by Liora Blake
When I wasn’t busy doing that, I was reading. Jim Kjelgaard books were my gateway drug to adventure, and I devoured every story he wrote about boys and their dogs, game wardens, and hunters and trappers—every word felt like it had been written for me and about me. I begged for a .22 rifle when I was eleven years old and my liberal-but-libertarian parents indulged me, with the caveat that they needed some assurance I would be safe. After a few lessons in firearm safety at a local gun range, I was all in. Learning to hunt came with an endless number of challenges, ones I didn’t always overcome, but when I did, every success made the next challenge all the more tempting—which is what, to this day, always brings me back to these woods.
After a two-day drive, I spent yesterday scouting the spots where I already have tree stands, trying to determine which would be the best one to set up in today, based on what fresh sign of deer I could find in the area. I woke up this morning with what I’m convinced is a foolproof plan, and with that, everything is just as it should be.
I’m perched in my favorite tree stand, a gentle wind is in my favor, and here in this infinitesimally small part of the universe, the world is nearly silent. Back at the cabin, there’s a batch of antelope chili in the slow cooker, a case of Coors in the fridge, and my dog is waiting for me.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
So I shouldn’t wish I were anywhere other than right here, right now. I definitely shouldn’t wish I were back home in Hotchkiss where Amber is. I shouldn’t be worrying or wondering about her, or stewing over the possibility she might need something. But no matter how hard I try, my body is the only thing that’s here. My heart and my mind are elsewhere.
A heavy sigh escapes me, loud enough to spoil the invisibility offered by my camo, my face paint, and my position high above the ground. A fact confirmed by the buck that just wandered into the opening below, who immediately tilts his head at the sound, locking his eyes on the lovesick idiot sitting in a tree. As if being spotted isn’t bad enough, when the buck lifts his head to study me, I spy a set of distinctive markings on his chest.
Christ. That’s my buck. The one I’ve been chasing in these woods for three seasons.
The same one who is now off to live another day, bounding through the brush to clear a downed tree with one graceful leap. He disappears into a cluster of pines, and it suddenly feels like this season is over almost before it starts.
When the sun dips low enough on the horizon to signal that dusk isn’t far off, I crawl out of my tree stand and start the trek back to the cabin. The end of my day followed the same script as the start, with my mind wandering and all the deer in the area acting as if I was nothing but a pitiable distraction to their safe, pastoral lives.
By the time I step out from a thick bank of trees and onto the rough two-track we use to access our land, I’m exhausted—even when there’s no good reason for it. All I’ve done today is sit on my ass in a tree stand, and other than fussing about a woman who is hundreds of miles away, nothing else raised my heart rate beyond that of a sedentary sloth. While some archery hunts are physical enough to rival a Spartan race, this was not one of those days. Even so, when I spot the cabin’s chimney peeking over the tops of the trees surrounding it, my feet become impossibly heavy. The dirt road curves lazily toward the front of the house, but when I round the last bend, I draw up short because the front porch light is on, as are most of the lights inside the house—none of which is how I left it this morning. Either the Grimms’ fairy-tale qualities of the cabin drew in a Goldilocks, or one of my parents is here.
The answer is parked next to my truck. A twenty-year-old Subaru wagon that probably hasn’t been vacuumed out or properly washed since I left home, more than likely has potting soil and fern fronds littering the floorboards, and definitely needs the last remnants of the Ralph Nader for President ’96 sticker scraped off the liftgate glass.
I pause on the porch to take off my boots, picking up the faint sound of a James Taylor song playing inside, off of an album I heard so many times as a kid that when I was eight, I went through a short-lived phase in which I wanted to be a folk singer. Then I discovered BB guns. I’m sure the music world still considers my change of heart a huge loss.
Opening the door as quietly as possible, I greet Charley with only a low murmur and a scruff behind the ears. My mom showing up here unexpectedly means she needs the unique solitude this place provides, signaling that she’s either trying to finish a scientific paper or wading her way through the initial draft of one. Either way, other than James’s crooning, she requires peace and quiet to get through it.
