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 thrilling. 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 contact". 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 coincidence. Don, VE3HGN
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