the dissident frogman

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Today is the last day of the season. Yes, The Season.

So if you think I'm going to sit in front of a darn computer rather than stalk Bambi in the thick of the woods, you, my friend, have another thing coming.

Still, here's an anecdote for you, as I'd rather not let you leave this page empty-handed (or headed, as it were).

See this year, I've been lucky to be invited to join quite a few different (big game) hunting parties, on quite a few different territories, and there's one thing I've seen in each and every one of them.

When comes the time, early in the morning, to assign their posts to the shooters (as opposed to the trackers. Yeah, we hunt in pack here), there's always someone who says he'll keep his place (if he's a regular) "at the oak", or who is offered (if he is a guest) the courtesy to be positioned "at the oak", because "there's a good trail over there".

No, not that one.

Always. On every territory I've been to.

Now imagine that you're standing in the middle of some Western European forest that can be as large as several hundreds of hectares¹, and as Western European forests go, it's basically filled with bloody oaks. Every other tree is an oak, and the ground, being Autumn and Winter, is literally covered with oak leaves. Yet no matter where you are and which forest it is, there is only one oak.

The oak. The one near the good trail.

Oh, and here's a tip for the amateurs — to save them the embarrassment:

You-shall-never, under any circumstance, ask:

"Which oak?"

The bucks can get cocky sometimes, and stay put like that long enough — though from a distance they believe to be safe². Perhaps it's to find out if you're a predator ("Run away! Run away!") or a rival ("Azz kickin' time biatch!"), I'm not sure. The does however just get the hell out without looking back. Smart girls.