Accepting those who are different

“Uhhhh, I hate to tell you guys, but some one really let one,” J says to the collar of his camo shirt, where he has buried his face to his eyelids. “And it really stinks.”
No one says a word. All anyone can hear is the rumble of the Dodge diesel, the squeak of the springs over the ranch road.
“Ohhhh.”
“I didn’t know you were such the sensitive type,” J.D. says from the driver’s seat, his camo hat slung low over his eyes.
And the four of us start to laugh.
“We told you what you were getting in for,” Mac says from the backseat. “Your own fault for falling in with the likes as us.”
I went on a disabled deer hunt Saturday, hosted by the local chapter of the state deer association. Two brothers, 16 and 32, would get their wish to hunt blacktail deer.
With one caveat: Put up with as much shit as hunters who are whole in body inflict on one-another.
No breaks.
No special attention.
(Other than the obvious; the hunters were allowed to shoot from the cab of the truck.)
Take the guff, dish the guff.
Be one of the boys.
The guides were rough-around-the-edges loggers; the hunter a wheelchair-bound 32-year-old.
He was shown no quarter. No one was.
And it was as it should be.
Four guys out to celebrate nature.
And fart and belch and give each-other shit.

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