MESSIN’ UP – Vol. I (2006) No. 7
“Caught With My Pants Down”
By Mike Faulk

October 22, 2006

We always eat well on Strum Island. Saturday night was no exception.

To canned green beans we added what Jack Frost hadn’t already claimed from the tomato cages. Fried green tomatoes were coated with the same meal mix we created for battering the North Dakota walleye that would serve as our main course. Sister-in-law Shirley blessed us by sending blackberry cobbler with Brother Loy.

About two hours into my good night’s sleep, acid reflux set in. I never really went fully back to sleep. Diarrhea hit at 4:00 a.m. It was a miserable night. The best resolution to this night was the coming of the next day.

In my role as the camp cook, I’m first up. Breakfast, consisting of piping hot coffee, fried bacon, and hot cakes was ready by 5:30 a.m. The morning faire did not help the gastronomical problems.

Foregoing the morning hunt and staying close to the cabin that morning was a good decision. Montezuma had his revenge over and over again.

By 11:30 a.m. it had been a couple of hours since I last occupied the throne so I decided to hunt out of the duck blind. It’s well stocked with potable water, stomach-friendly crackers, and toilet paper. Egress from it would also be much quicker than unbuckling from a harness and descending from a tree stand to nature’s outhouse. The seven minute walk wouldn’t be a problem even if the green apple quick-step attacked swiftly.

I made it to the river, down the bank, and the first three steps out into the river. From the island side, it’s only 35 yards to the toe head isle called “Mallard Island” where the duck blind called the Holston Hilton is situated. But wading across the river in hip waders is a slow process and climbing the bank up to the “Hilton” is strenuous.

Somewhere between Strum Island and the sluice the surrounds it, Montezuma and Cuervo got their revenge. There was no time. A log fall was conveniently above water for me to keep my compound bow out of the water. My pants wouldn’t come down very far because of the height of the waders. My attention having been diverted all morning from deer hunting to personal comfort issues, I immediately assumed the position.

There I was, answering nature’s clarion call, pants down, squatting with my buttocks not six inches off the water about three yards out into the Holston River looking down to be sure I didn’t get my pants wet. Satisfied I was close enough to avoid a big splash but far enough off the water to avoid soaking my clothing, I looked up.

Across the river approximately 105 yards away where a major trail comes off the Holston Army Ammunition Plant property, a doe was staring at me. Unsure of what she was seeing, she hesitated but then came out into the river.

When she moved between the remains of a fallen tree and the duck blind, I was able to reach back to the log that held my bow high and dry. I was standing now – pants not yet buttoned but held up at least as high as the tops of my waders. Shifting focus, I knocked my Easton arrow tipped with a 100 grain Muzzy broad head.

The deer emerged from between the obstacles and set a course perpendicular to the river bank that would take it to a point some 60 yards from where I stood. It would be a long shot and she would bust me if I moved a muscle while she was crossing.

But I got my chance when geese in the main channel honked. In the time she took to look to the west in the direct from which we were both surprised by the Canadas, I was able to draw the bow.

I raised the bow so the 45 yard site pin was on top her shoulder above the standard "kill zone", took a deep breath, and coaxed the trigger to release the arrow. It sailed directly underneath her body just behind the front legs. In a single leap, she reached the bank and was gone forever.

Note to self: you cannot set your feet the proper distance apart when you’re caught with your pants down in the middle of the river.