She told herself it was a three legged, one eyed, scrawny button buck not worthy of the shot, while down inside she had a mental picture of tines with a spread of two and a half feet and a form that blots out all sound that you will make.
She knew there were deer here; creatures living shadowy in the limbo from which time began, moving around and away from time, away from you. Their forms moved right around her, as her heart sounded out that beat of time, going too fast. If only she could see with the eyes that all hunters have. She knew they were close, moving in and out of the sun’s glare, flirting with her with grunts and snorts, hot air from soft muzzles, challenging her to the dual that only one of them will win.
There’s nothing else like it; that unforgettable sense of openness. The profound and brooding woods, that lives quietly in her in the city as she bustled around between school and part time job at a dog groomer, the look of the hunter in her eyes behind the thick glasses, not visible to those around her, the fire hidden deep inside. Then later, the hot and wet and cold and warm hands on skin, peeling off clothing, fresh flannel, hot stew, warm coffee, renewal.
So, she stayed out longer than she should and getting caught in a cloudburst was her cover charge. It wasn’t a dangerous storm; even she knew well not to head out into the tall trees during one of those. It was a small storm, but small is relative when it takes just one lightning strike to light up your world.
Any thunderstorm out in the open is dangerous, so she found shelter as best she could, avoiding the tallest trees, with lightning cracking within a few miles. The poncho is quickly pulled out of the pack and donned, another to cover her rifle and gear. She settled down to wait, rivulets of water running down her face, thoughts retreating like the tide, exposing a bare landscape of fire and blood, rock, and water.
She thought of her first whitetail hunt, taught the craft by those that loved her, passing down a tradition of survival and preparedness. She field-dressed the animal with coaching but no hands on assistance, there in the fading light, her bloody hands consecrating to them that which was, by God’s will and man’s patience, accepted as a gift. She grew up that day, in more ways the one, having learned and watched and waited, until she was ready to handle her firearm, ready to use it as a responsible steward of the land, looking at the deer on the ground, the first precious blood she had been worthy to take. Sacrifice with grace, for which we are thankful and repentant.
The rainfall soon snubbed that recollection, memories growing quiet in the tears of the heavens. It would be a brief outburst so she stayed still, and quiet, there under a tree whose leaves were torn fabric against the rain. Given the weather she was thankful she had taken shelter away from the tree stand; semi-squatted on the ground on a tarp under the smallest trees she could find, as far away from the tall trees as possible.
From above a growing patch of blue and in the retreating army of cloud, a brief, violent crack. Was that lightning or a black powder rifle there up in the hills? There was no telling, but the sound broke an awkward pause in the day, and the landscape breathed again. A bird twittered, and from below her, squirrels argued politics as the dome of perfect blue settled back over the earth, the breeze gentle and uninterrupted by moisture. She smiled, and quietly got back up in her blind, slumped back against the tree with the posture of survivors at the end of a crisis. The storm had passed.
She pulled her firearm out from where it had been kept dry, for no amount of fire or rain could challenge what was stored in a hunter’s ghostly heart, and her firearm had seen her through both, with neither pity nor scorn for the travails. We waited, the Winchester and she, and waited some more, hoping that with the clearing of the air, man’s smell washed from the area, a few deer would roust themselves out before dark.
All things come to he who waits. And she.
For there, as the sun started to yawn and dip in the sky, a buck passed by. He was young, still with much life ahead of him. Not a fat doe, but a youth, a skinny forest hooligan, tempting fate by being out past his curfew. She raised her weapon. The squirrels paused, and for yet another moment that day, the forest missed a breath, her hands coming up, shivering stopped, only blood and desire and life pulsing in her ear, her own breath waiting, trembling, held in as her finger drew back.
And she gently released it, the little buck bolting off into the shadows. She was hunting alone. If she had taken the shot she’d get a little bit of additional venison to add to the freezer but there was a good chance with the location combined with the onset of dark, that she would not be able to get him dressed and out of there before all light was gone.
We all take paths that seem exciting at the time, as we travel the wilderness of a heart, of a landscape. Everything is as it seems to be, you’re not mindful of the dangers. Yet sometimes, the sky clears, you look carefully at where you’re at, and realize the wisest thing to do is to walk away, clean and with as little blood as possible.
They say that the waters of the Lord can wash away sins, that mountain water cleanses the earth. But what of weakness and regret? What of that one moment of pity for that we are about to diminish, there in that cracking moment when something ceases to live. That moment there between speed and splendor and the casting off of a shell casing. Her family had lived off of the land, and as such, by need or necessity, she had taken life to feed them. Yet that night at the hunting cabin by herself could not, for reasons beyond the logical ones.
The rain was letting off to thin drops that trailed like dew upon her brow, but it was almost pitch dark before the trail led her back to the cabin, with thoughts of warmth and food, refreshing tonic to her brain, the smell of kerosene and leather bringing heat to parts of her too long cold. She peeled off her damp clothes, a strand of long red hair plastered to her breast like warriors paint, hands gathering wood and tinder into flame, fingers still damp with glistening drops.
Another crack of thunder split the night, and somewhere tonight, blood, hot and dense, bringing both pleasure and pain, would soak into the ground, starting the cycle of life again. From the woods, a cry of an animal lingered long on the air, leaving on the breeze the thin echo of regret. Tonight, a small whitetail lives another day, as does she.
She poured a glass of whisky from the bottle she knew her uncle had hidden away and raised a quiet toast to the night.
It’s hard to believe that’s been almost 10 years ago and now she lives here in that little log home.
She hadn’t continued her work as a Veterinary Technician when she moved up to the cabin full-time, not wanting to make the commute into town in the winter’s deep snow. Grooming some of the locals’ pets in what used to be a shop off the horse barn that had room for some deep sinks and boarding a few horses covered her basic expenses and insurance, the small cabin, and used truck being paid for. She still has a small fireproof box safely hidden inside that held a few thousand U.S. dollars, essential if she needs to make a break for Nevada.