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I remember deer hunting on a rainy day with dad when I was around 11. Still too young to carry a rifle, I was just along for the ride. Dad shot a deer, but he didn't get it cleanly, and it ran. And ran. And ran some more. We followed the blood trail for what seemed like forever, in the cold, wind and rain, slogging through mud that was at times knee deep. It was awful. The blood trail finally led to a ravine, and a few hundred yards down a small dirt road bridge crossed it. We saw a truck on the bridge, and people outside it, and they left quickly. When we finally got to the bridge, the blood trail ended. The one who sucks the peniss had taken dad's deer and drove off. I have no doubt that they saw us. If we'd got the deer it would have made it all worthwhile, but we didn't. God that day sucked.
Another day I was bird hunting with my uncle and fell through some ice nearly up to my waist. It was snowing and well below freezing. The walk back to grandma's house was the longest of my life. Never been that cold since. Ugh.
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