Chicken Bo in the Appalachia of upper PA, retired from head of security at
Corning Glass works, in his sporting leisure guides groups of city dudes
from Queens and the Bronx out for a few holiday days of wet feral field
stomping and ear blasting, tromping around in an autumnal fuzz after a night
of too much Yuengling, Jack Daniels, cheep cigar smoke, hot sausages and
losing cash at poker -- looking for where the pheasant or chuckers not hit
by the dudes flew.

Blam blam blam is heard from our hunter buddy Gus Nearcom when the old
pointer finally deigns to flush a bird and the proud cock flies off to the
left. We duck, hit the ground. Or motionless in the walk-about, standing
there dazzled by the sun and the breeze and release from city noise of
trucks and sirens, interrupted by the blasting in a high volley that echoes
off the dense valleys from the bunch gone shell crazy out over the East
Ridge, a twelve-gauge chorus.

Chicken Bo’s standard routine is to throw down a handful of chocolate
goobers on the trail and he calls to the dudes, “You want to see some real
mountain lore, Gus?” Everybody is another Gus to Chicken Bo. “I’ll show you
some real hunting mountain wisdom.”

He bends over in front of the dudes and picks up a few goobers and as he
goes to pop them in his mouth, “This is deer shit… fine vintage, it has to
be a 6 point. Hell of a rack on this one. You can tell from the size and
color.” Chicken Bo noticeably munches on the goobers, puffing out his
cheeks, savoring the essence in their eyes, “And you know, I can tell where
this buck was eating last. It had to be up over that ridge there,” pointing
with his arm extended out over an area full up of red and yellow leaves. “I
can taste the alfalfa and lupine in this one. Had to be up over that ridge
he was eating. I know it for sure!”

“You guys ever think about coming up here deer hunting you give me a call.”

XXX

Postscript: Drinking non-alcoholic beer is like kissing your sister.

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