During my stay in London I received a text that changed everything. Well not quite everything, but it changed something – my plans in October.
The texting conversation went a little something like this.
Mom: I think you drew a deer tag for the Book Cliffs.
Me: Are you serious?
Mom: Actually, I don’t think so. I think it’s just a regular tag.
(She couldn’t believe it either)
(I was thinking, thank goodness)
Kyle: Scott, you got a deer permit to the Book Cliffs!
Mom: Kyle looked at it, and it’s true. You got it.
To most of you this probably means nothing, and quite honestly it didn’t mean that much to me either. The difference between you and me is that I know what this kind of news should mean and what it means to some people – some people like my dad or brothers, or good family friends.
It should have meant the world.
It can take between five and ten years of submission into the annual drawing to draw a deer tag to the Book Cliffs.
I got the permit from my first entry.
Knowing this, I became overwhelmed. In fact, it was more than overwhelming – I felt like I didn’t deserve it (which I don’t) since I didn’t really care. I entered the drawing on a whim, literally because everyone was doing it. It was one more step of what we call the “Scott Accepting His Outdooor-Self” Campaign.
But because I have the tag for this October, I’m going to make the most of it.
The Book Cliffs is where the monster bucks are – or so I’ve been told . . . or so I’ve been told my entire life!
My dad, his brother Dale, and best friends Rob and Byron used to hunt in the Book Cliffs every year during the 80’s and early 90’s, and according to their stories, they almost died every year. Because in every Book Cliffs hunting story their horses ran away, the snow was up to their waists, they ran out of food, all of their possessions were soaked and they were drinking the only water they could find from hoof prints on the ground.
Oh and I forgot to mention that they always came home with a monster buck.