The timer on the oven buzzes loudly the second I finish saying hello to my dog, and I curse the sound on Mom’s behalf as I start toward the kitchen.
“Corn bread,” Mom announces from the far side of the living room.
She’s sequestered behind her writing desk, everything but the graying blonde hair on top of her head obscured by towering stacks of books and two large ferns in black plastic pots that sit on either corner of the limited workspace. Her research work at the university in Corvallis is on plant phylogenetics, specifically those with polyploid lineages. Translation: she knows a lot about ferns. Oddly enough, with the exception of her ferns, she’s no green thumb. My dad and I basically had to eighty-six her from getting within five feet of the family garden, because things seemed to wilt in her mere presence. I suspect the tomatoes and cucumbers didn’t like being stared at in the way my mom tends to scrutinize plants.
After shutting off the timer, I grab a pot holder and pull out the cast-iron skillet of golden-brown corn bread, setting it down on a burner so I can pierce the center with a knife tip, turning the oven off after determining everything is cooked through. The chili in the slow cooker is more than ready since it’s been on low for eight hours, so I clear off the small table in the kitchen and set out dinnerware for two.
Charley gets a dish of her kibble, and then I serve myself some chili, along with a big slice of the corn bread on the side. I twist open the band on the mason jar of honey Mom carts along everywhere with her, dipping a spoon into the dark, slightly cloudy amber nectar that’s straight from my Dad’s hives, then drizzle a dollop over my corn bread. I dig into my dinner, knowing Mom will join me when she’s ready. The only dining rule in the Montgomery family is that there are no rules. People eat when they’re hungry, make conversation when they want to, or read at the table if it suits them—and no one gets their nose out of joint about any of it.
Just as I’m finishing my dinner, she strides into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine from the bottle I opened for her, fully expecting that she would want some with dinner. She dishes up and sits down at the table across from me, takes a few bites before exhaling slowly. A sip of her wine. Finally, she looks directly at me, tucks a few wayward curls of her short hair behind her ears, and removes her reading glasses to set them aside on the table.
“Hi.”
I grin and return her perfunctory greeting. Mom is notoriously compartmentalized, shifting gears between her roles as academic, wife, and parent so intentionally it’s like watching someone close then open a garage door. The upside is that when she’s with you, she’s truly with you, and her attention never strays until it’s time to change roles again.
Mom proceeds to slop two spoonfuls of honey on her corn bread. I cast a glare at the action.
“Don’t start,” she warns. “It’s honey, not plutonium.”
“It’s still sugar. Cancer likes sugar, thrives on it. And with the way you dump that stuff into your tea all day and then—”
My rant comes to a halt when she dips into the pint jar again, scoops up another spoonful, and proceeds to shove the whole thing in her mouth.
I curl up my lip. “That’s gross.”
She ensures the spoon is clean before pointing it at me. “I love you. Please shut up about the honey.” She drops the spoon to the table with a clang. “Did you have any luck today?”
&nb
sp; Answering her with a grunt, I shrug a shoulder and stare at my beer bottle. Silence follows, and I start to reconsider my half-assed answer. She won’t press, so if I want to talk this out, it will fall to me to pick up the conversation again.
“You know how I feel about luck,” I mutter. “But luck or not, it wouldn’t have mattered. My head wasn’t in the game today.”
“Why was that?”
“I just …” I peer up to find her gaze has turned assessing, and I start to understand how those tomatoes in our garden must have felt. She tilts her head slightly and softens her expression, Mom-style, and I wilt a little more inside.
“Is it because you’re here when Amber’s in Colorado?”
Well, shit. That made things easy. My having written about Amber in my letters meant I didn’t have to figure out how to mutter my way through saying exactly what Mom just did. I labor through a dramatic exhale, blowing it out from one side of my mouth.
