by Don, VE3HGN

Hi, my name is Tim, (my friends call me Timmy) and I'm getting a reputation 
around our club as being quite a DXer.  It's hard to believe, since I live in 
a swishy upscale neighbourhood and have only a hundred watts and a vertical on 
my condo roof. 

"Gimme a break", you say. Now, just hold on, and let me tell you how I applied 
my DX skills to Big Game hunting.  During the fall hunting season this year 
some of the boys from the steel mill got together for a couple of days of 
hunting and hard drinking up at the lodge in northern Canada.  I'm not sure 
why they asked me to go along, but I go anyway, as I actually find it quite 

We all pile into Snooky's big station wagon on Friday night and head north.  
I must say, the guys really look great:  they all wear these army type outfits 
with big boots and big belts.  They all have high-powered rifles and lots of 
bullets, some of the guys even wear Colt 45's on their hip.  I feel a little 
out of place in my neatly pressed tennis shorts, matching shirt and new pair 
of Adidas sneakers.  The guys all want to look at my weapon which I keep in a 
little soft leather pouch slung over my shoulder.  It's a .22 calibre, nickel 
plated Iver Johnson revolver, with a black ivory handle.  Mommy gave it to me 
for my protection when I was fourteen and had to walk three blocks to my 
violin lessons.

Early Saturday morning, and without much sleep, we all headed out looking for 
something to kill.  The guys were wearing their camouflaged outfits, belts 
full of shiny cartridges and very big, long-barrelled rifles equipped with 
scopes.  About an hour into the woods and they all started shooting.  Jim, was 
down on one knee squinting into his 8-power scope on his thirty-aught-six and 
letting off a few rounds.  I couldn't see what they were shooting at but I 
didn't want to feel out of it so I fired off a few shots.  Unfortunately, I 
hit one of the guys in the back of the head.  The guys were very understanding 
and assured me that it sometimes happens in a pile-up that someone messes up.

Sitting around the campfire that night, drinking beer and spinning yarns, we 
were joined by one of the gals from the near-by lead mine: Eva, was a really 
big broad who wore a .44 magnum on one hip and a flask of Brazilian Rye on the 
other.  Eva usually hung around helping the guys locate the prey.  She really 
fit in because when she forgot to shave her moustache for a couple of days she 
just looked like one of the boys.

In the evenings, as I didn't have any stories to tell, at least not the kind 
they would want to hear, I would retreat to a corner and curl up with 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poetry, to read and nibble on sun flower seeds. 
Later that night, when everyone was a bit smashed, I told them that I thought 
it was unfair that I never got to bag any of the big game, so I suggested that 
they do what we do in Ham radio;  i.e., set up a list operation, so that 
everyone gets a fair shot ... no fuss, no muss.  They promised to do what they 
could.  The next morning at daybreak, with the boys off and hunting, I was 
able to sleep in.  Later that afternoon, after I had finished washing my hair, 
doing my nails and rinsing out my shorts, I heard the boys calling me to come 
on out and to bring my gun.

Jim, Snooky, Don and Eva, had captured a big moose and had it all tied up 
tight and lying on its side.  "Okay Timmy," they yelled, "load-up and start 
shoot'n."  Well, I got as close to the big beast as I dared, and fired off a 
couple of rounds behind it's ear.  The guys were yelling, "It's still kicking, 
give Timmy a chance you guys."  This time I screwed up my courage and stuck 
the barrel of my little revolver into the animals mouth and cranked off a few 
more rounds. Jim, yelled, "Give'm one in the eyeball Timmy, I think I saw his 
tail move." Finally, it was over and the gang all yelled, "Good Shooting, good 
shooting."  I must say, I was flushed with pride, the same feeling I get when 
I work a New Country on a List, and they all yell, "Good contact, good 

I joined the boys around the campfire that night, even had a can of beer. I 
told them that there was something very democratic about hunting that way as 
it means everybody gets a chance, not just the big boys.  Right?

"Ya'got that right," said Don, "we're just here to help."

The foregoing is a fictional account of a day in the life of Timmy The Twerp, 
a modern DX List Patron.  Any resemblance to HF DXers, living or dead is pure 


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