I spent all day Saturday taking youngsters and their parents squirrel hunting on the 38 acres behind our house. I was working on several articles about young hunters, and our place is usually overrun with squirrels.
Not yesterday, though. In the morning, I took a father and son hunting. The wind howled, the trees shook, and the squirrels hunkered in their dens. We only saw two squirrels all day, and they were in the process of fleeing from us.
That evening, Elaine and I hosted two parents and their daughter and son. The dad and daughter went to one end of the property, the mom, son, and I went to the other. Results similar to the morning were the result.
The whole, misbegotten day set me thinking about the vagaries of hunting. I once went squirrel hunting with a wildlife biologist in the Jefferson National Forest. The gentleman had picked the locale because of its bountiful supply of bushytails. We never saw one all day.
Two things are certain after yesterday. One, my career as a squirrel guide is seriously in jeopardy. And two, I expect to see hordes of bushytails every time I walk out the door today to tend to the chickens today.