Hunter's Choice, page 5
“They have been eating the clover we planted near there, and they’re down there drinking a lot around dawn,” Dad offered.
“So you three push them toward the pass on the South Ridge. You know, where we had that little fire a few years ago?” Uncle Rick said.
The South Ridge was a higher rock formation that made a sort of bowl near the edge of their property. Beyond the ridge the land descended on a long slope to the fence marking off public land. And in the middle of the half-bowl ridge was a valley, a gap through which the deer would most likely run if Grandpa’s team found deer and scared, or pushed, them toward that ridge. When the deer came through, hopefully Hunter or Uncle Rick would be able to take a shot.
“Let’s go!” Uncle Rick went out to the garage. Hunter and Annette looked at each other, and then Hunter put his coffee cup down and headed out.
Uncle Rick said nothing, but stepped into his full-body camouflage jumpsuit. His every movement was angry, sharp, like he was stabbing his legs down through the pants. Then he hurried with the zipper up the front of the outfit, getting it stuck over his chest. He mumbled a curse and fought to fix it.
Hunter and Annette tried to act like they hadn’t noticed the tension and continued suiting up. Hunter wore newish boots he’d received last Christmas, and he struggled just a little to push them through the legs of his camo suspender-supported overalls. When he poked his head through the top of his dark green sweatshirt, Uncle Rick was still struggling to unstick the zipper on his coat.
Hunter wished desperately that he could somehow cheer up his favorite uncle. But how? Like his uncle, he felt the anger course through him. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. His first hunting trip was supposed to be fun. A celebration. Instead, whatever was going on between Yumi and her dad was threatening to ruin that.
Hunter watched Annette slipping on the smallest of the family’s extra hunting gear. Annette was smart, but in a cool and not annoyingly show-offy kind of way. It was great that she was so brave and could talk to anyone without the least shyness. Even if she didn’t always have the nicest clothes—the right kind of jeans or whatever—she still looked great. Her reddish brown hair was often in a neat ponytail or curled real nice or in some neat twist that girls somehow understand how to do. And he liked the way her freckled nose wrinkled when she smiled and the way her dark-rimmed glasses sometimes glinted under the classroom’s fluorescent lights.
“What?” she said to him with a smile as she slipped on a stocking hat.
“Nothing.” Hunter quickly focused his attention on retying his boots for no reason.
Annette was really neat. But Hunter didn’t like her or anything. He did not. And he wished more than anything she and Yumi hadn’t come here this weekend.
They were all dressed now, Uncle Rick’s zipper crisis resolved. He flopped back onto an old couch, drew in a shaky breath, and let it out slowly, his eyes closed. Then again. “We need to move kind of quickly. We might get lucky and spot the deer right away.”
Hunter slung his Remington 783, extra magazines loaded with shells in the right cargo pocket on his thigh. Uncle Rick led the way out of the lodge, carrying his McMillan TAC-338, a bolt-action weapon chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum with a five-round magazine. That was a $6,000 rifle, a present Grandpa and Dad bought Uncle Rick when he returned home from the war in Afghanistan.
They stepped out into the cold and dark, emerging into morning early enough to still be called night. On a moonless morning like this, the deep Idaho wilderness transformed into another world. A world full of different sounds, different smells, some kind of strange different energy, and a billion billion stars, like a spray of sparkling ice shining in the cold dark. It was the cold that struck Hunter first, pushing away the last gentle tendrils of sleep, sharpening, hardening him.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Annette whispered.
Hunter wondered if she whispered out of the instinctive understanding that the hunt required quiet, or out of reverence and awe at the beauty all around them.
Probably admiring the beauty, Hunter thought as she pulled out a little penlight and started writing in her blue notebook.
“Hey, Annette,” Hunter whispered. “You know, we want to keep the noise and light down. It’ll scare away the deer.”
“Right,” she hissed. “Of course. Sorry.”
The three of them started across the gravel parking lot toward the rough trail that would take them in the direction they wanted to go. They’d suffered a bit of a rough start, but it was finally happening. The hunt had begun. Anything could happen now.
