Isapa Hunting

So last night I had this dream that I went to some imaginary deer lease my boss had. This place was somewhere out in west Texas...No, perhaps New Mexico or southern Colorado. There was a light cover of snow on the ground, and much of the prairie grass was still visible, peaking up in patches through the otherwise smooth rolling surface of snow. This was my first time on the lease, so much of the landscape, as well as local etiquette, was new to me. What would follow in the dream would have me cursing the f'n Isapa as the alarm went off.

I recall arriving with my limited assortment of shotguns and rifles. Of course, my time here would be spent hunting all sorts of animals, not just deer. This was the land of wealthy, where choices on what to hunt were limitless. After establishing that my hunting tools were crap, (after all, the motley crew of lease holders were all wealthy douche bags that could afford only the best) I was sent off to hunt birds. Not Quail, Pheasant, Mallard, or Gadwall, but some random assortment of song birds that I couldn't identify to save my life. I felt like the young spartan sent off to fend for himself, except instead of defending myself from giant wolf monsters, I was defending myself from a laundry list of fines from shooting various state honored songbirds.

The night before the bird hunt, I studied with great fervor the various game/song birds of the area, hoping to only bag legitimate species. To my dismay, for every legal bird I studied, there was an illegal bird that was practically identical. "PROTECTED" slapped right across the image. Wouldn't you know it, that when the day rolled around and I set off alone to harvest my limit, every bird that I bagged was the damn protected state song bird. After the hunt, I gathered my treasure bag of punishment and return to the base camp. One by one, through laughs and ridicule, the warden tallies the damages. Not only were these birds protected, but too small to eat. My punishment? Not fines. Not jail time. No, I would be banned from hunting the treasured Isapa.

As the sun rose the following morning, I recall watching from my bunk, all the other hunters riding off into the hills for the morning hunt. Laughing, joking, and patting each other on the back as they downed whiskey and smoked cigars, the hunters faded from 6' tall figures to 1" tall blips on the horizon. Hunters Weekly magazine flopped across my lap, at least I could enjoy the warm fire while those bastards had all the fun.

Then came the Isapa. From my window I could see the gazelle like creatures bounce around like giant rabbits on speed. One by one, drunken men took aim, falling over with each shot. A free for all. Fake pearly whites seen from miles away. In the other room I could hear and tea kettle going off and the footsteps of the tiny Hispanic women as they prepared the feast that would await the hungry stomachs of the hunters after a day in the hills.

One by one the men return. Hanging their trophies on the skinning racks, they showed off their field dressing skills and spoke in accents only a drunk man could understand. once again I was subjected to the taunting of the men as they paraded the fact they THEY got to hunt while I was stuck in the cabin. Furious, I left them men to fill their faces and bask in their own egos. I grabbed my "poor man's guns" threw them in my bag and left out the back door. The screen door creaked and swung shut behind me in a crack that was quickly muffled by the falling snow.

As I walked away, the men's laughter grew quite and inaudible with each step. Soon, all that I could hear was the crunching of snow under each of my feet and the delicate sprinkle of icy snow as it hit the white surface of the ground. The cabin was soon a glowing box on the horizon, and as I made my way to the train station, I couldn't help but feel belittled. I felt like Grendel as I gazed upon the building full of drunks. I hated those filthy bastards. I hated those damn birds. What good were those tiny creatures anyway. They had about as much meat on them as a blue jay. But most of all, I hated those damn Isapa. I don't know why, but I hated them more than those inebriated fools in the cabin. I hated how they bounced around as I lay trapped in the room. Standing there gazing around at the falling snow, I realized the irony. I realized that in the end, it was I who was free. The Isapa now hung by their hocks, split wide open from their throat to their groin.

As I woke up, I found myself laughing at the Isapa. More so, I found myself laughing at the word "Isapa". I decided that as soon as I had a minute I would find out if there really is anything that goes by that name. Sure enough there is: International Society for Aging and Physical Activity. So, rather than deal with the obvious underlying adequacy issues stemming from the upcoming baby and whether or not I'll be a good father and still have the freedom to do the things I want , I'll take this approach: I'll take it as my subconscious telling me that I'm getting older and it's time to start becoming active again, therein ensuring that I'll have enough energy and stamina to kick the living shit out of the next Isapa that comes my way! Boooya!