Dad took me hunting with him on my tenth birthday. Mom never would’ve allowed it, but she died six months before.
“See those elk ‘cross the meadow, grazing by the treeline?” He pointed as we glassed the spanse. “You can just make out their antlers through the bush.”
My binoculars were smaller than his.
“No, I don’t see ‘em.”
“C'mon, boy!” He grabbed the top of my head by the cap and turned it. “Right there, by the treeline!”
Sure enough, two massive pairs of antlers were grazing on berries behind a bush between the forest and the creek.
“Okay, I see ‘em.”
“Alright,” he squinted as he spoke, "what we’re gonna do is circle 'round back, tuck into the trees a bit, come up on 'em down wind, then take ‘em from that outcropping. Lucky they’re on our side of the creek.”
He picked up his rifle and started off crouching.
I followed, doing the same.
“This is stalking. Once you find your prey, the only tool to your advantage is this,” he held up his rifle, “and the power of surprise. A good stalker can take down anything.”
“Like lions and elephants?”
“Exactly.” He was whispering now.
A branch snapped beneath me.
“Shhh!”
We didn’t talk anymore until we reached the outcropping, ground littered with casings and their rain-soaked boxes half-buried in the earth.
“Filthy sons-a-bitches.” Dad picked the shells up one at a time, collecting them until his hands were full. Then he pulled a box from the mud and dumped them in.
The whole time he cleaned our perch, he forgot what we were doing. “Now listen,” looking up, he brushed pine needles off the rock in front of us. “Hunting’s natural. It’s life. Predators prey on the weak, ‘cause they’re the surest kill. Man, on the other hand, preys on a challenge. We don't kill to eat, but to prove ourselves worthy, that we’re more than animals. We're ambitious hunters by nature, you understand?”
“That’s why you don’t hunt birds, right?”
“Exactly. Now scope up.”
I lifted my rifle and rested my arm on the rock.
“I want you to shoot first. You miss, I’ll have ‘em in my sights. Otherwise, I’ll take the big guy.”
I tried to find the elk in my scope, but everything was blurry and green, so I twisted the dial and adjusted the sight.
“C’mon now. Anything can spook ‘em.”
Panning the creek to the right, I found the elderberry bush and centered my crosshairs on the chest of the smaller elk.
Its ears twitched.
Dad set his arm next to mine and aimed.
“Remember, aim for the shoulder or chest. It’s a cleaner kill. Once you’re set, chamber your round.” Dad slid his bolt back slowly.
I did the same.
CRACK! CRACK!
My elk stumbled two steps to the side before falling to its knee and tipping over. Dad’s fell immediately.
“Nice shot, Mark,” he smacked me on the back. “Nice shot.”
There was so much blood, it did something to me. For a second I felt sick, standing over my kill still twitching with its tongue out.
Dad handed me his knife. “You wanna bleed ‘em?”
He and all the forest bled into one as I knelt beside him, put the point of the blade next to his finger, pressed hard, and pulled.
That night by the fire, Dad wiped the blood from his hands and put his arm around me. “See boy, that's a beautiful sight.” He gazed at our elk hanging from a tree, flickering orange in the firelight. Took just shy of three hours to clean and winch them up there. “I’m proud of you, son.”
I was cooking beanie weenies on the fire. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You know why we got so lucky today, Mark?” He sat back and cracked a beer.
“Because we know what we’re doing.”
“How do you figure?” He was testing me.
“Well,” I stirred dinner, “we’ve been scouting this ridge for a month now, camping, glassing, and tracking the herd. Last week we found scat by the creek, and these two,” I whipped out the spoon with a few beans and pointed to our catch, “wandered into our trap.”
“We set no trap, son. They fell into their own. That’s the beauty of it. Routine. Routine’s what gets you killed. Remember that. We’re hunters – don’t ever make the same mistake as your prey. Tomorrow, we leave at sunup.” He drank his beer until it was gone. “How long for dinner?”
“It’s ready.” I pulled out two paper bowls and filled each with half the pan.
He was right. Hunting is life, and I fell in love. Only animals are too simple. They have no free will. They stick to routines, and I don’t like the taste.
When I became a vegetarian, I needed something different.
So I hunt in my truck, Dad’s old ’61, stalk for a month, then execute in a rental. At home, I have my way with them, make the kill, and contain the cleaning.
Like I say, I had to find something more rewarding. Every predator hunts the weak, even Dad. Birds, elk, bear – every animal is weak, even man – but not me.
The weak wear short skirts they tug at to cover more.
It’s the same everytime. Roll down the window, lean across the seat, ask if they want a ride. If I’ve done my homework, they climb in smiling.