CHAPTER 7
UNCLE RICK LED THE WAY, SLOWLY, QUIETLY, THROUGH the dark woods. The other group would depart on a different trail after a few minutes. Hunter had stumbled a little twice, and he tried to focus on the way ahead, on sensing, on joining with the world around him. But he was distracted when Annette kept grabbing the back of his coat for support as they went along. He felt another tug as she slipped again.
Uncle Rick stopped and whispered. “It will begin to brighten a little soon. Relax and let your eyes adjust. It won’t take much for us to be able to see enough to find our way.”
Hunter smiled. How was Uncle Rick so confident out here? It must be due to his time in the war. Compared to moving around to fight in the deserts of Afghanistan, it must be simple to navigate the woods of Idaho, even if it was dark.
Uncle Rick gently brought Hunter up beside him. “You’ve shot targets on the range a lot,” he said quietly. “You’re a good shooter. But today we’re not on the range. Our targets aren’t plastic.” There were long pauses between each of his sentences. “Today we aim to shoot the living. We’re going out to kill. Hunters and other gun owners call guns a tool. A hammer is a tool. A screwdriver. Weapons like we have are nothing short of the power to kill. And that is a sacred power. A holy thing.”
“Oh, I wish I could write all this down,” Annette said. “Is this very much like war?” Hunter winced at her blatant question. Maybe she thought the better of it too, because she continued quickly, “I mean, if that’s an uncomfortable question, you know—”
“I’ve thought about that a lot,” Uncle Rick whispered. “Both here . . . and over there.” Hunter wasn’t sure his uncle was going to go on, the silence was so long. “And I think the main difference is the power to kill in a hunt is natural, a part of the process of life. The power to kill in war is . . . unnatural. Nothing but death.”
They made their way down a rocky slope, and Hunter could hear running water ahead. If he was right, Uncle Rick was leading them down toward a shallow ravine that hooked around to the base of Split Rock Falls. Both Hunter and his uncle had explored this land since they were very young.
“We call hunting a sport, the way we call basketball a sport, but I think that’s wrong,” Uncle Rick said quietly. “Basketball is fun, sure. But win or lose, not much has changed. With hunting, we hold life or death in our hands. And that’s not a matter for cheers or pep music.”
“But isn’t this fun?” Annette whispered. “I’m not even really hunting, and I’m having fun.”
It was just light enough for Hunter to see Uncle Rick shake his head. “It’s enjoyable, fun maybe, but a very different kind of fun, more an excitement, something ancient, primal. It’s the hunters that get out here all careless, acting like this is the Super Bowl and forgetting the deadly power they’re carrying, the people who call themselves hunters who don’t respect the animals, nature, or the hunt itself, who not only risk giving hunters a bad reputation, but end up getting people hurt.”
“I took the hunter safety course,” Hunter said.
“That was a class,” said Uncle Rick. “Nobody gets hurt in a class. This is real. We need to respect the hunt.”
“Come on,” Annette whispered.
Hunter squeezed his rifle as they slowly made their way out into the small clearing before Split Rock Falls. It was a small stream spilling between the fissure and tumbling over rounded stones down the slope, and in the near-darkness it was hard to see. Instead he heard it, smelled it, almost felt it. The strange tricky light between night and morning could easily fool the eyes, and Hunter thought he kept seeing movement out in the shadows among the tall pines. He leaned forward for some reason, as though that would help him focus on whatever might be out there. This was, after all, where he and Yumi had seen that enormous buck. Hunter wasn’t dumb enough to think he was still out here, waiting around for years for Hunter to kill him.
But that’s what made this so much fun, or so enjoyable, or however Uncle Rick wanted him to think about this. They might find a massive buck. They might find nothing. They might find a giant herd of deer. Or a bear. Anything could happen in hunting. Anything at all.
Uncle Rick took a knee next to him. “Got something?” he whispered.
“I thought I saw movement,” Hunter said.
Annette crouched down too, a little closer, Hunter thought, than was necessary. He tried not to notice.
