Dodging Cesspools

Dodging Cesspools     

    It was our last day.  After a fruitless morning we returned to camp and packed up.  To the delight of my co-pilot in particular, we were able to sled most of our way back down the trail, down the valley five miles, back to the truck.  
    With a heavy heart, I began shoving stuff into the truck for the trip back home.   We piled inside and left.  Was this really happening?  Was I striking-out again?  I felt depressing thoughts creep into my mind.  I tried to suppress them but it was tough.  I questioned myself.   Had I not tried hard enough this year? Maybe I should take up bowling or book club instead.  How about sewing, maybe I could learn to sew.
    Then, as I began to figuratively roll up my pant legs so I could start wading into the cesspool of my own self-pity, I saw them there.  They were two hundred yards off the road.  Three caribou grazing in a creek bed continued about their usual business of walking, stopping, eating.  
    Fearing another missed opportunity I pulled the truck over as inconspicuously as I could.  I hoped and prayed they would not be spooked. “Hey Corey look there’s some caribou!”.
    “Where?”
    “Over the hill, let’s get ready.”  Rifling through the truck I quickly found my rifle.  A gentle push on the truck’s door was quiet as a church mouse.  With Corey sidling at my hip,  I carefully maneuvered into positions.  I poked the rifle over the crotch of a spruce branch.   Reaching over-top I  had to snap a few twigs out of the view of my scope.  They were still there!
    The one on the end troubled me.  Head squared-off  in our direction, she knew something was awry.  She was right.  With a twitch and a jump she could spoil it all in a flash.  She probably didn’t realize that this was our third attempt this fall.   She probably didn’t realize that I don’t have any more time-off from work.  She probably wasn’t questioning her own resolve.  My heart pounded in my chest.
    A slow squeeze of the trigger released the firing pin.  The thunder of my 30.06 echoed across the valley.  There in the frozen creek bed she stumbled.  I jacked the bolt open to reload. Was it a hit?  I was pretty sure it was.  I wasn’t going to take any chances. “BOOM” I shot again to be sure.

Text message sent 1700:

Corey:  “Hi mom we got blud on our face so we are not a dicecrace.”
Mom :  “Hope you guys are having fun and staying warm!”
Corey:  “Wer in cant well.”
Mom:  “Yay!!!”

    I was doing the driving, the text-messaging was up to the ten year old -as it should be.  That’s part of the duties of the co-pilot.  I knew it wouldn’t take long for my wife to decode these messages;  She is his teacher after all.   She would know that we had meat for the freezer. Finally.   
    Last year’s meat was dwindling.  Lonely packages of moose, caribou, and deer longed for more of their buddies.  At least we had plenty of salmon.  My subsistence obsession has me hyper-aware of meat levels at our house.  That’s right, I said it;  meat levels.  I know.
    As a Physical Education teacher at our local school, I consider myself a health and wellness advocate and I fully realize the nutritional value of our hunting and fishing efforts.  The lean fresh protein we harvest and consume each year is a direct link to our families health.  Free of hormones, steroids and antibiotics,  I consider our meat organic, free-range, and delicious.  Well worth the effort and time, hunting for us is a family tradition that is looked forward to, planned for, and celebrated.
    Today I felt a weight had been lifted off of me like a curtain of lead and I was happy.  The last few days of tent camping in below zero weather had been awesome in itself but the end-goal is always ever-present in my mind.
     Already I was starting to forget the series of defunct hunting efforts this fall.  On opening day I was devastated to find myself muddling along amongst the masses. An endless sea of motor homes and camo-dudes blocked our every move.  It was akin to combat-fishing for Sockeye on the Russian River in peak season.   I was way out of my element; confused, angry, and a little hurt.  
    The other failed hunt this fall wounded my pride even further.  Our traditional late September moose hunt was riddled with poor weather. It beat us to a pulp.  Purposefully we escaped the crowds through hours of physical labor including over fourteen miles of pushing our 500 pound cart of rafting gear through mud and swollen creeks.  To our utter disheartenment we were slapped down by the rude blanketing of foul weather.  With our tails between our legs, along with my brothers ripped rain pants, we retreated once again back to the sickening comfort of the truck....again.
     A troubled mind no longer, I drove us home with an easiness and a satisfaction that I had long been awaiting.   Privately I revelled in it.  What a beautiful day it was.  The sun shone o’er the valley.  I noticed a light dusting of snow lighting up the rolling hills. Life was good and it was a good day to be alive.  I looked around for birds that might be chirping.   The tune “Zippidy- do- dah” edged into the periphery of my consciousness.   Luckily I snapped out of it before the singing started.
    As we rolled down the snow covered road, I realized that I was in my own world.  I glanced over at my co-pilot who was perhaps a smidge less encumbered by cesspools of self-pity and curtains-of-lead.   The inadequacies of our prior hunting efforts were of no bother to him.  He just wanted to have fun; camping with dad, fires at night, farting in the tent, and cocoa in the morning.  What else is there?  His refreshing outlook was just what I needed to keep me grounded.  Thanks Corey.
    Corey was busying himself with the food while keeping close tabs on the I-phone: changing the tunes, checking for bars of reception, singing, texting, joking.  Earlier he had cheerfully helped me with the field dressing duties:  holding a leg here, pulling on the hide there, here-a-hoof, there-a-hoof, everywhere a hoof-hoof. He had even carried more of the load out this year. I was proud of him.
     
    “What a great trip bubba, thanks for coming with me.”
    He was sifting through the pile of gas station goodies in his lap we had picked up in Cantwell.   Finishing his last bite of microwaved french bread pizza he reached for the water bottle and took a slug.  
    His hair was poking out every-which-way and fully rounded out his post hunting motif.  Food and caribou blood stains smeared down his coat leading to his baggy, black snow pants and untied boots. He wore his battle hardened dirty face unnoticed and therefore unabashed.  
      “It was fun dad, thanks for taking me.”