That's when the fun begins. I prey while they’re alive. Noisier, sure, but that's the challenge. When I’m done, I bleed them in the bath and hang them out to dry.
“Never leave a trace,” Dad always says, and I don’t. Whenever I clean up, he's there beside me with the muddy ammo box, hands full of shells.
“Filthy sons-a-bitches.”
I stick to no routine until I'm home. Outside, I never hit the same school twice. Once I find the weakest, I wait, and when I follow, I go slow, let them round corners, park and walk a ways behind. I inspect their homes, follow their families, learn their routines – dance recitals, cheer practice, boyfriends – everything.
But it’s getting easy, like hunting quail. I'm an animal. Dad would be so disappointed.
It’s been six years since his surgery.
“What do the doctors think?" I was there right after. "Did they catch it in time?”
“Chrissake, Mark, I don’t know. Goddamn,” he shifted his weight off the catheter, “fucking thing…”
Reaching for the buttons on his bed, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you just lie down?”
“No,” he shoved my arm and pushed himself up. “Quit being such a pussy. I’m fine. Go grade some papers or something.”
It got worse before chemo, but I hear he’s in remission. When he got sick, he stopped calling. Now I get postcards and pictures of his kills.
He’s always out the first day of season, hunting the same ridge.
After a seventy-five mile drive, I pull into the clearing and park next to his truck.
Routine.
I find him from the top of the ridge. Glassing the meadow we used to work when I was a boy, I spot him cleaning a carcass by the creek. He looks older, thinner, and it makes me sick.
Leaning against a rock, I steady my hand, find his chest in my scope, slide back the bolt, and pull the trigger.
CRACK!
He looks up and tries to stand.
It’s been years since I fired a gun. My accuracy astounds me.
Running through the trees to the meadow, I can’t feel my feet or fight a smile.
At the creek, he’s still breathing, wheezing like an elk. The carcass he was cleaning looks more alive than he does.
He watches me, eyes wide, clutching his belly, spitting up blood, “Mark…”
I take off his cap and cradle his head, “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been busy,” roll him over and shove his face in the water. Hold it there until the bubbles stop, just like with my girls. When he's done kicking, I open his eyes and sit him by a rock to watch me clean his kill before sundown.
An earlier version of My Weakness appeared in CC&D v206, pp. 58-61, March 2010
Order a copy here: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/ccd-v206-%280310%29/11594112
“See those elk ‘cross the meadow, grazing by the treeline?” He pointed as we glassed the spanse. “You can just make out their antlers through the bush.”
My binoculars were smaller than his.
“No, I don’t see ‘em.”
“C'mon, boy!” He grabbed the top of my head by the cap and turned it. “Right there, by the treeline!”
Sure enough, two massive pairs of antlers were grazing on berries behind a bush between the forest and the creek.
“Okay, I see ‘em.”
“Alright,” he squinted as he spoke, "what we’re gonna do is circle 'round back, tuck into the trees a bit, come up on 'em down wind, then take ‘em from that outcropping. Lucky they’re on our side of the creek.”
He picked up his rifle and started off crouching.
I followed, doing the same.
“This is stalking. Once you find your prey, the only tool to your advantage is this,” he held up his rifle, “and the power of surprise. A good stalker can take down anything.”
“Like lions and elephants?”
“Exactly.” He was whispering now.
A branch snapped beneath me.
“Shhh!”
We didn’t talk anymore until we reached the outcropping, ground littered with casings and their rain-soaked boxes half-buried in the earth.
“Filthy sons-a-bitches.” Dad picked the shells up one at a time, collecting them until his hands were full. Then he pulled a box from the mud and dumped them in.
The whole time he cleaned our perch, he forgot what we were doing. “Now listen,” looking up, he brushed pine needles off the rock in front of us. “Hunting’s natural. It’s life. Predators prey on the weak, ‘cause they’re the surest kill. Man, on the other hand, preys on a challenge. We don't kill to eat, but to prove ourselves worthy, that we’re more than animals. We're ambitious hunters by nature, you understand?”
“That’s why you don’t hunt birds, right?”
“Exactly. Now scope up.”
I lifted my rifle and rested my arm on the rock.
“I want you to shoot first. You miss, I’ll have ‘em in my sights. Otherwise, I’ll take the big guy.”
I tried to find the elk in my scope, but everything was blurry and green, so I twisted the dial and adjusted the sight.
“C’mon now. Anything can spook ‘em.”
Panning the creek to the right, I found the elderberry bush and centered my crosshairs on the chest of the smaller elk.
Its ears twitched.
Dad set his arm next to mine and aimed.
