Hunter's Choice, page 3
“Because we don’t take shots if we’re not set up and stable,” Grandpa said, holding up his beer in a salute to Hunter.
“Another five minutes or so carefully checking the area behind the buck.”
“Because we don’t take shots that have even a chance of being unsafe,” Grandpa said. “Even if it means giving up an easy shot and letting an animal get away.”
Hunter nodded. He knew all this. He’d heard it many times.
“Finally, I lined up the shot. That buck fever, that intense adrenaline rush, coursed through me,” Dad said. “The deer perked up and seemed to see me an instant before I pulled the trigger. Perfect shot. He bounded away as most deer do when shot. But six steps later, he dropped.”
Talking over old hunts was a key part of the family’s time at the lodge. They all knew the story behind every trophy on the walls and countless more photographs. Hunter would have thought they would need little plaques under each trophy as a reminder of when, where, and how it was taken, but for Grandpa, Dad, and Uncle Rick, it was like time travel. When they started telling the tale of how they took an animal, they seemed to transport back to the moment, recalling every little detail with perfect clarity. Would it be that way for Hunter someday? He wasn’t so sure.
Hunter watched his father eyeing that deer’s head, a look of admiration on his face. He had talked about how the buck was beautiful. Magical. Dad had felt connected to him. How could he kill something to which he felt connected?
Dad and Grandpa took seats on stools around the island countertop in the kitchen, like they usually did, catching up with each other about work, and reminiscing about great times they’d had hunting in the past.
Hunter perched on a stool at the far end of the counter, eager to be part of these kinds of fond stories, a part of the family memories.
“Chili should be warmed up in a little bit,” Grandpa said. “I know you like venison chili.”
“Oh yeah,” Hunter said. He loved the stuff. He loved venison and deer jerky, as well as duck, and wild turkey on Thanksgiving. He wasn’t one of those people, hippies, Grandpa called them, who thought hunting was a violation of an animal’s rights. Animals weren’t people.
But they were alive. Hunter hoped he could kill when the moment came. He wanted to. He would kill if—when the time came. He was a Higgins. His freaking name was Hunter! He was born to hunt. He stared at his Dad’s majestic first deer. Hunter would kill when the time came. He would. He absolutely would.
After about an hour of Dad telling Grandpa about a complicated situation that came up after a wealthy client died and his kids began fighting over the inheritance, and Grandpa telling Dad about a new highway resurfacing contract he was planning to bid on, Grandpa turned his laptop around and showed a short black-and-white video clip of a buck, a solid four-by-four, strutting through, looking almost right at the camera. “Pretty good one.”
“Where was this?” Dad asked.
“Near that scrape down by the creek, by the north crossing,” Grandpa said.
Grandpa had four motion-activated trail cameras that he’d set up at different places around the property, wherever bucks were making rubs on trees or scrapes in the dirt, part of their bizarre way of impressing does. To save battery life, the cameras only recorded thirty-second videos.
“He’ll be great to take in a few years.” Grandpa turned the computer back around and continued clicking through the hundreds of videos he’d collected on the four different memory cards. The man loved this almost as much as hunting. He looked through trail cam footage for hours every time they came to the lodge.
From outside came the low rumble of an engine, the crunch of tires on gravel.
Grandpa looked up from his deer footage. “Ah, Rick’s back.”
Hunter hopped off his stool and ran for the door. “I’ll see if he needs help carrying anything.”
Uncle Rick was one of the coolest guys Hunter knew. He had been a fire jumper, parachuting into the wilderness to fight forest fires. That meant he was tough, could carry heavy gear, and could get himself out of dangerous situations. He’d been in the Army National Guard too, stationed in what he had called a rough province of Afghanistan. Hunter had never heard many details about what had happened to Uncle Rick over there, but he’d picked up enough clues to know his uncle was kind of an action hero. He’d taken out some terrorists and saved his men, winning the Bronze Star Medal.
