I told my buddy Abe I wasn’t sure if there were a lot of tracks, or if I was just used to hunting Revilla. Then I launched into the long drawn-out story about how it all went down. He yelled to his wife in the other room, commenting on my oration. He used the accusatory tone of someone who is expecting a tale rich in hyperbole and exaggeration.
During Thanksgiving Break last week, I went to a spot on Prince of Wales I call Busse Plateau, after my high school basketball coach – Don Busse – who showed it to me. Last year, I shot what a realist would say was a nice fork. An optimist bent on technicality would say one of the points was right at an inch, which qualified it as a 3-point. This, of course, doesn’t matter the next day – it still cuts and tastes the same.
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