Author’s note: Last November, Paul “The Huntsman” Heintz earned his nickname by writing a story about going hunting with Governor Shumlin. What Paul didn’t realize is that he wasn’t the only member of the State House press corps to get that particular invitation. But I chose not to write about my experience until the right moment came along. And this particular day, April 1, is definitely that moment.

“Male bonding, Vermont style,” he said. “You’re not real buddies ’till you’ve pissed the same tree.” 

I looked at the spot where our streams splashed the base of an old maple tree, steam rising into the cold night air. My eyes couldn’t help themselves; they stole leftward for a glance at the gubernatorial “package.” And looked away immediately. (Can say no more; sworn to secrecy.) About twenty feet ahead of me, I thought I saw a bit of close-cropped silver beard in the underbrush, reflecting the light of the moon. 

I turned my attention to the business at hand. We both shook loose the last drops and zipped up. What the hell, I asked myself. How did I end up here, out in the Vermont woods, deer hunting with the Governor? 

And peeing with the guy? 

After the jump: early morning gunfire, and a man called Squanto.

It all started innocently enough. I met the Governor at his East Montpelier manse in the late afternoon. The plan was to hit the woods, set up camp, and try to bag ourselves a buck in the early morning. 

“Hey, how ya doin’?” exclaimed the Governor, emerging from the front door. The prospect of some huntin’ — as he insisted on calling it — seemed to have coarsened his tongue and deepened his accent. (Remember in 2004, when John Kerry sauntered into an Ohio bait shop and asking, “Can I get me a hunting license here?” That kind of thing.) 

“Glad to see ya!” He slapped my shoulder. “And glad to enjoy some real, honest bloodsport for a change. You don’t know how many times a thirty-ought-six’ud come in handy at the Statehouse.

“But hey, let’s not stand around here! Let’s head to the great outdoors!”

He flicked his keyfob. The garage door opened, revealing a truly monstrous SUV that looked capable of some serious offroadin’. Or small-country conquerin’. “C’mon, hop in!”

He backed out of the garage and headed across the carefully-tended back yard and into the foliage on a two-track dirt road. After about 50 yards or so, his house barely concealed from view, he pulled to a stop. 

“Okay, team, everybody out!” he cried.

I looked around; yes, we were alone.

Except, again, in the brush: a glimpse of silver, a pair of intense eyes, there and gone.

We grabbed our gear, and the Governor stomped off into the woods. I followed as best I could, but I needn’t have worried about getting lost; we’d barely begun bushwhacking when we came to an open clearing, carefully manicured, with a complete campsite in the center. Two immaculate tents, a campfire in a perfect circle of rocks. On a pole nearby, a bug zapper with a solar panel.  It looked like something out of an Orvis catalog, with a hint of Hammacher Schlemmer.

“Welp, what say we stow our gear?” the Governor said, and disappeared into his tent. I did likewise, and found that the inside of the tent was also immaculate and well-outfitted. Sleeping bag, inflatable pillow, even a little battery-operated reading lamp. After checking everything out, I started unpacking my stuff… and then I heard quiet voices. One was the Governor; the other I couldn’t quite place.

I peered out through the tent flap, and there was the Governor sitting by the fire, talking to a man wearing buckskin clothing. A cast iron pot was hanging over the fire. The conversation abruptly stopped, and both men looked in my direction. The man in buckskin had a painted face and a distinctive salt-and-pepper beard.

“Governor,” I said, taking a seat by the fire. “Secretary Spauld–”

“Uh-uh-uh,” said the Governor. “When we’re huntin’, he goes by “Squanto.”

“Oh, um, okay. Squanto?”

“Squanto” stared at me; Shumlin spoke. “He don’t talk much. But he does cook a mean squirrel stew. What say we have a nice backwoods dinner?”

____________________

Darkness fell. Having sated ourselves on Squanto’s finest, we’d cracked open a couple of Gucci beers, and the Governor was telling childhood stories of huntin’ in the Vermont woods. Most of them seemed plausible enough; I wasn’t so sure about the one where he battled a family of bears in his birthday suit. But hey, a little dramatic license is part of the huntin’ experience, right?

A few five-dollar beers later, the evening wound down. “Hey, team, we should be hittin’ the sack,” said the Governor, arising from the fire. “Squanto and I have something… special… planned for tomorrow. Don’t we, Squanto?”

Squanto nodded vigorously, and the two men chuckled. Rather unpleasantly, I thought.

That’s when the Gucci beer made its presence known, and I found myself dampening a tree with Vermont’s First Citizen.

___________________

I woke up sometime after daybreak. I got out of my sleeping bag, put on some clothes, and emerged from my tent into a crisp late autumn morning.

The fire had burned down. The Governor’s tent was gone. As was the bug zapper. No one was in sight.

“Governor?” I said tentatively. “Squanto?”

A shot rang out.

“Hello?”

Another shot, and a ricochet off a tree to my right. Instinctively I ducked.

A third shot pinged off the ground. I scrambled behind the tree. “Governor?” I shouted. “It’s me! JVWalt, your favorite blogger!”

More gunfire. I leaped to my feet and ran, laughter echoing through the forest behind me.

______________________

Next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground in my own backyard. I had no idea how I got there. My clothes were torn, I had a few bruises, but — feeling around my torso — I was intact.  

I exhaled, picked myself up, cast a wary eye around; and made my way inside.

I didn’t know exactly what happened, and I couldn’t swear it was the Governor and “Squanto” taking shots at me; after all, it was huntin’ season, and I’d been out in the woods alone.

But this I know: I ain’t goin’ huntin’ with the Governor no more.