my first chapter of rural life: learning the “H” word

Chris & I at Kiger Canyon with the rat dog, Mo.
Chris’ idea of a 4-star resort: a wall tent.
I first arrived in Roseburg for a weekend stay with three suitcases, high heels and my “rat” dog. It was just as I imagined: gorgeous fields, sweeping vineyards, towering oak trees, and crisp rivers. I then pulled up to my four-star double-wide, equip with cows, guns and a selection of hanging antlers.

Within a few hours I found out that stilettos are not the proper choice for muddy grass, that perfume does attract bugs, and that I might need a new cell phone plan because it seems everywhere I go, I get one bar.
Oh, what people do when they are in love. Yes, I met the man of my dreams—plaid, suspenders and all—and journeyed down to the country. It seems I am living the real Green Acres.

After marrying my logger husband, I made the official move to Roseburg. My husband was constantly asked, “How’s the city girl doing?” His co-workers and buddies thrived for a good laugh on my quest to find the retail stores, discovering it is normal to carry a rifle in your pick-up truck, and how I learned that the fall is not for fashion week—but hunting season.

I’d only been in Roseburg for five months, and that celebrated “H” word started sputtering off everyone’s lips. No, not “holiday”, but “hunting”. Hunting is comparative to Nordstrom’s Anniversary Sale— you wait all year for it, you compare with friends and strangers what you found, and you are very particular about who you go with. That being said, I couldn’t believe my husband wanted me to go hunting at Steens Mountain with him to kick off the “holiday” season. I sure had a lot to prove, therefore I had to go.

The festivities began with s’mores, hot chocolate and snow. However, it was fifteen degrees and I was in a tent. I’ve gone camping a lot before, but this was different. We were in almost complete solitude, and I even made my husband park us on an actual campground. I figured I should be near people in case some animal attacked.

The first two nights were cozy with a crackling fire, fresh snow, and warm comfort food.  During the day I walked around camp with my UGG boots, fur covered parka, and rat dog. I didn’t even fit in hunting.  I suppose next year I’ll research my husband’s Cabela’s catalogue for some girly camo attire.

After the jug of Carlo Rossi ran out and I finished my book, I went from dreading the thought of my husband killing something to begging he would kill something.  Eventually, he said I had “passed the test” and we could go home.

Ahh, home, and I did it. I completed the long, cold week of hunting.I just couldn’t wait to get back to town, but did feel bad my husband didn’t kill anything.

He then chuckled and said not to worry, “We’ll go Elk hunting here in a few weeks.”
“What?” “There is Elk hunting, too?” Sigh.

It seems I still have a lot to learn about how the holidays are spent down here. 
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