We were up early, had a big breakfast and proceeded to our selected opening day stands in the woods. I had chosen a five acre clearing out behind Augie's barn. It had a large maple tree at one end, against which I had planned to repose while keeping a vigilant lookout for the big Shawano County buck. Bordering the clearing was a twenty acre marshy area, thickly covered with dense pockets of alder, buckthorn and any other invasive plant species which didn't mind having wet feet. A small creek meandered through the swamp creating a drainage into two surrounding lakes. It was a spot one would prefer to avoid if at all possible.
It was still, no wind and no snow. Just a bed of maple leaves upon which to sit. The sun had not yet peeked out so the light was dim and visibility low. But...not everything was enveloped by the pre-dawn darkness. The one thing-or rather I should say two things-that stood out like floodlights in the dark were those two big red boots at the ends of my legs. For the next several hours, as dawn proceeded to conquer darkness, I contemplated what the actual color of those boots were. Were they really red, or could they be mahogany, or possibly cinnamon? Regardless, I can attest that they were without doubt the brightest objects within sight.
So went opening morning, November 23, 1963. Analyzing the color of my new boots and wondering why anyone would want to kill our president. In fact, the remainder of the day and, for that matter the entire weekend, was spent primarily meditating on those two issues, one devastating and one simply for "musing".
But, although the opening day evening was consumed almost entirely by assassination rhetoric and conjecture among the hunting party, events of the following morning did create an unusual enigma over what was a normal Wisconsin deer hunt.
Next, 4 AM tomorrow...
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