Hunter met him in the garage. “Hey, Uncle Rick. What’s the sitrep?” It was the greeting the two of them had always shared. “Sitrep” was military talk meaning “situation report.” It sounded way more cool than “what’s up.”
“Nephew!” Uncle Rick said with a big grin. “Just getting geared up for a big hunt. I don’t even know the last time the Higgins family had two young ones out for their first hunts.”
Hunter frowned. “Two?”
Yumi came into the garage folding her arms. “More like three.”
“Three?” Hunter asked. What was going on here?
Another girl walked in. Hunter rubbed his eyes. The garage was rather dark, and the bright light from outside silhouetted whoever was standing in the doorway. She turned her head a little and a breeze caught her curly hair. The light flashed on her glasses. “Hey, Hunter,” she said.
He wasn’t dreaming. It wasn’t a hallucination. Somehow, Annette Willard had just walked into the lodge.
Hunter felt his cheeks grow hot, melting away the comfort he usually felt here on his family’s land. Suddenly he wasn’t quite sure how to stand, and he shifted his weight. Grandpa had often talked about how one could never know what to expect when hunting. Whatever Hunter had thought was going to happen, he absolutely hadn’t predicted Yumi and Annette to suddenly arrive.
“Surprise.” Annette smiled. “Yumi and I are going hunting with you.”
CHAPTER 4
WHAT WAS YUMI EVEN DOING HERE? SHE WAS GREAT, yeah, Hunter’s cousin and one of his best friends. But in the Higgins family, for generations, hunting was mostly a guys’ thing—a men’s thing. Granted, Hunter had never heard anyone talk about rules against girls hunting with them, but part of the reason he was looking forward to this weekend so much was his chance to be one of the guys. It was like one of those coming-of-age ceremonies he had read about in his social studies book.
Anyway, for some reason Yumi didn’t even seem to want to be here. Annette looked more excited than her.
Annette Willard! Now that she was here, everything was thrown off. Hunter would have to act all . . . he didn’t even know. The point was he’d have to act differently. What was Yumi doing?
Whatever she was doing, Yumi couldn’t resist smiling when Grandpa picked her up and swung her around in a big hug.
“Grandpa, come on!” She laughed a little. “I’m too old for this.”
He put her down. “Nonsense. You’re too old when my back says you’re too old.”
“Yeah, because what I really want to do is hurt your back and ruin your whole weekend,” Yumi said.
Grandpa waved away her concern. “Bah. I’m fine. I’ll always be fine.” He turned to Annette. “And who might you be? Yumi’s great friend, I take it?”
“Annette Willard,” Annette said. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Sir?” Grandpa put his hand over his chest, joking like he was shocked she’d used the word. “I have eighty men and four women working for me, and I don’t let any of them call me ‘sir.’” He offered a handshake. “Call me James.”
Annette actually shook his hand, with a full firm grip, like an adult. “Nice to meet you, James.”
Hunter watched this all in wonder. Who shook hands? Nobody his age.
“One rule while you’re a guest here at the Higgins lodge, Ann,” Grandpa said. “There are no guests. While you’re here, the place is yours. Do not be shy. Now, you coming hunting with us?”
“I’d love to,” Annette said.
“Have you fired a gun before? Have you taken the state’s hunter safety course? Do you have a license?”
“A BB gun. No. And no,” said Annette. She pulled a small blue spiral notebook from her back pocket. Hunter had seen her writing in it many times. “But I have a notebook. And I’d love to write about this hunting trip for the McCall Middle School newspaper.”
Grandpa’s regular jokey tone turned serious. Not angry, but serious. “I’m glad you’re here, and of course you should come along and write all about our adventure. But since you haven’t passed the hunter course and you’re not familiar with firearms, you will not touch any of the guns we have around here. At all. And when we go out, you’ll need to follow all the directions from me, and my sons David and Rick. The absolute most important rule is safety. If you’re being unsafe I’ll have Rick take you home.”
