Blogarado, Part 2: It's Not A Party Until The Police Are Called.

We rolled to a stop behind the several bloggers' vehicles, on a lonely farm road in SE Colorado. What happened?

"Ambulance Driver hit a deer," we were told. Aw, crap.

We pulled around to the front of the line, and lit up the front of A.D.'s Dodge pickup. Not TOO bad. Must have been a small deer. I went to help drag it it in from the field, where it had expired after being struck by the grill and radiator of A.D.'s Dakota.

Whoa.

That's a big buck. No, that's a REALLY big buck.

At first glance, I figured 250 lbs. After having helped A.D. drag it the 100 yards to where the vehicles were stopped, I began to revise my estimate to far closer to 300 lbs. Mind you-- A.D. and I aren't petite little things, either.

We pulled it up on the road, and then the jokes started. 15+ bloggers, all beginning to get a bit chilly, thinking of the pot roast that FarmGram had prepared in town, began doing what they do: snark.

"I swear to Gawd, after what he did to my truck, at least I'm gonna mount that buck," A.D. said.

"Damn, A.D.-- you already killed him. Now you want to defile the corpse that way?" came a chorus.

The question then came up: Now What? We contacted our hosts, who were already at or near town, and explained the situation. It was decided that we would tow the pickup with already present pickups. We figured that it would be a shame to let the meat spoil and...

Crap. Three off-duty cops were present, and here we are, planning to leave the scene without reporting it.

I called 911.

"911. What's your emergency?" asked the dispatcher.

"Minor vehicle crash. Pickup versus deer. Both are expired. No injuries, Some road blockage. Copy 28?" I said, offering her the license plate number of A.D.'s pickup.

"What's your location?" she asked. Sensible enough, in case we lost connection. I had to ask what road we were on, and told her.

"Are there any injuries?" she inquired.

"No. That's why I said 'minor crash,'" I said, slightly impatiently.

"How many occupants in the vehicle?" She asked. Good question, but I didn't know, precisely. I asked, and told, and reminded her that no one was hurt. I told her that everyone was okay.

"Okay, I've got an ambulance en route," she said.

"But, as I've said, No One is hurt. We don't need a box. We need a game warden," I said, a little plaintively, now.

"Well, sir, it's just our policy, whenever there's an accident, we send medics," she said.

"Who will have less experience than the Paramedic instructor that was driving," I muttered.

"What's that," she asked, typing in the background.

"He said the he'll decline treatment," I said. "Please also notify the game warden." I hung up.

Just after this call, an off-duty Colorado Department of Natural Resources man happened to drive by, and told us that A.D. could keep the meat, but not the head. There was much cussing.

AD decided to get to work removing the head, and asked for a knife. About 10 were immediately opened and handed toward him.

Old NFO's fixed-blade knife turned out to be well-suited for the job, but not better than the Sawz-All that FarmDad produced from his pickup.

A.D. got busy removing the head.

After some time, a Sheriff's deputy arrived, and began to introduce himself. This young man was every bit of 16 years old, I'm certain. He never blinked at a large party of armed, laughing bloggers who took lots of pictures and made lots of risque comments. But he did a full triple-take at the hood ornament on A.D.'s pickup.

I quick stepped over and presented to him the business card left by the DNR man. "He said that we could remove the head," I said.

"Okayyyyyyy," said the deputy. "I've got a state trooper en route to work the accident."

"How far out is the trooper?" I asked.

"35 minutes, or so," he answered.

"You don't work these kinds of accidents?" I asked.

"Oh, I work 'em all the time," he answered, "but we're supposed to let the state troopers work them when they'll come to the scene."

"So you're leaving?" I asked.

"No, I'm staying with the scene, until he gets here," the deputy answered.

"To work an accident that will take about 20 minutes to work," I sighed.

"Yeah. Listen, I didn't make this policy," he said resignedly.

We started quartering out the deer. And by "we," I mean that Ambulance Driver got bloody, and we cheered and made inappropriate comments, and laughed and took pictures.

We discussed posting this picture (gore warning) without explanation, with a request for caption, under the post title: "Take That, Broadripple BlogMeets!" (Some of us not in the MidWest hear of much fun at those blog meets. Well, we're having fun, too...)

When the ambulance arrived, the EMT called it a baby deer, proclaiming that she had killed a much bigger one last year. I, still panting from dragging this one in, was indignant.

"Lady, that's about a 300 pound buck, no teeth left to speak of. He'll be about 5 years old," I said.

"Oh, I mean his rack is tiny. Probably about 130, maybe. I've got a 160 inch rack at home," she said, smugly.

Now, look. I know this wasn't a monster rack or anything, but my friend Ambo driver had just lost a radiator to this big boy. Last thing I was going to have is some smug para med from Colorado go dissing his deer. Besides, I've scored a buck or two, myself.

"Lady, that's a 20 inch spread, with near perfect symmetry," I said. "Nice beams, too. He'll go about 150." Honestly, I was pulling that number straight out of my butt.

"Oh, that's maybe a 16" spread," she said. Where y'all from, anyway?" she said, knowing the answer.

"Texas," I said, stepping into the trap.

"Oh. I might have known," she answered.

A tape was pulled out, showing an honest 20" spread (this picture has a point obscuring the final total, but it's 20"). Points were measured for later scoring. Just as well we measured it. The D.N.R. guy came back and took the head. Ambulance driver cussed roundly.

I took some more pics, and we all laughed and giggled in the cold for the next hour. If I had been the deputy, I would have assumed that everyone there was drunk or high, when in fact everyone on scene was sober.

We (A.D., with lots of spectators) finally got the deer skinned and quartered, and put it and A.D.'s gear and guns in the back of the Atomic Nerds' pickup. With 5 garbage bags of meat, about 10 rifle cases, and theirs and A.D.'s stuff, it made quite a pile. The Nerds prepped to tow A.D.'s pickup with a tow cable.

"Do you finally feel validated for having the truck?" asked LabRat to her stoic husband.

"Yes." Stingray looked satisfied.

Back at the FarmFam's house, I learned that Stingray is a hell of a brewmeister. His stout is superb, and I found nothing wrong with his IPAs, either. But after a glass of stout and four IPAs (Hey, back off-- I was on vacation.), I was feeling no pain. Whew.

What a lovely time.