Hunting Story
Better Red than Dead 
When City Meets Country
Fall is my favorite season but I always grieve a little as my time at the family cottage, AKA my happy place, comes to an end.
This year, the weather gods dropped a perfectly-timed gift into my lap. No sooner had I sent the latest Bought-the-Farm book to my editor than summer swung back around and let me run off to the cottage for my first-ever November visit. The old place is not winterized and my brother normally shuts it down at the end of October. Where there’s no plumbing, there’s no Ellen (or Sandy, if you prefer my alter ego).
Aside: when my dad convinced my mom to buy the cottage some 50 years ago she agreed under two conditions: that he install a toilet immediately and that he lose weight so that he didn’t have a heart attack with all the renovations. He was motivated on both counts, and before long, a more streamlined man installed what he called “Bea’s Throne.”
Here she is now on a different throne with her royal granddogs.
As always, I rushed off to the trails with the dogs soon after arrival. We had a splendid time crunching through dry leaves. I often come up with great ideas during these hikes, as long as I can stay on my pins and keep the dogs from eating trail treasures. (On the latter count I failed, as a horse had been through and left a delectable treat).
We were all too warm, so the next day, I decided to go earlier. I arrived at the start of the trail at about 9 and was quite surprised to see a lineup of pickup trucks. I figured they were there to collect firewood.
So I was far more surprised when a woman stepped out from between the trucks. Holding a rifle.
Now, she wasn’t aiming said rifle at me, but it wasn’t dangling casually, either.
The dogs were completely unfazed and ran over to say hello.
“Hi! What’s going on?” I asked. Alert, but perky.
It really tells you all you need to know about this city girl that my first thought was that there was a SWAT-style emergency. A prison escapee in cottage country type of story. Although there should have been ’copters, I suppose.
The woman looked vaguely familiar and then it dawned on me that it was Bernie from “Bernie’s Vegetables,” a stand on the side of the highway. I’ve bought a lot of fresh produce from Bernie over the years. If she was on a SWAT-style team, the produce stand could be a deep cover. (Not a bad concept for a cozy spin-off, perhaps!)
But Bernie wasn’t meeting my eyes in a SWAT-style stare. Instead, she gave me another, more familiar look. The one that said, “Citiot.”
I had never heard that term until this year, when the local fulltime residents took issue on social media with seasonal cottagers coming up from the city and threatening to overload their health care services if we brought you-know-what with us. The virus that shall not be named.
All I had brought with me from the city was a whopping case of stupid.
“It’s rifle season,” she said. “First two weeks of November.”
She raised her gun in what seemed like an unnecessary show-and-tell. Because by then I’d noticed the orange jacket at her feet and realized deer were the intended targets, not prison escapees. Or citiots and their fancy doodle dogs.
“And then…?” I asked, because it was clear there was more.
“Bows,” she said. “Bows go till December. No bows now, in case… you know.”
“In case the archers get shot by the rifle people.”
She nodded. “It’s happened.”
“Got it. I guess I shouldn’t be walking the dogs right now.”
“Not wearing black, anyway,” she said. “Midday’s probably okay. If you don’t see any trucks, you’ll be fine. We need the trucks in case…”
“In case you’re successful.”
“Yeah.”
She could probably tell by my fancy doodle dogs that I was more the type to gasp in delight at the sight of a deer than… you know.
Her friends came out from the blind they’d built. Two couples. All seniors bearing arms. We made some small-talk. I was animated. Overcompensating. They kept their distance. In case stupid was catching.
I walked back to the cottage. Thought about doing the smart thing. Thought about forfeiting my last trail walk of the season. Decided to be daring for once. Daring and maybe extra stupid.
I dug up a 30-year-old red fleece sweater, barely worn because it’s an inferno inside and out. I just happened to have a red coats for the dogs in the same shade and put one on each of them. We matched. The hunters would see us coming and hopefully snicker instead of shoot.
At high noon, we set off for the trailhead again.
“Call someone to drive you home if I don’t come back,” I said to Mom as I left.
“I will,” she said, with a merry wave. “Already cued up your brother. Got your glasses?”
Right. Good idea. I went back inside to get them.
We stuck to the main trail, sweating it out on a day better suited to tank tops. None of us felt too frisky in the heat, but… better red than dead.
Needless to say, all went fine and I am home safe and sound where citiots—and their dandy doodles—belong.