Damn the Cabernet

More wine and on with dinner we go. I want a big warthog, and as we sip our wine while dining on delectable blue wildebeest, Neil my professional hunter (PH) tells me of a giant hog that has been spotted near a watering hole. The problem is that there isn’t a hunting blind there, so I’ll have to hunt from a tree stand.  

Another glass of that magic potion, and voila: my lips are loose! Before I know the words that are falling out of my mouth, I fearlessly exclaim, “I can hunt from a tree stand!”  I announce my wine-induced unintentional intentions as one might expect an explorer to proclaim their plans to sail across the vast oceans in search of a land never discovered. I broadcast my intentions with confidence, gusto, and moxie.

As the liquid courage escapes my cabernet-stained lips, regretting my announcement, I tried disastrously to suck the words back into my uncooperating mouth.

The hunter’s table is one of truth or dare, and what is said there cannot be unsaid. I am committed. My destiny will find me up a tree by morning. The amusement in the eyes of everyone around the table does not escape me. They have me treed —just where they want me. This escalated quickly!

The next morning without hesitation on anyone’s part but mine, I am perched upon my African menagerie like a featherless bird that has not yet found its flight. On my 2-foot by 2-foot metal prison twenty feet in the air nothing but the thought of Darwin awards swirls around my pounding brain like crazed butterflies.  

I feel as if snakes are swimming around my stomach and slithering around my organs waiting for a moment of weakness to jump up my throat and out my mouth. Oh, dear God, curse that cabernet. 
 
Did I mention my irrational fear of heights? 

I've already forecasted the 523 ways I could be impaled on my way down. The thought prompted by one Darwin award: “Misadventures at the Metallica Concert.” 

Fortunately, I see no berry bushes to impale my orifices on the way down. Small blessings, and all that. 
 

The ladder leading up to my personal tower of terror has been removed by my PH. There is no escaping my fate. I’ve been left with a walkie talkie — my radio to freedom — with the instructions to use it in the event I shoot my hog or give in to my fear of elevation and want freed from my invisible cage. 

As the morning is warming up so is the wildlife … including the bees. The bees in MY tree!  

Their symphony of activity grows louder by the minute. I have not even shifted my weight for fear of loosening the tree stand away from the tree and plunging to the ground at warp speed. I cannot feel my right rear cheek — it’s long since stopped tingling from the numbness of my statuesque pose.  

The Obagi warm tint sunscreen I'd applied before climbing into my prison has melted off my face, leaving a dirty looking ring around my collar. I feel the warm African sun deliberately burning my face. 
 
As the morning starts goes on, my imagination takes over, and I foresee myself being swarmed by a concerto of bees protecting their fortress. I can see it now; my arms and legs flailing like a helpless, bald bird, falling from my metal perch and impaling myself 523 times on the way down but no berries up any orifices.  

More small blessings. 

I try to map out my limited escape route. Every option reminds me of how my flight will end with multiple broken appendages, a wheelchair, a hospital bed, and quite possibly a major plastic surgery operation to place my nose squarely back into the center of my face.  

I’m sure the predicament my loose lips have put me in will most certainly land me in the very next issue of The Best of the Darwin Awards. 

As I’m anticipating my eminent death, I hear rustling in the not-so-distant distance. Slowly, I turn my head to the right, being careful not to disturb the sturdiness of my perch. As I turn, I see a warthog making his way to the watering hole 20 yards from my tree stand.  

My Mathews bow is already loaded with my Ted Nugent Zebra striped arrow, and it’s ready to shoot. The only thing standing between me, and my bow is the simple act of leaning over and gently, with as little motion as possible, lifting it off the small branch holding it up. Without a breath, I reach for my bow, fingers grasping, intent on earning my prize hog for all the self-induced anti pragmatic mental torture I’ve endured. 

The shot is easy and clear, but I’ve never drawn my bow without the ground beneath me, and quickly I realize how much harder it is without my feet planted on the solid soil. Somehow, I find the strength to plant my boots on the metal base and brace my rear on the seat.  

I draw back enough to release my arrow and hit the big hog in the lung just as my left foot spasms out of excitement and kicks my walkie talkie over the edge of my perch.  

Damn that Cabernet. 

Neil, one of my favorite South African professional hunters. Photo/Stacy McCloud