach for the better part of a mile
Last fourth of July, James and I went fishing. We had scouted a cove in a nearby lake that where fish had doing jumping jacks and were salivating at the prospects. For four hours we sat in the cove watching these fish continue their acrobatic show without utter disregard for anything that we threw their way. Live bait was our last hope. When a flock of geese assaulted our little pink bobber and absolutely nothing was interested in the poor little fish that we had tortured to catch bigger fish, we gave up an sauteed venison sausages on a camp stove and watch dusk settle over the water.
The funny thing about this lake is the way it comes alive at night. Walking out in broad daylight, the most wildlife that could be seen was the girl smoking a cigarette and swimming at the same time--an act which, in its own right, commands some kind of reverence. "Cast over here, maybe you'll catch me." That's one I'd throw back. At night, though, theres a constant shuffle through the reeds of deer, birds and other small animals. It was while we were walking back to the car, still with half a mile of beach in front of us, that we saw through the pitch black the white stripe lining the back of one of these small animals.
Let me tell you this, a skunk is not a creature with a master plan. For 45 minutes we would take 10 steps down the beach and the skunk would drunkenly stumble a few feet further, never retreating into the reeds, never making a beeline in the prefered direction. Our skunk would bumble down to lake, scratch around, meander back to the reeds, lift his head, look at us and in the process net a frustratingly tiny distance towards our car. It was truly the slowest half mile I have ever walked in my life.
Eventually out of frustrated we decided to go high up in the reeds ourselves. This basically scratched the bejesus out of us, got our lines tangled beyond repair and also made for slow going. When we finally figured we had to have gotten passed the skunk we made our way back down to the beach. The next five minutes went fine.
"What's that?"
"I don't know, dude. It's small, though It ain't no deer"
There was. another. fucking. skunk. This one we had snuck up on and our hours' previous efforts were about to go to waste. Maybe it was psychological, but James and I both thought we smelled it just starting to go. Thats when we looked at each other and decided to book it, waders, boots, gear and all. After the worlds most inefficient 100 yard dash, we fell to the ground laughing.
And that is the story of how, and why, I chased a skunk down a beach for the better part of a mile
I totally want to go camping w/ you.