“Is there something out there?” she whispered eagerly.
Uncle Rick held his finger to his lips and slowly worked the bolt action on his rifle. Hunter watched him do it, amazingly in perfect silence. Handle flip, pull back, push forward, and handle down. Uncle Rick’s rifle was chambered and ready. They remained that way, motionless and silent in the early morning half-light, for a long ten minutes.
“It’s OK,” Uncle Rick finally whispered. “Better too alert than not enough.”
The three of them continued onward toward the South Ridge gap.
A coyote scurried off into the low brush. Hunter watched its bushy tail fleeing and wished so much he could shoot it. At this range, he’d never miss, and coyotes were the worst. They even came all the way into town. Two years ago, two coyotes had attacked and killed his friend Barett Wilson’s old dog when the dog was out at night peeing. That’s why Barett always wished any hunter luck killing coyotes. He hated them. Hunter did too.
They continued down the slope, working their way along the narrow trail, careful to step around all sorts of animal droppings. Uncle Rick led the way, stopping from time to time and pointing at poop for the other two to step over. Hunter could identify each different mess. It was an important skill for a hunter, helping to identify what animal had been that way, and if it had been there recently or not.
There were coyote turds, like dog poop. Raccoon logs with more seeds. Tiny round rabbit pellets.
“What?” Annette asked, surprised as they moved around a big pile of brown turd pellets, each about the size of the average gumball.
“Moose,” Hunter whispered.
Three raccoons ran off up the slope toward the direction from which the human intruders had come. Hunter and Uncle Rick exchanged a silent look of surprise. The raccoons were huge! Biggest Hunter had ever seen, larger than an overweight cocker spaniel. Raccoons looked cute and cuddly, but they were a constant nuisance, messing with garbage cans and pooping all over the tower deer stand the family used in bow hunting season. Corner one, and it could rip your face off.
As the light came up, the vague darkness before them solidified out of the inky black into the impressive cliff, and they could at last see the gap in the South Ridge. The trees thinned out a little among all those rocks on the upslope. It was the perfect position to set up. From the gap they had overwatch coverage on the whole bowl before the ridge.
Uncle Rick smiled and pointed. Then he stopped and crouched, his rifle slung, reaching down toward the ground and picking up a brown poop pellet. “Deer,” he whispered, dropping the poop.
Annette looked at him like he was crazy, her lip curled in disgust as she looked at the pile of droppings.
Uncle Rick explained in a whisper. “This crap is warm. A few hours old at most.” He smiled and pointed to several different sets of hoofprints. “They’re out here. Might be a good day. Come on.”
“Try to move quietly,” Hunter whispered to Annette. “Step onto your heel and roll your foot forward to try to avoid snapping twigs and stuff.”
Annette nodded, writing in her blue notebook.
Uncle Rick smiled at Hunter and winked. Hunter’s cheeks felt hot. He was glad Annette seemed to be busy writing, and hoped she hadn’t noticed.
They reached the gap, a saddle formation, rather than a sharp crack or canyon, with steep smooth slopes rising from both sides to the top of the ridge. It almost divided the South Ridge into two separate formations, and was obviously the easiest way through, but it sat up high enough to make it the perfect place to shoot.
They found a place on the north side of the saddle, facing the direction from which they’d come. A pair of boulders there would provide concealment, and there was enough room behind them to prepare to shoot. One of the rocks was huge. Uncle Rick leaned forward against it, his elbows and rifle supported on top of it.
“I’ll shoot from here,” he said quietly.
Hunter lowered himself on his belly and low-crawled to the side of the smaller boulder nearby. There he had concealment behind the rock, but could scan the entire bowl in front of them and fire from a prone position.
At the back of the space behind the rocks, Annette took a seat on the perfect low stone shelf, which served as an ancient little bench. “What do we do now?”
“A lot of hunting, maybe most of it, involves waiting,” said Uncle Rick. “It takes a lot of patience.”
“This seems like a nice spot,” Annette said. “Not quite as cold here behind the rocks.”