“I can’t keep my mind on track. I keep worrying about her, which is stupid because, like I’ve mentioned, she’s about as expert as they come in the field. She doesn’t need me, so it’s annoying that I can’t focus on anything else.”
Mom takes a few more bites of her chili, still studying me as she does. Finally, she sets her spoon down and leans forward a few inches, intently enough to send me slouching down in my chair by the same measure. I may have gotten my bulk from Dad’s side of the family, but Mom more than makes up for her slight frame with her eyes: dark brown and downright dogged when they’re fixed on you.
“Have you considered that her needing you—or not—isn’t what this is about?”
I narrow my eyes and answer flatly. “No, Professor Montgomery. But I’m not sure I want to hear your theory on what it is about.”
Mom offers a patient smile, in the way parents do when they’re about to offer an adult child some uncomfortable life lesson they probably thought they’d outgrown hearing.
“You’re selfish, Braden.”
Yup, here it comes. I could claim that her declaring I’m selfish stings, but it doesn’t. I’m perfectly aware that I can be an autonomous, selfish asshole sometimes.
“That being said, I’m selfish, too. So is your father. Human beings in general trend toward selfishness. We all have to work at selflessness.”
She takes a sip of her wine then pauses, and I find myself squirming in my chair. There are certain types of honesty that inevitably inspire a desire to take cover, and right now that means I vaguely want to crawl under the fucking table.
“Laurel never challenged you. Up until the end, she rarely asked anything of you—or at least nothing of significance. But Amber is different. She challenges you at every turn, and you’ve found yourself considering her in ways you’re not used to. For the first time in your life, you want to be there for someone else. Not because she needs you to, but because you can’t imagine otherwise.”
I furrow my brow and think on what she’s just proposed. It doesn’t take long to figure out that what she’s said makes sense. It also doesn’t take long to find myself counting the days between now and the end of elk season back home—or to realize that if I hit the road and make good time, I might be able to help Amber finish out the last half of her hunt.
Mom finishes her chili while I continue to think. When she’s done, she stacks our empty dishes together, patting my hand with hers before rising to head for the sink.
“Don’t leave tonight. She’ll be OK. Go to bed and then head home in the morning.”
(Amber)
“A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world.”
—ALDO LEOPOLD, A SAND COUNTY ALMANAC
Decision time.
I glance at the midafternoon sky and try to calculate how many remaining hours of good light I can hope for today. About four, I’m guessing. More than enough time to put a stalk on the bull elk that’s appeared in the draw below me. All I need to do is pack up my spotting scope, grab my bow, and work my way down from the high ridgeline I’ve been perched on for the last four hours. Once I climb the next draw, I can then drop down into position near the watering hole I know this bull must be headed to. I’ve watched two young raghorn bulls plus a few still-single ladies make their way over there already today. This big guy and his harem of cows are bound to take the same trail, I’m sure of it.
So long as I keep my steps steady but quick—and that elk continues to take his sweet time meandering around and bugling like a moronic frat boy catcalling on spring break—I’ll make it to the watering hole long before he finally arrives.
Elk are in the rut this time of year, so bulls are consumed by the need to breed, single-mindedly doing whatever it takes to attract all the cows they can and show dominance over any other bull in the vicinity. This guy already has a decent-sized harem, but that doesn’t stop him from giving up a loud, squealing grunt every ten steps and rubbing his body across each pine tree he passes by to leave his scent, all so he can add yet another cow to the group.
Bull elk. They’re controlling, mouthy, narcissistic, belligerent, and totally unfaithful. What a catch, right? It’s a good thing they have biology working in their favor.
The bull comes to a stop, draws his head down and arches his back, then lets out another ear piercing bugle. The sound is beautiful and obnoxious, wild and ancient—and it also sounds like he’s taunting me.
That’s it. I’m going after him. This will work, I know it. Just so long as everything works in my favor.
