Fall Hunting
By Guy Perkins
In our neck of the woods you can feel it on a late August morning. There
is a change in the air, a breath of fall. Mother nature then teases us
with an early snow in the high country giving the boys at coffee
something to debate conserning the attitude of the coming winter.
During the gray days of September high in the Rocky Mountains, back in,
and away from the noises of man. The elk gather to propagate their
kind. The vocalization of this undertaking will rival any symphony the
rest of the "civalized" world has to offer.
A hard October frost sets the forest and fields ablaze with a color wave
that resembles a box of Crayons. Every shade imaginable burst forth from
the constant shades of green pine and grey rock. Thier brilliance is
short lived as the winds of winter swipe them from their frame and send
them to the earth below.
It was deathly still this morning. Gone from the woods were the
communication of the range cows. The whine and drone of motorization.
The RVers had left the camp grounds for fear of freezing up thier rigs.
On occasion I set a foot down too hard and a slight crunch caught my
ear. I would pause attempting to convince those who may have heard that
I wasn't near. The smell of cool wet foliage awoke my senses as I
slipped as quietly as possible through the brush.
Working my way down a ridge line, I would every so often carefully peak
over the other side. It was during one such peak that I discovered the
sink. Just one of those depressions in the ground that often holds
interest. While standing with a tree to my back so not to skyline myself
I imagined the opportunities. It was then I noticed the movement. I
needed to sit to be steady if the opportunity came, so I lowered myself
to the ground. My early morning laziness cost me as my denim, and not
the wool I should have dug out from the basement closet scratched my
rock seat. At 80 yards my mistake was detected. They stood for what
seemed like hours before they melted into the woods.
"Still hunting fall turkeys, what an insane indevour I thought".
Disappointed by my carelessness, I filled my lungs with a deep breath of
nature and recalled the words of the Spanish Philosopher Jose Ortega."I
do not hunt to kill, I kill to say I have hunted" (1500's). Today among
all of this outdoors I say, "I hunt, therefore I am". |
