My husband Jon and I walked up our rural road early this past Saturday morning. Nothing striking or unusual about that as most days begin with this ritual. The cherished natural surround of tranquility greeted us as the cold air bumped up against our faces. Animated political conversation was tossed around as we navigated the elevation…
I noticed our neighbors from across the street hiking through the trails they had cut on the hills behind their home. The woods now transparent. Stick season on display. Winter clothing, dark. I worried for their safety since deer hunting season had officially started. A fact I had been made aware of and had subsequently pushed into the recesses of my mind. Where was their signature orange apparel?
After returning home from three miles of debated conversation we decided to head to our small general store to get our mail and grab a cup. We depend on a PO Box with intermittent postal service. We have become accustomed to it…
Hunting too. I have learned about and recognize the lore of hunting. Culling herds. Providing food for one’s family. The family traditions carved around this bonding activity. A connection to the land. So goes the stories we are told and the stories we tell ourselves…
Just two plus miles from our home we approached the small circular parking lot across the street from the modest wooden structure. Our general store. The sky blue for the first time in many days. A gray and rainy snow pattern has occupied our weather most recently. November in Vermont. The day this day felt different…
A young hunter was leaving his vehicle and caught my eye as we turned into the lot. A quick startled glance as if to warn me about what was laid bare in the bed of his pristine white pick-up truck. Immediately I understood his morning to have been “successful.” We found a spot next to a parking area reserved for hunters to weigh their kill. The large game scale sits idly most days but not this day…
I exited the car and swiftly began to make my way tangentially towards the front door following just feet behind the young man dressed in earth tone camouflage. Browns and subtle ochres. Purposefully blending into the environment. Baffled as his clothes still crisp showed no signs of the hunt…
The back gate of the pick-up was opened flat and exposed was a large buck. Eyes wide open. Only the illusion of life remained. Blood trickled and dried down the animal’s muzzle. Eerily still yet I wondered about the moments before he was quieted. A high-tech scope with this buck’s name on it? The exhilaration of the hunter. The hunt. Was it swift? Had this beautiful animal panicked in its struggle…
Nauseated and saddened I crossed the street hardly looking for oncoming cars. I walked into the store a bit aimlessly and paled by my observation. I tried to get my bearings as business appeared to be as usual. The young hunter had turned and was coming my way to order his breakfast.
My face ashen and my eyes blinking back tears he quietly mumbled to me “it is my father’s.” Ah, the sins of our fathers. I couldn’t tell if he was apologetic or still trying to square what he had experienced earlier that morning. As I took in the environment, I realized there were several hunters all similarly dressed. They had already accomplished their goal, and it wasn’t even mid-morning.
A local woman at the register purchasing some milk spoke with a couple of the young hunters in a congratulatory manner. She knew them since they were children and was thrilled for their get. The familiar rhythm was warmly stark…
The coffee was good as we sat on stools at the counter. The large counter window exhibited the outdoors like a postcard. Our small brick library, a community theater, an art center and the local ski mountain. The hills appeared a little harsher as I sipped on my coffee. Trying to right my thoughts and level some understanding I couldn’t quite…
By the time we had left the store and returned to our car the pick-up trucks had multiplied. Waiting in queue for the scale. I had no option but to walk to the passenger side of our car. I diverted my eyes to the ground but the chilling sound of clanking chains as the hunter began to hoist a buck up to be weighted haunted me. Look. Don’t look. I looked. As I witnessed the deer’s hooves being secured, I snapped my eyes closed…
Hunting the innocent. Was it the activity in the hills of Vermont that had me tortured? No, it wasn’t. I do have an understanding as to the why’s. I am not a fan, but I do get it. The heart of the matter? Yes, my heart. I struggled with the symbolism of the moment. The voracious appetite of a government that hunts down innocent people on the streets of America. I will never rest easy with that…
“He had already learned there was only one day at a time and that it was always the day you were in. It would be today until it was tonight and tomorrow would be today again. This was the main thing he had learned so far.” ― Ernest Hemingway, The Nick Adams Stories
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