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Long, long ago, in a land just south of Steele Street, there lived a young couple starting to understand the fine line between lunacy and spending the rest of their lives together in harmonious “what-cha-call-it.”

The wife, bless her patient little heart, was a city girl and knew little, if anything, about hunting or fishing, but she was determined to learn so she and her chosen hubby could enjoy them together.

Hubby, on the other hand, listened to life’s evil twin and used all the well-versed reasons to avoid his wife’s company during his fishing and hunting adventures.

When these delightful tidbits from the evil twin started to fail, our intrepid sportsman turned to make-believe.

Oh, how he delighted in telling his betrothed about catfish with horns and red-boned suckers that would take your finger off, and why you had to be above 7,146 feet 9 inches to get a decent bull elk.

“It’s not well known, honey,” he’d say, “but elk are afraid of two things — turning into traffic on Highway 13, and getting the scent of skunk cabbage on their legs.”

As life will do from time to time, she booted the evil twin off the young man’s shoulder and took the catfish by the horns. He grumbled, kicked small rocks and spit on his own boots each time he took her fishing. “How am I going to enjoy fishing if I spend all my time baiting your hook or tying on flies?” he’d ask. “By the time I get done taking care of you, they’ll be no time for meeee.”

As the weeks passed, the young wife learned about hooks, bait and fly-fishing. Her roll cast, though ugly, often reached 30 feet, and her skill at reading the river was becoming scary.

“She’s doing OK fishing,” he’d whisper to friends. “But I’ll never teach her to shoot.”

As hunting season appr­oached, the young wife acquired an old Springfield 30.06 and the lessons necessary to become reasonably proficient at 100 yards. There seems to be some misinformation floating around how she acquired those “objects de hunt,” but the point is she acquired them so quit wondering.

For those of us who have experienced opening morning on Black Mountain, feel the tingle, and the rest of you read on.

They had reached the first cattle guard, where the road flattens out a bit and there’s a small spot to pull over.

Pulling his brand new rifle from the “easy rider rifle rack,” he told his wife, “Wait here, sweetheart, and I’ll push some elk down to ya.”

Not wanting to spoil his day, she just smiled and said, “You go have fun, maybe I’ll walk around a bit after the sun comes up.”

So she sat there, the sun came up and she started reading a book she’d stashed under the seat.

As the temperature rose, she opened the sliding rear window of the truck and fired up a cigarette.

She happened a glance in the right mirror as she tossed the cigarette’s match away. Two bull elk were walking up the road, straight to the back of the truck.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said later. “It took forever to get that heavy rifle off the rack without making any noise.”

She pushed the rifle out the window and wiggled her body around for a shot. “I just did what my teacher had showed me, the elk started to climb that little hill, I shot and the elk fell into those bushes.”

As the young wife started to calm down, she realized she hadn’t learned what to do after your game is down. Once again, life stepped in and had its way; a truck with three hunters pulled up and helped this damsel dress out her elk and load it in hubby’s truck.

There are no known witnesses to what happened when hubby returned, but as of today, he hasn’t killed an elk anywhere near the size of hers.

Maybe Uncle Barney was right when he said, “Never teach a grown woman how to sharpen a knife or shoot a long gun.”

Hey, you be careful out there.