Snap. This simple sound leaves far too great a mark in the silence. Scanning the ground, hoping to avoid such a noise, while yet keeping pace with the experienced hunter ahead is proving a difficult task. Difficult, that is, in comparison to the relaxed atmosphere in which my love of the woods was forged. No longer am I curled up on a weathered brown couch viewing hunting videos with dad. Now I am experiencing the chase.
Slipping away for a few hours is hard enough, let alone for a full day. Taking a day out of a busy schedule, however, is a small sacrifice compared with the gains of being here with dad. Here with sun, dirt, rocks, bird noises, elk droppings.
Elk poop is a sign I recognize. Other signs go unnoticed by me. But from my dad, my hunting partner, my friend, nothing is hidden. He identifies birds by their calls, elk by their rubs and black bear by lumbering blotches barely seen through binoculars.
Placing hands on my knees, I draw near to my father's whispers. We are closer than ever before. The scent of pine trees grows more overwhelming as I crouch behind a trunk, watching the scene unfold.
Moving to a spot seven or eight yards in front of me, he squats down. A long grunt tube pressed against his lips, Dad blows, creating a low bellowing sound then a high-pitched screech. The call beckons a bull elk in heat.
A bugle replies, a bright sound for such a low tone. The figure comes into view, brown haired, caked in mud, dripping saliva. Dad knocks an arrow. Bringing such a majestic animal to the ground is sad. Yet, this pursuit has lasted at least an hour. The bull is tired of running. He comes now, fully intent on maintaining dominance. Instinct tells him he must prevent this unseen opponent from stealing his cows.
This is a challenging game, easily understood, but not easily played, man versus nature. Familiarity with this process is no substitution for experience. My dad's bow hunting abilities are fine tuned from many years of practice.
The burly figure stops, hearing the sound of a cow call. His body is now broadside. An arrow flies through the air. The bull bolts without any hesitation, yet for reasons he does not know. His antlers disappear as the four muscular legs pound, crunch and snap the brush.
Little blood is found, making the tracking process difficult. Surprisingly, I find his arrow--broken and caked in blood. Pride swells within me.
We look another half an hour for any more signs. A hoof print, another drop of blood, a little bit of hair stuck to a bush: all might suggest the direction the animal has taken. We follow one false lead and then another. Nothing. The arrow hit the shoulder blade, leaving the animal unharmed. Reluctantly, we terminate the search. A feeling of defeat stays with us as we leave the area, combing the ground in hopes of catching something we missed.
"I still can't believe you found that arrow." The words bring a smile to my face, yet I am disappointed we did not find more.
We begin the return trek, following deer trails and climbing over more rocks. My feet again struggle to stay up with the experienced hiker before me. We finally sit down for lunch and swallow every bite of our army rationed food pouches. "You have enough?" He offers me the rest of his food. Nodding yes, I smile; he would have offered me his whole lunch if I wanted it.
I spy the drainage where the truck is parked. Up until this point I have been lost, relying dad to guide us back. This time when Dad asks if I know where we are, I reply with satisfaction, "Yes I do."
We sit down one more time, gazing off into the distance, my dad points at something. He patiently waits as I put the binoculars up to my face two or three times before finally pinpointing the animal. It is a bear, barely visible, on the mountain opposite us.
Relaxing for another moment is wonderful. Seeing the majesty of the trees climbing to the sky, the rocks, and the brown landscape flowing in and out of the green patches rejuvenates me. The freshness of the mountain air is uninhabited by pollution or noise. The sky is calm. Puffs of clouds barely cling to the air. Poplar trees are bright with oranges and browns. An autumn breeze shakes their leaves. This is a breathtaking beauty that testifies to the majesty of its Creator.
I think of tomorrow, of grabbing breakfast on the go, dropping bowls in the sink, shouldering backpacks, and shouting another last minute "Let's go!" before carting bodies off to local public schools. There, bells ring, kids shout and lockers slam. But I let this thought slide. God does not want the worries of tomorrow to crowd out today.
Dad makes a few more calls. They echo across the canyon, yet nothing answers. We spent the day together. My dad is proud of my ability to follow. This thought leaves me satisfied.
At last we reach the truck. The blue cushions envelope me as I roll down the window and sigh with contentment.
"Do you mind taking the long way home to see if we see anything? We probably won't but it's worth a shot," he asks.
My thoughts drift toward home, toward an evening comfortably curled up on our weathered couch. Then I look over at Dad. There is no question in my mind as to which I desire more. Nodding, I answer, "Let's go for it."
