When i was a teenager, my dad and i went hunting opening day of deer season to a place called Burgh Hill. We'd looked at it (public hunting area) a few weeks before and planned where to go before daylight. We climbed into a big, swampy mess of brush, undergrowth and thorns. Sat down in the middle of it, thinking that when other hunters were wandering around the open areas, deer would go to the relative safety of thick, wet heavy brush. Except we spent the entire morning screaming at the top of our lungs and crawling out on our bellies. All the yahoos were on the low rim surrounding the area we were in, shooting randomly into it "to get the deer moving". It started before daylight, when you could see the dark orange of a shotgun muzzle blast in the dark and fog, then listen to the brush crack as the slug passed through. Some were uncomfortable close, some were just unnerving to listen to them buzz through the brush. A few close enough to see impacts within arms reach. They didn't seem to hear us screaming at them, but they heard enough to start shooting every time we snapped a twig trying to move out of it. When we finally got into clear ground, we passed out a rousing round of insults about their predecessors and progeny, then went home.
