Retirn of Blamathon

[Deep C]

I used to run an annual thread titled Blamathon... Each year the call of the wild became overbearing and the only cure was to ingest copious amounts of burnt powder and stack obscene amounts of game. Ducks to deer are on the menue... Never know when a goose might refuse to die and work me over in epic form. Maybe i'll get pushed out of my blind again, outnumbered but not outsmarted by some self important locals.

For a stretch of like five years I had to fish a sailfish tourney whos dates stepped all over the usual Blamathon run....

This year things have changed... No longer have that job squeezing that tourney into my play time. My Jersey house took a beating during Sandy. Seems the insurance people are trying to play my sister who's working the paperwork and gougers are taking their shots too. I guess its time for Deep to show up and make it very clear that they are making a big mistake.

That shouldn't take very long... Got a lot of work to do to the house in order to salvage what we can and start the repair process. That needs to be done broad daylight. So, why not roll a new chapter of blamathon into the low light hours...

I leave here for there in the morn. When I get there I will have no internet, phone, electric, water, gas, or anything so the reports will be slow to come but i promise they are coming...

[Deep C]

Figured I'd recycle this classic...

It was another years blamathon... My annual pilgrimage up north to clear the sinuses by way of ingesting copious amounts of burned powder... During these two week adventures my focus is on squeezing trigger and this year was no different. I would begin on the banks of the river I grew up on ruffling feathers then fill my deer tags inland.
It was day four and "my spot" had been coughing up limits each morn just before the sun cracked the horizon. Each of the first three days I had seen a trio of geese like clock work comming down an edge just out range of my #3 shot as the sun cracked over the horizon and I was picking up my decoys.
This day I would have none of that and once I had dropped my last duck, instead of picking up the decoys I slid about twenty five yards east to where I expected the honkers to pass over. The gold rim of the sun cracked over the horizon and on cue they came... I drew a bead on the lead bird and waited til he was thirty yards straight over head before uncorking the 870's love on it.
There was a poof of feathers and the bird folded neatly. It did a classic corkscrew crash and burn landing in the mud about thirty feet behind me.
Knowing now what I didn't then I might have adjusted my shoot time a second or two either way as I quickly found this mud to be real soft and not friendly for fott travel. Sinking half way up my thighs made it tough. I didn't wish to abuse my aging remington blamerator so I set her down on some dry reeds. Doing this allowed me to use my hands to made the short but painfully slow move to the downed bird.
Each step was a chore and I decided to make the "reach" rather than another step. Just then, the birds eyes popped open. It stood up, cocked its head back and laid a full on peck from hell right in the middle of my forehead.!
Shortend by over knee deep mud i no longer had height advantage nor mobility. The bird cocked back again and nailed me a second shot. The gloves came off and I threw a right hook that would lay out most men. That rubber necked sob took it like a champ and laid a third shot that left a mark under my left eye. I came back with two combos and a haymaker. Not to be out done the feathered demon machine gunned me with a series high on the forehead that drew blood.
Enough of this nonsense! I swung with an open right hand and when it caught neck I locked the vise down on it but good. I gave the ten pound magnum class honker a half dozen good spins by that neck and felt it go limp.
I backed out of my muddy prison bird in hand, stopping along the way to pick up my precious scatter gun. Back at the raft I tossed the beast in my decoy bag and rounded up my set of deeks to lay on top of him. Rowing back to the mainland and my car I thought about how tough that bugger was. I mean it had taken a 12guage blast, fell 90 feet head first to the earth below and just gone a few rounds with a critter about 16 times its size. The raft was stashed where I keep it. The gun and decoy bag (with the bird (s)) deposited in the oversized igloo I kept in the back of the van...
Across town, back at castle deep north it was time to unload and clean my gear. I opened the cooler and never saw it comming... FWACK!!!! Right at the scalp line again! I slammed the lid on his neck and put a car battery on top to make sure this time.
It wasn't til later that after noon that I checked... Finally dead but not without the single best fight I have seen an animal put up...

That day I had truly been worked...


It was almost a shame but I wound up winning... But not without a new found respect for those that I shoot...