Where I live in eastern Montana, February is a brutal month. Hunting seasons are over, the ice fishing can be slow, and we annually have a bout of soul-searching cold in February when the mercury dips to -30. And stays there for a week or two.
But I’ll trade a year of Februarys for a single August. For me, August is the cruelest month because it’s hot, dry, buggy, and I’m daily reminded that I need to be prepping for the fall, but I can’t seem to find the time to adequately do it.
August is the cruelest month because nothing is happening yet, but everything is about to happen, and I feel simultaneously like I have too much time and not nearly enough of it.
Let me explain.
The first big-game season to open in my neighborhood is for archery antelope, on Aug. 15. I don’t have a tag this year for pronghorn, but the approach of that date reminds me that I’m not shooting my bow nearly enough. So for the past couple weeks, I’ve been making time in the evenings to tune up my archery gear and my shooting eye. It’s been going okay, but where I live, the mosquitoes are ravenous and out of every 5-shot group, one arrow typically goes rogue. The blame is on the inability to hold my form as a mosquito drills into my flesh. But I also have a self-imposed rule that I can’t stop shooting until I can stack all my arrows in a space I can cover with my hand. And every skeeter-skewed arrow keeps me out in the bugs that much longer.
Sept. 1 is the dove opener, and I know I need to sharpen up the field skills of both myself and my dog. But it’s so hot that I feel guilty working my pup until late in the evening, at the very time I usually shoot my bow. I should probably wake earlier and get in some solid dog work in the mornings, but I simply don’t. I’d rather sleep in, even though I know I feel guilty about it.
Then there’s fishing. The landlocked Chinook salmon are biting on nearby Fort Peck Reservoir, but I can’t seem to find time to go. Ditto the walleye bite on the Missouri River. And I keep promising myself that I’ll break out my fly rod and throw some hopper patterns at big-river trout. But I don’t.
I need to shoot my deer rifle a lot more, and work up a new load with Nosler’s AccuBond and Hornady’s ELD-X bullets. I need to mount a new riflescope on my daughter’s deer rifle. I need to waterproof my hunting boots and fix a torn strap on my backpack. There’s a pile of hunting knives that I told my kids we’d spend a rainy afternoon rebeveling and sharpening.
Then there’s the big ticking clock, reminding me that my kids are about to return to school, but also that we haven’t gotten done all the summer honey-do’s around my homestead that I said we’d tackle this summer. I’m reminded that we haven’t camped together nearly enough. Or fished. In another month, my boys will enter their senior year of high school, and that clock ticks louder, reminding me that this may be the last August we have together.
I know that September will be here before I know it. And I know that August is the time to get all the necessary prep done. I want more of August. I want less of August.
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