Rain ran me off the lake and drove me back to the fire with a book I've read so many times the spine's barely holding. Sinclair Lewis knew what small towns do to people who don't fit — and the fire's doing its job so well I stopped pretending I needed a shirt. You ever get chased inside and realize that's exactly where you were supposed to end up?
Thirty days out and the map's got more ink than the woods now — every ridge, every funnel, every bedding thicket marked until I could walk this ground blind. You ever plan something down to the last breath and still lie awake wondering if you missed something?
Thirty-one days out and I've been hanging stands since the dew burned off — shirt's soaked through and gone, and the cabin air feels better than it has any right to. Bet you'd volunteer to cool me down.
Thirty-five days out and the trail camera on the creek bottom caught a ten-point working a scrape at 3 AM — pulled the card this morning and my hands haven't settled since. Tell me you wouldn't shake seeing something that big this close.
The sky's going black with no moon tonight and I claimed this dock before anyone else could — out here the best things go to whoever gets there first. You ever wait on something you knew was gonna be worth it?
Thirty-eight days and the logging road's already got tracks I didn't leave — something big moved through here last night and I'm reading every print like a letter addressed to me. You ever follow a trail you knew was following you back?
Forty days out and I'm hacking shooting lanes through brush that fights back — every branch I clear is one less thing between my arrow and the buck when there's no second chance. You ever prepare for something where sloppy means you go home empty?
The woodpile's shrinking slower than the calendar and that's a problem — but every log I split now is one less reason to leave this cabin when the cold comes. You ever watch a man work until his hands forget they're tired?
Bob Dylan's growling through the tin speaker and the heat won't let me sleep — something about a man singing about highways he never took hits different when you're shirtless in the dark. You ever let a song keep you up worse than wanting?
The whetstone sounds like breathing if you hold it right — slow, steady, patient. Forty-four days until opening day and every edge in this cabin needs to be ready. You ever watch someone work who refuses to come in dull?