Instead of being intimidated Annette only nodded, as she quickly wrote in her notebook. “Under-stood . . . com-pletely,” she enunciated as she concentrated on writing.
Annette looked up and took in the room, her gaze focusing upon Reagan. “Wow! Is that a real bear? Did you shoot it yourself? I’d love to hear that story.”
“It is a real bear.” Grandpa brightened. There was no story he loved as much as the tale of when he shot Reagan. “Well, a real taxidermied bear. Yes, I shot it. Back in ’84, he was the third-largest bear ever taken in the state. I call him Reagan.”
“Reagan?” Annette asked. “Like the president?”
“Yep,” said Grandpa. “Ronald Reagan was running for reelection back in 1984. And he had this fantastic campaign ad.”
“Oh no,” Yumi said. “Here it comes.”
Hunter laughed.
Uncle Rick held his hands up with fingers curled like claws. He spoke in a deep voice. “There is a bear in the woods.”
Hunter closed his eyes and tried to remember the words of the ad.
Dad recited the next line. “For some people, the bear is easy to see.”
“Others don’t see it at all!” Hunter blurted out.
Annette looked from one person to another, writing fast to take notes.
“Some people say the bear is tame,” Grandpa continued. “Others say it’s vicious and dangerous.”
“Since no one can really be sure who is right . . .” Dad said.
“. . . isn’t it smart to be as strong as the bear?” Uncle Rick said.
“If there is a bear!” Hunter joined the men in finishing the old commercial.
It was a silly tradition.
Annette clapped. “Bravo! How can you possibly remember a political ad from so long ago?”
Hunter wanted to know how Annette could be so comfortable, not shy at all, around adults like this. Hunter was part of the family and still didn’t feel so open with them. Annette somehow talked to them as if they were all old friends.
Grandpa seemed impressed with her as well. He let go his big booming laugh. “Reagan’s landslide victory over Walter Mondale in the 1984 election was exciting. That commercial was on TV all the time back in those days, and since I killed the bear back then, everybody kept saying, ‘There’s a bear in the woods . . .’ and eventually I just kind of memorized the rest.”
“OK if we go out to shoot?” Yumi asked.
The men all exchanged a look. “Sure,” Grandpa said. “If it’s OK with your dads.”
“Weapons safety. Range safety at all times,” said Uncle Rick.
“Oh cool!” said Annette. “What are the rules?”
“Muzzle awareness,” Uncle Rick explained. “Keep your rifle pointed downrange at all times. Load and chamber only when you’re in position ready to fire, not before. Clear the rifle and put the weapon on safe when you’re done firing. Nobody goes downrange until all weapons are cleared and on safe.”
“Never assume a weapon is clear unless you’ve checked it yourself,” Yumi said. “I know.”
A few minutes later, Yumi, Annette, and Hunter were out on the shooting range behind the lodge. Hunter carried the Remington 783 rifle. Yumi had a box of 6.5 Creedmoor shells, three sets of earplugs, and three four-round magazines.
One thing handy about having a grandfather in the construction and earthmoving business was that it was no problem for him to get a bulldozer to push up a high dirt berm to stop rounds at the back of the range. Without that, all that was back there was the stone cliff, rising high above them. Rock was a terrible material behind a shooting range. It presented a serious ricochet danger.
“Wow,” Annette said. “So this is where you practice shooting guns?” She pointed at the series of plastic, loosely deer-shaped targets at various positions and distances back along the range. “And they just let you bring a gun and real bullets out here all by yourselves?”
Yumi shrugged. “Yeah. I guess when you grow up around guns like us, they stop being so scary or mysterious. Me and Hunter have been shooting for two years.”
“Really?” Annette sounded truly impressed. “Are you good at it?”
“I’m OK. But Hunter’s really the best,” Yumi said evenly.
Hunter’s cheeks flared red, and he busied himself working with the bolt action, again to re-check and make sure the chamber was empty. He pretended to examine something near the trigger.