Hunter looked over their morning camp. Now it was light enough to see everything clearly, and yet, at least initially, he sensed, rather than saw, its presence. Like a vibration on a tight wire, his attention sprang into focus and he saw movement at the corner of his vision. There! A deer. Coming toward them from behind, just rising over the highest point in the saddle. His heart leapt for a moment, and his hand moved to the handle of his rifle’s bolt action. A second later, Hunter recognized it as a doe.
“Don’t move,” Uncle Rick whispered. “If we get busted, if she spots us, she’ll snort to warn off any others.”
“Maybe we should hide behind the rocks?” Annette whispered.
“Any movement will give us away,” Hunter hissed.
The three of them froze there, watching the deer reach down to nibble at some scrub brush by a rock. Then her head came up, she straightened her neck to push her nose forward, and sniffed.
Hunter remained still. He barely blinked. He fought to keep his chest from moving too much when he breathed. Did she have their scent? There wasn’t much of a breeze, but it was blowing in her direction. He hoped that all their care in washing their clothes and showering with de-scenting detergent and shampoo would be worth it. The deer turned and looked back the way she had come. Hunter took that moment to back up into their little camp, the better to avoid being busted. He crouched down and the other two did as well. It was a risk, but if that deer continued through the saddle she’d walk right past them, and as exposed as they had been, it was impossible that she would fail to notice them. Finally the doe walked on by. She was just a little thing, maybe a year old, maybe good to eat in a few years.
The three of them settled in to wait. But for Hunter it wasn’t like waiting at the dentist’s office when his phone was out of a charge or sitting through study time waiting for the clock to run out when all his work was done. Out here in nature, there was no hurry, no pressure to keep an online conversation going, no worries about whether or not someone liked his post or if he was supposed to click “like” on a friend’s post. No school bell to tell him when to get up and move and when he should be in his seat. Out in the woods, there was only the purpose, the hunt, the sun shining down on the most perfect, untouched wilderness, and the eager expectation for taking an animal.
Hunter found himself enjoying letting his thoughts wander. He noticed Annette apparently doing the same thing, writing in her blue notebook. What was she writing? What did she think of the day so far? What did she think of him?
She seemed to notice him watching just then, and she looked up and smiled. Then her eyes widened and focused above him. She pointed. An enormous bald eagle had launched from a tree about twenty yards away, so close they could see its talons, hear the whisper of wind when it flapped its wings. It circled around and around, gliding on the air as if by magic. Then, with its sharp talons out, it plummeted to the ground. Wings flapped frantically in the grass for a few seconds until it beat its way back into the air, gripping the still-twitching form of a snake.
Annette watched wide-eyed, then mimed shooting the bird. Hunter shook his head. She shrugged and offered him a questioning look. He opened his mouth to explain, but Uncle Rick pressed a finger to his own lips, warning him to be quiet, pointing two fingers at his eyes before pointing out at the land they were supposed to be watching. Hunter did as his uncle suggested, but after a minute Annette handed him her blue notebook turned to a fresh page, her pen clipped to the cover.
On an otherwise blank page was written: It would look great on the wall next to Reagan the Bear.
Hunter grabbed the pen and wrote: Illegal to kill eagles or mess with their nests. Big fine. Protected. He handed back the notebook. She sat down next to him, read his message, and wrote back.
I know! I was just teasing you.
Hunter replied, Got me. You’re the smartest girl in our whole grade.
It was like texting, with paper and pen.
Annette answered, Thanks. You’re sweet.
Hunter had no idea what to write. He sat there like an idiot, staring at the paper. Fortunately, Annette took the notebook back and wrote more. I think this is super neat. You’re so cool being able to do this.
He wasn’t sure he would be able to do this when the time came. He looked away. He was supposed to be keeping a lookout for deer anyway, not paper-texting. Out near where the doe had passed, Hunter saw, in a patch of mud, a set of tracks. He frowned. At first he thought they were raccoon prints, but these were too big. And raccoon prints had five clawed fingers, sometimes appearing as if they were made by a small human hand. These were more like dog prints, with four clawed fingers and a center pad.
