BETTER LEGS THAN BUKOWSKI

The other night I was admiring a mount hanging at Milawyer's place. It wasn't a giant, but definitely a buck to be proud of. In characteristic modesty Milawyer dismissed it. I then turned to Savage and told him to drop by to check out the mount I had just got in of a buck a shot a couple of years back. "He's not one of your usual monsters." I declared following Milawyer's lead. "But he's the biggest I ever shot." "It's not a contest." Savage stated. Then moved in and whispered in my ear "But we all know it really is." And that's the deal. No matter how gracious you want to be it's a Darwinian toe to toe from cradle to grave. Anyone who denies it is delusional.
    We are hard wired into the food chain. Nothing illustrates this better than hitting the woods in the Spring. Deer are dropping fawns. Turkeys and geese are laying eggs. All the little critters of the forest are giving birth and trying their damnedest to protect their young. Keying in on this vast maternity ward are not only the humans, like myself, but every hawk, eagle, coyote, crow, skunk, raccoon and 'possum in the woods. It's not by accident that turkey season is in May. The hens are receptive to the gobbling toms. It's my job to sound as much like a hen as I can muster. Trouble being that the more you sound like a hen the more likely you are to call in an unwanted hungry coyote. Recently a hunter in Maine was attacked by a coyote while turkey hunting. A 12 ga. levels the playing field there. Top of the food chain Wiley.
   Nothing was gobbling this morning, so I had plenty of time to ponder the level of competition in my life. It's not always apparent. But it's everywhere- for jobs, big bucks (green and antler sporting), recognition, or just competing with a noisy bar TV, hoping to quiet down the crowd long enough to hear a song. It's all a struggle. But above all is the competition one has with one's self- a never ending tug of war with id, ego, desire, failure, pride, and self worth. I remember reading Bukowski. He was rough looking cuss who could string words together like nobody's business. But one of the things he was most proud of was his legs. According to CB his legs were his best feature, and drove women right into his big hairy arms. Well, let me just say, Bukowski sat on his ass in the post office or on a bar stool most of his life. I know he wrote real good and I would never try to compete on his level. But after a life time of working as a carpenter and running up and down ridges chasing deer and turkey, I will put my legs up against any writer out there. It may not be a competition.....but we all know it is.