Annette held her hand up like a sun visor. “Can you even shoot the ones far in the back?”
They’d reached the old picnic table by the firing point. Hunter busied himself scuffing his boot in the dirt to draw the safety line. It helped make clear what area counted as downrange, and how far back observers had to stay. Plus it gave Hunter something to do even as he answered Annette quietly, “Sometimes.”
Yumi looked questioningly from Annette to Hunter and back again. Then she laughed. “Sometimes? More like most of the time. Basically all the time. Hunter is a great shot. Grandpa says he’s going to turn over to Hunter his old nickname ‘Sureshot Higgins.’”
Why was Yumi saying all that? Even if it was kind of true. She was acting like he was all great?
“Hey, let’s shoot before we lose the light,” Hunter said.
“I know I’m not allowed to handle the guns,” Annette said, “but can you show me how all this works?” She pulled out her ever-present blue notebook. “I’ll take notes.”
This was crazy. Not only had Yumi crashed what was kind of supposed to be his weekend, but he was supposed to concentrate on shooting and on hunting . . . with Annette here? It was too much.
Yumi set her things down on the picnic table, put in earplugs, and handed hearing protection to Hunter and Annette. She took the rifle from Hunter, keeping it pointed downrange at the ground, lifting the round black ball at the end of the little bolt handle and pulling the bolt back to check that the chamber was empty. “This is a Remington 783 bolt-action rifle.” Yumi spoke loudly to be heard while everyone had earplugs in. “It is chambered to fire a six-point-five Creedmoor round and operates with a four-round magazine.”
Yumi showed the safety switch to Annette. “So, loading it. Keep the safety on. Make sure the bolt is forward by keeping the handle forward and turned down. Then take a loaded magazine, slap it into the bottom of the rifle here.” She smiled. “If the bullets in the mag aren’t pointing forward, you’re doing it wrong.” She slid in the magazine. “Keep the gun pointed downrange.” She demonstrated as she described the process for Annette. “Turn the bolt handle up, pull it all the way back, then push it back forward and lock the handle back down. Now the round is chambered. When I turn off the safety, the rifle will fire when I pull the trigger.”
Yumi lowered herself down on her belly, her finger straight and not curled over the trigger. Her left elbow was pressed to the ground and her hand up as support under the barrel.
Hunter watched his cousin. Whatever she had said about his shooting wasn’t an indication that she couldn’t shoot. She fired and knocked down the target at a hundred and fifty yards. She quickly flipped the bolt handle up, pulled it back to eject the spent bullet casing, pushed the bolt forward again, and swung it back down. In about two seconds she was ready to fire again, and she dropped the two-hundred-yard target.
Yumi continued shooting like that, switching out magazines, until she’d fired twelve rounds, dropping nine out of twelve targets. She’d missed both three-hundred-yard targets, and she must have pulled the trigger too hard on one shot because she missed an easy one-hundred-yarder.
Hunter reloaded the magazines as the girls tipped the targets back up. When the girls were safely back behind the line, he settled into the prone position to take his turn. The smooth wood of the rifle felt good in his hands, familiar and natural. He worked the bolt action to chamber a round and turned off the safety. He aimed at one of the two farthest targets. Remembering to relax and control his breathing, Hunter breathed in, out, in, and fired. The target dropped. He was dimly aware of Annette clapping behind him. But mostly Hunter zeroed in, joining with the rifle, as though it were a part of him and he were a part of it.
A non-shooter would probably never be able to understand what this felt like. Hunter didn’t consciously remember shooting fundamentals like breath control and a smooth, easy trigger pull. Those skills were simply a part of him, and he felt powerful, unstoppable as the targets fell. The other three-hundred-yarder dropped. Then both two-fifties in quick succession. Everything else faded away as he fired, until the last of his twelve rounds was spent and the echo of his final shot rolled out over the range with all twelve targets down, the sharp burned-pepper smell of gunpowder connecting him now with memories of all the practice that had been required to achieve this kind of success with a rifle.
