The smells of deer scent and musty hunting clothes are accompanied by the timeless appeal of my trademark insulated fluorescent orange goober hat. Yes, it is hunting season.

I went hunting recently and found myself trapped in a make-believe documentary. The scene unfolds as the clock blares out in a darkened bedroom and a man arises. He is the great white hunter. (Don't laugh, this is serious imagination coupled with delusions of grandeur). I have no film crew to follow my exploits, so I make my little mental movie, complete with dialogue.

"The great white hunter arises early as the clock alarms at 4:30 a.m. and dons a pair of over-washed long underwear, which appear threadbare and two sizes too small. He walks gingerly, like Peter Pan with a cramp." That was not a good thing.

I think all this mess while I am going, like some weird detective film bred with Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. All I need is that Perkins guy. I don't remember his first name. As for the mental movie, it is kind of nutty, now that I write about it. I don't really care, I can't help it.

"The hunter adds a pair of jogging pants, a pair of jeans, a belt (like he really needed it with all that on), a T-shirt, a sweatshirt and a jacket," the voice says. The voice forgot that it is about 45 degrees outside. Sweating before getting out of the bedroom, I prepare to leave the suddenly hot house. Then it happened. I had to go to the bathroom. What is it about putting on a dozen layers of clothing that makes you want to "go." I wish I knew. At any rate, soon the movie went on. (Bathroom breaks don't get commentary). "The hunter stalks out into the woods with uncanny skill, carrying his weapon of choice, a 1960-something Bear recurve bow (which happens to be the only one he has - made of some really attractive green fiberglass with a genuine rubberish handle). As he leaves civilization behind for the woodland wilds, he heads for an old oak with several small branches coming out above one massive branch, which he plans to perch upon like a bird of prey to rain death down upon his hapless victims from above," the movie says.

Actually, the tree looked like a comfortable seat and the smaller branches made shelves and hooks for my miscellaneous supplies. I wasn't exactly stalking anything. As I walked through the woods, the deer probably imagined a complete gypsy caravan. The jingle of the arrows, the rattle of a lunchbox and coffee jug, the huffing and puffing of the out-of-shape hunter and the snap and pop of the underbrush all join together into a symphony of dissonance. In other words, it's loud. "The hunter settled in for the wait, watching carefully for his prey." There the voice trails off. I waited, and waited and waited. I don't know how long it was, but it was about 7 a.m. when I woke up, wobbling precariously on my comfy limb. I reached out to steady myself and set off a chain reaction (You knew this was coming, it happens every week now). As it were, I jerked the bow, which hit the coffee, which hit the lunch pail, which fell with a bang and spewed nabs, potato chips and a tightly wrapped bologna sandwich.

Big bucks do not eat bologna and potato chips. However, they do run away when said objects fall unexpectedly from the sky and land on oak roots with a clatter and crash, as was testified to by the white tail that I happened to notice swish once and disappear over the hill as I steadied myself.

Oh boy, the great white hunter strikes again.

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