|Bird Huntin' Haus (click to enlarge) parked in the desert near Never U Mind, AZ.|
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Bird Hunting: Ultimate Hunting Bus vs. Bird Huntin' Haus
Re: The Ultimate Hunting Bus (Shooting Sportsman, pg. 22 May/June 2011)
Golly gee! what a novel idea. Imagine, a “mobile hunting lodge.” Why hellamighty, according to its proud and ingenious owner, “can literally park where he hunts.” And a genuine Blue Light Special to boot: “in the mid-six figures,” a mere drop in the ol' bucket, eh? Whew! Sort a takes your breath away; actually leaves me speechless…almost.
A few paragraphs in it hit me our “mobile hunting lodge” a rather spare (Ok, cheap) 18 ft. camp trailer we christened “Bird Huntin’ Haus,” (corny I know) we had somehow kidded ourselves into believing adequate might very well be, well, laughable. In case you wondered it came in slightly south of 12 grand, yes, as in low five figures).
But not so fast. Delving deeper I came to realize the two are indeed quite similar—price aside that is. UHB boasts a stereo; BHH, check. UHB, flat screen TV; BHH, check, no doubt way smaller but still. UHB, galley, shower, head, refrigerator-freezer, sleeping berths; BHH, checkmate.
OK so we don’t got a “bump out or enough kennel space for 17 (!) dogs” and damn we don’t even own an ATV, let alone one tricked out by none other than Green Bay’s finest “Artists in stainless steel.” Double damn! Though we do kennel 1 (!) dog under the dining table it pains me to admit the old dog is left to fend for herself—on the couch or, you know, share the queen size bed—poor precious puppies, eh? And 8 miles per? Shucks, our old diesel hauler beats that even in a 40 mile headwind.
You might write this Ol’ Boy off as awestruck, envious even jealous but you would be wrong. For you see we (two hunters, two GWPs) have lived (quite comfortably and thanks for asking) in the BHH amongst countless feathered fowl in all sorts of outback spots, all over Montana, in Idaho, Nevada, North Dakota, Arizona (55 days this year; lest you loyal followers forget, literally surrounded by quail to boot).
But as I’m sure the man once said, “To each his own.” If it takes plunkin’ down “mid-six figures,” to trip your bird huntin’ trigger all I got to say is… By God goferit…And should you stumble on one our sorry camps, perhaps tired a swillin’ beer, hell stop in, we got bourbon and ice even…