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Discussion Starter #1 (Edited)
We used to hunt Deer and Elk on Bethel Ridge, out of an Old Hunter's Cabin along the Tieton River.
I remember as a boy, having to sleep in the cold attic as all the beds down below were filled with snoring Hunters.
When the fire in the stove burned low, boy did it get cold! I don't remember if it was the excitement of the next day's hunt or the cold breeze blowing through my sleeping bag, that kept me awake all night long.
I remember in the morning out on the porch, chipping off the ice inside our 5 gallon milk can, filled with drinking water.
Tarrying as long as I could next to the warm stove, dreading that long trek to the cold Outhouse.
The sound of cornflakes under foot in the predawn, as we quickly made our way to our Stand.
The silhouette of that Big Buck, headed back over the ridge after outsmarting us.

(I guess that's why this poem hits the Bulls-Eye for me.) " TRAPPER "

Palace in the Popple

It's a Smokey Raunchy Boar's Nest, with an unswept drafty floor and pillow ticking curtains, with knife scars on the floor.
The smell of a pine knot fire, from a stovepipe that's come loose, Mingles sweetly with the boot grease, and the Copenhagen snoose.
There are work worn .30-.30's with battered steel stocks, And drying lines of longjohns, and steaming pungent socks.
There's a table for the bloody four, and their game of two card draw, And there's deep and dreamless sleeping, on bunk ticks filled with straw.
Ed and Lawrence, by the stove, their gun talk loud and hot, And Rob, has drawn a pair of kings, and is raking in the pot.
Harvey's drafted again as cook, he's peeling spuds for stew, While Gus, wanders by in baggy pants, reciting Dan McGrew.
Nowhere on earth is fire so warm, nor coffee so infernal, Or whiskers stiff or jokes so rich, or hope blooms so eternal.
A man can live for a solid week, in the same old under britches, He can walk like a man, spit where he wants, and scratch himself where he itches
I tell you boys there's no place else, where I'd rather be come Fall, Where I eat like a bear and sing like a wolf, And feel like I'm Bull Pine tall.
In that raunchy cabin out in the bush, in the land of the Raven n Loon, With a tracking snow lying new to the ground, at the end of the rutting moon.

George Augustus (Gus) Bixby
Circa 1905

The One that Got Away.JPG
 
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