Unfortunately, that right there is the problem. Not much of anything has gone my way so far. I spent the first two days of my hunt trying not to puke or pass out from an unexpected bout with altitude sickness, and the following two days on what felt like a never-ending nature hike for the sheer lack of elk. I finally picked up and moved my camp on day five. A good decision it seemed, because that afternoon I heard what sounded like a nice mature bull bugling in a thatch of dark timber below my tent. I hustled my way through a deep draw nearby and proceeded to spend the next forty-five minutes luring him my way using a reed-based cow call, only to have him suddenly go silent and then seemingly disappear entirely.
After that, I decided it was time for a reboot—and a shower—so I spent the night at Braden’s. Lying in his bed last night, I could practically hear him giving me a stern, well-timed pep talk, and I woke up this morning ready to tackle the mountain again.
After stowing away my spotting scope and cinching down my pack, I use my binoculars to make one last pass over the area, sweeping them over the bull and his harem, who are now up and on the move. As the crow flies, there are probably a good two miles between where I am now and where I need to be, but with the wide berth I’ll need to maintain so the elk don’t scent me along the way and terrain that doesn’t offer a straight shot to my destination, I have one hell of a climb ahead of me. And standing here thinking about that doesn’t get me any closer. Bow in hand, I settle on a route and start to hustle in that direction.
Here goes nothing.
An hour and a half later, I finally reach the water hole, finding the area surrounding it a little more exposed than I expected, so my options are limited when it comes to cover. But after ducking under a low tree limb, I spot a small boulder that will work. The rock is big enough to provide cover but low enough that when I’m ready, I can rise up on my knees and have a clean shot into the clearing that lies twenty yards beyond. Doing my best to keep from snapping too many of the dry twigs scattered on the ground, I hunker down behind it and remove my pack then adjust the action cam mounted to my hat, cursing the damn thing for all its awkwardness.
When I see Colin again, I’m going to throw myself into his arms and smooch his cheeks until he blushes tomato red. I will never take his expert cameraman skills or his human packhorse qualities for granted ever again. And as for all those luxur
y ranch hunts I thought I was so tired of? After this trip, some overpriced pampering and a little five-star cuisine sounds pretty damn good.
Solo hunt. DIY. Public lands. In arid, high-altitude Colorado. Stupid, stupid idea. Muttering under my breath, I swear to myself I am never doing this again—and even if I know I’m lying, it’s a soothing thought in the moment.
I drop down and sit back on my heels, bow in hand so I can nock an arrow in preparation. Based on the growing sound of his bugles, the bull and his harem aren’t far off. I can hear my breath and it’s too wild, so I tell myself to calm down and forget everything but staying invisible. But my skin is slicked with sweat from the near-trail-run pace I kept in order to get here and after just a few minutes in this position, I think my right foot is starting to fall asleep. No time to adjust my perch or strip off a layer of clothing, though, because a series of bugles pierces the air, followed by tree limbs falling and bark coming loose in the wake of my elk’s approach. I hold my breath for a moment, waiting to see or hear him. I know he’s close; I can smell him. Earthy and ripe, the presence of elk in the rut has its own distinctive scent, one that in large doses is pungent enough to make your eyes water.
When he steps into my sight line, I freeze. All I can see is the tip of his snout, but that’s enough to turn my breath wild and rushed again. Adrenaline takes over, drowning out everything but the rush of blood I can hear pounding in my ears. He steps forward again and stops, raising his head to rotate his ears, listening as best he can. A few beats pass, and he relaxes his posture.
Come on, come on, come on. Five more yards. That’s all it will take.
He raises one hoof, gingerly taking one new step. Slowly, I rise up on my knees and raise my bow, watching his movements as I question whether to draw the bow now or wait a few more seconds. Once I’m at full draw, I want to spend as little time as possible holding that position before triggering the release and sending my arrow, staving off the fatigue that will eventually cause my arm to shake. If I’m there too long and my form starts to break down, I may have to abandon the shot altogether.
