Stories of the Hunt - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 1999 by Alex Mindt

"Huh," he said. "Well, good, Walt. Now go put it away."

As I moved out of the room, I said, "That's it?"

"What was that?" my dad said. "Walt. You get back in here. What did I say about that huh? If you got something to say to me, say it to me." He stared at me and then took a drag on his cigarette. Smoke emitted from his nose and mouth in phlegmy gusts. "You did have something to say, didn't you?"

"I put my rifle back together," I said.

"Yes, you did. And I told you I'm proud of you. But, Walt, you don't do things so others will admire you. You do them for the love and the joy of doing them."

"The average white-tailed buck weighs one hundred and eighty pounds, although specimens of nearly twice that weight have been shot. It is by far the wariest and most elusive of all big game animals. The cautious hunter will succeed with the whitetail. Keep the wind in your favor because deer have an exceptional sense of smell." These were a few of Buck Macguire's hunting tips I read aloud to my father as we drove into the Cascades that Thursday night. It was dark, so I held a flashlight up to the book.

"You think Buck is going to be there?" my father asked.

"No, Dad. He's in prison."

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I forgot about that. Look, you're going to want to get some sleep. Believe me we've got a shot at winning some of that purse, but only if you get some shut-eye. You got the vision. Just don't lock up and you'll be tine."

"I won't," I said. "If I see a deer, I'll kill it."

"That a boy." He reached over and put his hand on my head. "Now get some sleep."

It was the beginning of November and the Cascades were covered with snow. At one point, I remember waking up and seeing my dad putting chains on the tires. We had another seven hours of driving ahead of us and snow on the pass was not going to help. When he got in the truck, he said, "Rest those eyes, Walt. And be sure to say a prayer for us." He was so tender at that moment. I often wonder if it was a dream. I lay down, resting my head in his lap. He put his hand on my shoulder and I drifted off.

My dad was a handsome man and when he smiled, people smiled back. He was an expert in the art of small talk, and he had a way of making people feel instantly at ease. When we got out of the truck at the Deer Park Elks Club I watched him as we stood in line. "Boy, it's cold," he said. "Makes my nipples hard."

"Be careful," a large man said. "You don't want to get me excited."

A few guys laughed, and before I knew it, the line had become more like a group with everybody joking around. There were a few boys there my age, and a cute girl who looked like she was in high school. "Don't get outshot by her," my dad whispered. "Nothing worse than getting outgunned by a girl." I kept quiet the whole morning. I didn't expect so many people, and so much chewing and spitting. This was an inauguration for me. All the Coke cans in the world couldn't have prepared me for the barrage of camouflaged testosterone that littered the countryside. After a while, an old, wiry man stood up on the bed of a pickup with a blow horn in his hand.