“Remember, aim for the shoulder or chest. It’s a cleaner kill. Once you’re set, chamber your round.” Dad slid his bolt back slowly.
I did the same.
CRACK! CRACK!
My elk stumbled two steps to the side before falling to its knee and tipping over. Dad’s fell immediately.
“Nice shot, Mark,” he smacked me on the back. “Nice shot.”
There was so much blood, it did something to me. For a second I felt sick, standing over my kill still twitching with its tongue out.
Dad handed me his knife. “You wanna bleed ‘em?”
He and all the forest bled into one as I knelt beside him, put the point of the blade next to his finger, pressed hard, and pulled.
That night by the fire, Dad wiped the blood from his hands and put his arm around me. “See boy, that's a beautiful sight.” He gazed at our elk hanging from a tree, flickering orange in the firelight. Took just shy of three hours to clean and winch them up there. “I’m proud of you, son.”
I was cooking beanie weenies on the fire. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You know why we got so lucky today, Mark?” He sat back and cracked a beer.
“Because we know what we’re doing.”
“How do you figure?” He was testing me.
“Well,” I stirred dinner, “we’ve been scouting this ridge for a month now, camping, glassing, and tracking the herd. Last week we found scat by the creek, and these two,” I whipped out the spoon with a few beans and pointed to our catch, “wandered into our trap.”
“We set no trap, son. They fell into their own. That’s the beauty of it. Routine. Routine’s what gets you killed. Remember that. We’re hunters – don’t ever make the same mistake as your prey. Tomorrow, we leave at sunup.” He drank his beer until it was gone. “How long for dinner?”
“It’s ready.” I pulled out two paper bowls and filled each with half the pan.
He was right. Hunting is life, and I fell in love. Only animals are too simple. They have no free will. They stick to routines, and I don’t like the taste.
When I became a vegetarian, I needed something different.
So I hunt in my truck, Dad’s old ’61, stalk for a month, then execute in a rental. At home, I have my way with them, make the kill, and contain the cleaning.
Like I say, I had to find something more rewarding. Every predator hunts the weak, even Dad. Birds, elk, bear – every animal is weak, even man – but not me.
The weak wear short skirts they tug at to cover more.
It’s the same everytime. Roll down the window, lean across the seat, ask if they want a ride. If I’ve done my homework, they climb in smiling.
That's when the fun begins. I prey while they’re alive. Noisier, sure, but that's the challenge. When I’m done, I bleed them in the bath and hang them out to dry.
“Never leave a trace,” Dad always says, and I don’t. Whenever I clean up, he's there beside me with the muddy ammo box, hands full of shells.
“Filthy sons-a-bitches.”
I stick to no routine until I'm home. Outside, I never hit the same school twice. Once I find the weakest, I wait, and when I follow, I go slow, let them round corners, park and walk a ways behind. I inspect their homes, follow their families, learn their routines – dance recitals, cheer practice, boyfriends – everything.
But it’s getting easy, like hunting quail. I'm an animal. Dad would be so disappointed.
It’s been six years since his surgery.
“What do the doctors think?" I was there right after. "Did they catch it in time?”
“Chrissake, Mark, I don’t know. Goddamn,” he shifted his weight off the catheter, “fucking thing…”
Reaching for the buttons on his bed, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you just lie down?”
“No,” he shoved my arm and pushed himself up. “Quit being such a pussy. I’m fine. Go grade some papers or something.”
It got worse before chemo, but I hear he’s in remission. When he got sick, he stopped calling. Now I get postcards and pictures of his kills.
He’s always out the first day of season, hunting the same ridge.
After a seventy-five mile drive, I pull into the clearing and park next to his truck.
Routine.
I find him from the top of the ridge. Glassing the meadow we used to work when I was a boy, I spot him cleaning a carcass by the creek. He looks older, thinner, and it makes me sick.
Leaning against a rock, I steady my hand, find his chest in my scope, slide back the bolt, and pull the trigger.
CRACK!
He looks up and tries to stand.
It’s been years since I fired a gun. My accuracy astounds me.
Running through the trees to the meadow, I can’t feel my feet or fight a smile.
At the creek, he’s still breathing, wheezing like an elk. The carcass he was cleaning looks more alive than he does.
He watches me, eyes wide, clutching his belly, spitting up blood, “Mark…”
I take off his cap and cradle his head, “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been busy,” roll him over and shove his face in the water. Hold it there until the bubbles stop, just like with my girls. When he's done kicking, I open his eyes and sit him by a rock to watch me clean his kill before sundown.
An earlier version of My Weakness appeared in CC&D v206, pp. 58-61, March 2010
Order a copy here: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/ccd-v206-%280310%29/11594112
