What's in your truck?
I consider myself a fairly tidy person. I’m not a neat freak by any means, but like most people, I value cleanliness, lack of clutter and overall organization. I would even go so far as to say I like my things to be in some sort of order—even if that order only makes sense to me. However, for reasons I cannot seem to explain, none of those cleanliness tendencies apply when it comes to my truck.
It truly is strange. After all, I pay top-quality diesel mechanics to ensure my 240,000-mile 2004 Ford F-250 runs smoothly. We change the oil every 5,000 miles or so, replace the filters at regular intervals, rotate the tires regularly, and even change the wiper blades twice a year. With the engine running like clockwork, I find myself turning down a couple purchase offers a year, so one would think that I keep the truck in immaculate condition.
Well, think again.
Depending on the season (there are really only two: hunting and fishing), the inside of my truck tells a detailed story. If a Mount Vesuvius-like volcanic eruption suddenly covered my truck in ash at any point from September through February, future archeologists would have no trouble piecing together the details of Delaware hunting life. Besides at least two backpacks, three jackets (for cool, cold, and/or wet weather), and a pair of boots, they would find an array of implements worthy of museum display. A typical back seat inventory includes two tow straps; a dog bowl or two; bags of opened, unopened, and half-eaten meals ready to eat (MREs); a telescoping pole saw (which complements a folding brush saw); a mesh bag of duck decoys; a few pairs of mismatched gloves; a lanyard of duck and goose calls; and several hats.
If they peered into the backpacks, the number of tools and trinkets they found would astonish. Between the fire starting tools, knife sharpener, three knives, four flashlights, assorted batteries, two bow releases, gutting gloves, fox urine, doe scent (three kinds), buck scent (four kinds), deer calls, a few packs of hand warmers, a pair of socks, a first aid kit, some random candy bars, and matches to the mismatched gloves in the back seat, I’m sure the archaeologists would be in their glory.
If the volcano chose to unleash its wrath during the warmer months, a different story would unfold. Rather than uncovering gear devoted to harvesting birds and mammals, the scientific excavators would find a plethora of fishing equipment. If they focus on tallying high numbers in their search, they would be impressed by dozens (if not hundreds) of freshwater and saltwater lures. Scent-impregnated rubber worms and crawfish; gold, silver, and chartreuse spinner baits; photo-realistic crankbaits; and chewing-gum-like bloodworm substitutes would dominate the cache, but digging a little deeper would uncover more. Spools of fluorocarbon, sand spikes (and actual sand), lead sinkers, a fish scaler, filet knives, a minnow bucket, and about six years’ worth of free DNREC-issued fish rulers would also awe the historians.
After giving up focus on the back seat, the archeologists may learn that the back seat flips down opening a new world of discovery. Finding a shovel, tarps, a blanket, a jack, another tow strap, and some tire chains, they would marvel at the fortitude necessary to cram so much into the narrow crevice. They would eventually move on to the front seat where they’d sift through phone chargers, earbuds, coffee cups, water bottles, loyalty and membership cards, sunglasses, business cards, pencils, pens, another first aid kit, and an emergency dog bell engineered from a chewing tobacco can and a zip tie.
As someone who is always interested in recording information for future generations, I dare not tempt fate. Instead, I’ll help the future of mankind by ensuring my mobile time capsule paints a realistic portrait of a Delaware outdoorsman.