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H. Neal Glanville

H. Neal Glanville's column appears in the Craig Daily Press on Mondays.

Long, long ago, much longer ago than "long time ago last night," in a land just far enough away from the normal side of anything, lived a sprinkle of red-haired pixies and their evil twins who could make life : well, for now, lets call it playful.

Into this strange new land came two boys, and I call them boys because I'm much older now than they were then. These boys were on the grownup edge of not knowing everything, but still clinging to the youthful prayer that one morning they'd awake and there would be everything they'd ever needed to know wandering around inside their heads looking for something to do.

It's unfortunate, but neither boy's wishful prayer came true.

Each summer, these boys would spend every minute they had - and some that were not theirs - fishing and retelling stories about the terrible deer hunt they'd had the year before, with no mention of whose fault the failure might have been, because this year all the secret weapons were coming out. The boys' lack of any secret weapon was not going to be a deterrent - no, sir. They both decided (without the other knowing) to scour the land for the secret that would do the trick on that monster mulie.

One of these boys had a regular job, and each day, he'd question his customers about where to go and what to do to find this elusive mule deer. The other boy didn't work that steady, so he spent his time in sporting goods stores, lumber yards and the occasional saloon. As fall arrived and the deer hunt got closer, neither boy had acquired any new knowledge (well, one learned never to mix hard liquor) that would put that monster mule in the back of their truck.

As pixie luck would have it, the answer would appear in a magazine article just a week before opening day.

One evening just before dinner (he always seemed to make it in time for any meal) the older boy showed up with their new secret weapon: apples. These beautiful red apples were not for eating. Oh, no - they were to cover our human scent.

At first, it made no sense to the younger boy, using apples to cover his scent. It made better sense to use them as bait and bring the deer to you. Why waste time climbing over hill and dale when the deer would come to the apples?

"No, no," the older one spoke in his authoritative voice (it wasn't really authoritative, but he did have a stern look on his face).

"We just put our clothes in a bag with the apples and leave them until opening morning. When we bump into a deer, they won't recognize our scent and they'll think they've wandered into an apple orchard. We simply take our pick of the monster bucks and are back at home by lunch.

As plans go, this one seemed unstoppable. It appeared nothing could go wrong, and there'd be no reason for any backup plan as this was going to be the secret that worked. The boys giggled as they put layers of apples and clothes into the plastic bag, sealed it up and tossed it in the front closet.

Several little girls told the boys they had heard laughter coming from the closet at the oddest times. The boys, being so close to monster buck history, laughed at the girls and went bragging all over town about how they - yes they - were going to be this year's monster buck masters.

Then, it arrived: opening morning. The older of the boys arrived early - he didn't want to miss out on fresh, hot cinnamon rolls.

As they filled their cheeks with hot rolls, the bragging about the coming hunt never stopped. They pulled the sealed bag from the closet opened it and started getting dressed.

The little girls who had warned them about the closet giggling told the two boys "you stink bad." The boys just laughed, gathered the rest of their gear and headed out.

"Take that giant bag of stink with you," the younger boy's wife half-yelled and half-gagged from the darkened bedroom.

"Yes, dear," the younger said between giggles. They were off to deer heaven and the monster buck of their dreams.

It's not really known when the Jeep's heater started filling its cab with the wondrous smell of rotten apples. As the heat rose, it seemed that their winter clothing was beginning to bake.

Suddenly, neither boy could breathe. There was no more fresh air. Windows slid down, two doors opened and suddenly the Jeep pulled off the road. The two boys jumped out of the capsule of apple death, gasping for any measure of pure oxygen.

In his oxygen deprived state, the younger boy mumbled "pixies are dancing on the spare tire." The older and not so proud owner of this rotten idea managed a "shut up" between gagging and deep breaths of fresh air.

As common sense returned (a little late, I might add) the boys stripped all but their essential clothing off, stuffed it all along the outside of the jeep and headed up the hill.

They were going hunting - to heck with a slight apple stink. As this borderline legend winds down, it shall be said the boys enjoyed their day of hunting.

They did not see a monster mule, nor did one climb into the back of the still-stinky jeep. If they learned any lessons from this adventure in "secret weapons," it's unknown and surely doubtful.

However, when you're talking to Roy about this story, watch his eyes. Every now and then, he'll catch a glimpse of that red-haired pixie and smile.

Thank you for your time and the adventure, Roy. Every second has been worth it.