My bathroom scale is the devil….and so is my son.

If you’re bored enough to read this post, I can only assume you read my first one. If not, I’ll cut to the chase and tell you two important facts.

Fact #1–I’m kind of fat.

Fact #2–I drew an Idaho controlled hunt tag for elk.

To be clear, I’m not so fat that people attempt to harpoon me or anything along those lines. I’m just too fat at the moment to be able to properly hunt the mountains of Idaho. We can’t all be giant, walking lungs like Cameron Hanes or our own Corey Jacobsen….nor does a person HAVE to be. Having said that, it certainly helps a great deal when you’ve got the ability/willingnesss to hunt areas that others won’t. This fact is not debatable, at least not with me. I’ve proved this to myself enough times to know it’s true.

There are certainly a few large animals shot each year in relatively close proximity to a road. There are a whole lot more taken in areas that make you want to cry when it’s time to pack one out though. To prepare for the “make you cry” areas, I am forced to lose the equivalent weight of an averaged-sized African villager each year. A controlled hunt tag means about a villager and a half worth of effort/weight.

Since I’m going to be suffering anyway, I thought it might amuse all of you to monitor my painful journey down misery lane. As such, I will be providing a weekly update on where I’m at with my training and what my evil, evil bathroom scale (or fatmeter as I like to call it) is telling me.

I checked this morning, and it told me I was about 250 on the hoof. That’s a good number if you’re 6’5″, but not so good when you’re a hair over 5’11”. I’m a big boy by nature however, and to put it into perspective I was right at 200 pounds when I graduated from boot camp some 17 years ago.

My goal is to reach 215 by October 1st, which just happens to be the first day of my hunt. I’ve come VERY close to this number the last few years, but never quite reached it. I made it down to 219 last year and 216 the year before that.

I have a secret weapon this year however. My ungrateful 7 year old son has taken to challenging me in feats of strength and fitness lately. I know what you’re thinking.

Where is the sport in beating a child? What’s next? Are you going to mosey down to the senior citizen’s home and challenge some geezers to arm wrestling?”

If that’s what it takes to assert my dominance…..yes. I digress however.

Rowdy (yes that’s my son’s real name) has figured out that sit-ups in particular are not fun for daddy. It all started innocently enough when he sat down one night and knocked out 20 of them. While it was no picknick for me, I managed to do 21 without actually crying.

While that was managable enough, he’s w0rked his way up to a HUNDRED FREAKING SIT-UPS! I am proud to say I managed to wheeze my way to 101, but it took a LOT longer for my 101 than it did his 100….and yes I did cry a little.

You think that’s funny? Try sitting down tonight and doing 100 consecutive sit-ups. I’ll bet even money you shed a tear or two yourself.

I’ll report back next week when hopefully my son will have found someone new to torture and I will have dropped to 240ish.


Fat guy out.