The sun hid behind the mountains as Dan imagined that the wild
country at his feet stretched to the Arctic. He very much liked the
sound of the word arctic. Wild country was one of his favorite
daydreams.
After chugging up the trail, the other boy stopped to heavy-pack pant
at Dan’s shoulder. Mom had argued long and hard against the hunting
trip. She was concerned with Dan’s lack of respect towards gun
handling. Dad had argued that it was time for the boy to do something
on his own. In the end, Mom gave in only after Dad ruled it a two-man
expedition. Dan also gave in because going with the older cousin was
better than not going. Now, here they were, standing over a remote
basin and alongside Dan’s imagination.
“Where we going to camp?” Cody asked as a large gob of sweat
dripped from his nose.
Below, a thin silver thread split a tight u-shaped valley then
descended before disappearing.
“Down there.” Dan pointed with his rifle.
Dan kept his rifle in hand even though the approach area wasn’t
open for hunting. He had read in Field and Stream that
professional hunters in Africa always carried their rifles. Besides,
he liked the feel of the rifle and was proud to have carried it the
entire distance.
Cody adjusted his shoulder straps. “Are you sure we can find a
spot?”
“I’m sure.”
“Dark soon.”
“Then let’s get down there.”
Off in the distance, a vague whistle pulsed through the expanding
shadows. Somewhere, down in the valley, was a bull elk impatient for
romance. Cody raised an ear and grinned. Dan listened and considered
the four-note melody. He needed to prove he could take an elk, but
not just any elk. He desired to hunt the remote tough country and
come home successful. Dan nodded at Cody then stepped over the edge
and down a thick-crowded draw.
Now inside the valley, the high country opened up and allowed a
handsome meadow. Waiting for Cody to catch up, Dan watched a
half-dozen cow elk graze. The elk had not sensed Dan, and Dan hoped
his cousin would come up quiet. After slowly raising his rifle, he
scoped each cow.
Dan had read and reread every article before deciding on a
wooden-stocked Ruger M77 chambered for the 7mm Remington magnum. On
top was a 2x7 Leopold Gold Ring scope. Dan was proud of his rifle.
Dan felt Cody and gradually lowered the rifle then raised his hand.
The older boy toed quiet until they stood together. As they watched,
four more elk appeared. Dan had pored over maps looking for just such
a spot, something disregarded, a place where a hunter on foot and not
afraid to shoulder a load could get into and a horseman could not.
The elk grazed on into the dark dog-haired timber at the far side.
Dan relaxed. He had figured it out all on his own, and the proof had
just been in the meadow. Gathering his dreams, he motioned to Cody.
Smile beaming and heart pounding, Dan whispered his instructions.
“Let’s back up a ways. There’s a small flat. We can camp.”
The boys dropped their packs. Dan emptied his and Cody sat down. They
would not build a fire or light a stove, since cold camp was the only
way to hunt. The plan was to take an animal, bone it out and make the
carry. Dan daydreamed of arriving at the trailhead with a heavy
meat-laden pack.
After a cold supper, the boys hunkered down for the night. As sleep
took him, Dan envisioned a massive bull elk and triumph.
Both boys were awake well before first light.
After nibbling and sipping, jittery hands stuffed silent packs. The
boys, now hunters, slipped quietly through the trees towards the
meadow. At the edge, they waited cautiously for shooting light.
Slowly, magically, shapes began to emerge but nothing with four legs
though a pair of chick-a-dees flitted into an Engelmann spruce and
loudly discussed what they saw. Ignoring the small birds but
listening, Dan motioned to Cody with his chin. The teens watchfully
ghosted both sides of the meadow and into the doghair then separated,
each working the difficult timber at a practiced hunting pace. A mist
formed low.
Dan impatiently hunted the timber and was soon in a rock-broken
meadow and out of the thick dog hair. It was now full light but the
mist held. After scanning the meadow carefully, he came to a
standstill, mesmerized by gold-brown leaves fluttering in a nearby
aspen then toed into the meadow as if drawn by the autumn color.
Suddenly, above, the sound of crashing hooves and breaking branches
came to Dan as he whirled.
A mule deer buck broke across a scree slope headed for higher ground.
Dan’s mind raced. Should he take the muley? Didn’t he want an
elk? Was this his chance?
The deer made it to a thin stand of poor pine but ahead of the buck
was a tiny gap. Dan brought up his beloved rifle in one smooth motion
and squeezed. Instantly, the buck was falling, now panic-eyed
tumbling then weak standing and desperate. Dan ran up the slope. The
muley was dead.
Dan pulled the carcass down the hill to flat ground. By the time he
dragged the deer to the small aspen, he was sweating hard and dirty.
Mindless, he had nicked his arm and now the blood flowed down to his
hand, mixing with that of the deer.
Cody came up as Dan found his knife.
Dan wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm,
filling his nose with the smell of dirt, blood and triumph. He
grinned at his cousin.
Cody looked down at the kill then back over his shoulder and up
towards the summit of Lake Mountain. Glad at first that it was a
muley and not an elk, Cody glanced at the smiling Dan and thought to
mention an easy muley could be had lower down and then skidded into a
pick-up, but for some reason he changed his mind. “Nice,” he
said.
“Four point,” said Dan. The buck carried the long, thick tines of
a mature buck, not a monster, but certainly respectable.
“Didn’t see any elk?” Cody hid a grin as he unbuckled his pack
belt.
“Me neither.”
Dan opened up the deer and steam rose into the brisk mountain air.
Cody watched. Dan reached up and in, pulling out the heart. There was
one clean hole right through the middle. Dan sat on the deer’s
chest, admiring the heart shot and the antlers, and decided this was
the happiest he had ever been. It wouldn’t be that hard to carry
the deer out, they could probably be out by tonight, and Dan had done
it all on his own. It was his achievement. This was his deer, his
first, and not just a hayfield muley, but a wild one from the remote
high country. Dan was very proud. Anybody could take one down low
where nobody ever stayed long and the developers were already
grabbing the best land. His one-shot, heart-shot buck was from real
country, man’s country.
“Where was he?” Cody asked.
Dan looked up at Cody and pointed with the tip of his blood-wet knife
to the now deadly opening far above. “There,” he said.
“Four hundred yards.”
Dan cleaned his blade on a pant leg. “He was running.”
Cody slid his pack off and leaned his rifle against it. “Long up
hill.”
“Sure enough.”
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