The Farm was an agricultural land sale by the state a few years ago. After proving up on it (fulfilling specific rules by the state), we now have several fields mowed down, and trails criss-crossing it. The family runs back every fall for a Fannon family vacation. My parents are planning on living there year round, and so Porter and I were helping them move some of the things they would need.
I woke that morning feeling a little nauseated, but nothing was stopping me from getting out of the house. I've been eager for a couple months to get outside, maybe kill something yummy. I drove while Kim tried to sleep beside me, as usual.
We stopped in Anchorage, ate some mexican, visited a friend, then picked up Porter and headed to Papa's.
Upon our arrival, we hopped in the truck loaded down with belongings, and my nausea was magnified 100 times. Now, I don't really vomit. Alcohol can change that, but viral illnesses only nauseate me. I don't say anything to my dad, I just hold my hat in my hands like a bowl begging to be filled. I start to burp a foul smelling gas. It tastes like rot. Like mexican rot. I am totally wishing I hadn't eaten lunch...
Dad noticed me holding my hat, both arms wrapped around it. "You ok?" yeah, just a little nauseated... "You want a bucket?" sure...
During our traditional stop in Glenallen, he produces a small 2 gallon white plastic bucket for me to hold instead. I fell asleep still wrapped around that little bucket. My gut starts to grumble, and the burps keep coming. Dad says, "I wondered what that smell was..." yeah, it my stomach. He rolls down the window. Porter asks "Are you farting?" No dude, its my stomach. "That stinks like poop." Thanks buddy.
We get to The Farm about 9pm, and start unloading the truck. The sun is bright, a little breeze keeps the bugs off, and its beautiful, but I still feel bad. I tell Porter I need to go to bed... with my bucket. I set up his sleeping bag, and then die wrapped up inside my own.
I woke up at 5:30am, still feeling horrible. The nausea is overwhelming, and now I feel like I might stay in the outhouse for an entire day. I start a fire, heat up some water, and brew some tea. It settles my stomach pains. Porter wakes up and wants to go hunting. We grab our rifles, and walk down one of the many paths cut through The Farm. From the start, we see 3 rabbits. He begins to sneak up on the first, shooting at it every few steps, until it finally, casually hops into the trees. Porter needs some practice. We make a big loop back to camp, and have seen 7 rabbits. Not one ended up dead.
Papa makes a target on a plate and nails it up. I give Porter 500 rounds, and say, "I want every single bullet shot". Papa starts making breakfast, which is a choice between hamburgers or hotdogs. The only beverage is pepsi. I pass on breakfast, taking more tea in, and Porter hollers out "Hamburger!". Kids are so easy.
Porter gets started shooting up shells. I tell him to focus on taking his time, controlling his breathing, and all the other jewels of wisdom I can think of. Papa interjects his own now and then. After half the box is gone, and the hamburger is devoured, Porter wants to go hunting again.
We start walking down the same path, and see rabbits... probably the same stupid beasts that were there this morning. More rabbits than I have ever seen on The Farm. You could make a freakin 3 piece suit outta rabbits if you wanted. You could make a 7 course meal... just out of rabbits. But not one dies. I try to hide my disappointment, and we start walking back to camp.
Its lunch time, and Papa yells out, "Hamburgers or Hotdogs!" I want to vomit so bad. Porter takes a hotdog this time, "I already had a hamburger...". We unload the truck, and Porter is ready for one more walk around the property. Once again, rabbits everywhere, but they all refuse to die under Porters rifle. On the way back to camp, a big red squirrel hops in front of us. I stop, not saying a word, and Porter begins his sneak attack. The squirrel is in a tree, maybe 5ft in front of him. It doesn't last long, and big red is dead. Finally. Sometimes you just need an easy kill to find your groove. Hopefully Porter finds his.
We walk back to camp, show Papa the trophy. I drink more tea, and we pack up the truck for the 6hr drive home. I still feel horrible, but the short trip was worth it. For the rest of the weekend, Porter tells everyone, "I got my first kill.", which is what you want every 6yr old to say in public.
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