BuckleBoy
Gold Member
Why Wouldn't You...?
Why wouldn't you let the poor, tired detectorists find the housesite?
You know it's been two attempts and lots of hours and every trick in the book. Why?
It sucks to know that somewhere in those deep, Ivy-filled, Tick-breeding woods is a Happy Little Housesite all tucked snug away.
Probably between two Happy Little Trees, as Bob Ross might say if he were to tear through the brush for hours on end Hell Bent and Starry-Eyed.
But after too many Ticks and even some blood dripping to the thirsty earth below from briar wounds
The happy little trees remain unfound.
"And it was only 85 degrees with 100% humidity today," we thought as we retreated to the car to drive the long trip back, heads hung in shame, while munching on the stale Egg McMuffin that had been hastily overlooked in the excitement and anticipation of finding the site that morning at 6 a.m.
We could say that there's always next time, or the real treasure is in the hunt, or some other tired cliche.
But that does nothing to lift the heaviness of heart that comes when such total devotion results in beautiful vintage shotgun casings.
The one consolation--for there is no consolation in a breakfast sandwich ten hours past its prime--is that had Bob Ross gone along, his hairdo would've picked up more ticks than I or Rodeo today.
I'm wringing the sweat out of my clothing now.
Why wouldn't you let the poor, tired detectorists find the housesite?
You know it's been two attempts and lots of hours and every trick in the book. Why?
It sucks to know that somewhere in those deep, Ivy-filled, Tick-breeding woods is a Happy Little Housesite all tucked snug away.
Probably between two Happy Little Trees, as Bob Ross might say if he were to tear through the brush for hours on end Hell Bent and Starry-Eyed.
But after too many Ticks and even some blood dripping to the thirsty earth below from briar wounds
The happy little trees remain unfound.
"And it was only 85 degrees with 100% humidity today," we thought as we retreated to the car to drive the long trip back, heads hung in shame, while munching on the stale Egg McMuffin that had been hastily overlooked in the excitement and anticipation of finding the site that morning at 6 a.m.
We could say that there's always next time, or the real treasure is in the hunt, or some other tired cliche.
But that does nothing to lift the heaviness of heart that comes when such total devotion results in beautiful vintage shotgun casings.
The one consolation--for there is no consolation in a breakfast sandwich ten hours past its prime--is that had Bob Ross gone along, his hairdo would've picked up more ticks than I or Rodeo today.
I'm wringing the sweat out of my clothing now.
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