This story was written in the early 90's, and was slightly revised in September of 2000.  Many things have changed in my life since I wrote this story.   I don't drink now, but in those early days I did, and I have left the reference to beer in this story.   I was always thankful to have my grandfather's cabin in the Uwharries to use as a base of operations for my hunting, and I spent many a night there in that wonderful cabin on the shores of Badin Lake.  My grandfather is gone, the cabin has been sold, and Gene Hill's words below are the best words I've seen that express my feelings about the loss of those times.

I hear it's gone now.  Deaths, quarrels, and neglect left it helpless.  But I'm not that homesick for the camp or even the hunting - it's the time I weep for; how I felt about being where I was and doing what I was doing.  This was one place where I was truly happy.  How lucky I am to still hear the groan of the lopsided oarlocks and the tinkle of crystal-thin ice breaking at the bow and see the sky alive with ducks beyond counting.  I remember thinking that nothing here should ever change.   And it shouldn't have.  But it does. 

Gene Hill, Passing A Good Time, 1996

    Lying in bed on a hot summer night, all that I can think about is Opening Day.  Hunting season means so much to me, yet hunting itself is only a small part of that feeling.  There is so much about hunting season that I look forward to, all of which seems so far away in the heat of  June.

     I hunt in the Uwharrie National Forest of North Carolina, where my grandfather has spent the last 20 years building a small lake house.  It is summer now, and that cabin will be full of screaming children, scolding parents, and dogs trying to get out of the heat of the day.  It is such a different place as the house that I unlock each September on the Sunday night before deer season opens. After Labor Day, the children will be gone, the running water turned off, and the small aluminum boat will have been turned upside down on the dock for the winter.  The house becomes mine until the end of January, when all of the hunting seasons close.  It is in that house that my grandfather built that I know peace.

       We have a routine, my hunting partner and I, at the house.  Each Friday we head straight from work to the lake, stopping only once at the grocery store for provisions for the weekend.  Those provisions are always the same:  steak, red potatoes, and a twelve pack of beer to ward off cabin fever.  Upon arriving at the house, Ted starts the water for the potatoes boiling while I build a fire, the only heat we will have in the house.  A beer or two helps the potatoes along, and then the steaks hit the grill.  We eat, then sit quietly around the fire waiting for sleep.

      I love the early mornings, when I can look down off of the balcony at the mist rising off of the lake.  I shiver, knowing that it is almost time to enter the woods.  The dirt roads into the woods are lined with trucks, more and more every year as new hunters discover the area.  More often than not, we spot a late-wandering deer on the road to the game lands, and still more often that is the only deer that we will see that day. 

    In the pre-dawn blackness we quietly check all of our gear, helping each other shoulder the tree stands and dousing our boots with the latest deer scent.  We walk into the woods together, and with a variety of hand signals each shows the other where he will hunt.  A whispered, almost telepathic "good luck" is the only sound that emerges from our mouths.  How we both know that it is time to end the hunt for the morning I never really understood.  Usually we will both start down our trees at about the same time, and we meet each other about halfway back to the truck.  From there the routine is the same.  A quick trip down the road gets us to the Family Restaurant, where all of the other unsuccessful hunters will already be gathered for breakfast.  Breakfast is usually relaxed and unhurried as we plan our strategy for the rest of the day.  We each have a different place or tactic that we want to try, but we always manage to decide on something that satisfies both of us.

      Into the woods again, and things are the same.  We will sit in our trees until dark, waiting until the last possible minute, hating to leave.  We meet at the truck, and we are both grumpy.  We know that we face a quiet ride back to the city, and that on Monday we will be teased by others in the office at coming home empty handed once again. 

    The weekend hunts always close with the cleaning of the cabin, getting everything just right in case someone happens to decide that they want to use it during the week.  The cots are folded in the corner, the pots and pans are scrubbed, and the floor is swept clean of dirt.  I pile wood beside the fireplace so that it will be dry and ready to burn next Friday night.  A last look back, and we are on the road.