Stories of the Hunt - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 1999 by Alex Mindt

"Welcome to the first annual Northwest White-Tailed Buck Shoot-Out. As you know, there are some pretty big cash prizes and some nice consolation gifts. For example, whoever brings in the buck with the strangest antlers, as judged by my wife Marianne, and her three friends, Hazel, Vi, and Sharon ..." The old guy pointed over to the front door of the Elks Club. Four ladies were standing there in floral patterned jackets. They waved to us. "... will receive a free tune-up at my shop in Spokane." He went on to explain the rules. We would have all weekend. The deadline for bringing in the kills would be set at 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon. The official hunting territory began on the north side of Deer Lake and continued northward into the Kaniksu National Forest. "Just follow the signs, gentlemen. There's plenty of room for everybody." He went on to give us safety tips that everybody knew and then he said, "Remember, we're only going after the bucks. Please leave the women and children alone." He then held a pistol up into the air and yelled. "Boy howdy! Let's getta' hunting!" He pulled the trigger and the gun blasted, sending echoes across the fields. The men started whooping and hollering while climbing into their trucks.

My dad pulled out a cigarette and said, "Well, what are you standing there for? We got some bucks to kill."

This was it, I knew that much. This was the pinnacle, the culmination of every childhood fantasy that had ever found its way into my consciousness. This was akin to a kid who spends all of his time looking at the stars through a telescope, finally hopping on a space shuttle and actually going up there, up close and looking at Ursa Minor with his naked eye, taking pictures and, I'm sure, like me, shaking in his boots. What if I did lock up? What if my finger magically refused to pull the trigger? All of this ran through my head as I climbed into the truck. What didn't cross my mind was the conspicuous absence of Dad's hunting partners--Sheen, Dunkirk, Mayfield, Rodgers, Leone, and all the others he'd mentioned in the past.

The fact is, all of these names were either pulled out of books or B-movies, and it took me years to find the basis for each reference. What I wasn't aware of at the moment, sitting in the seat beside him, I'd soon understand as the day went on. My father was no hunter. He betrayed every rule, every tip I'd ever read. And he made things worse by attempting to cover this up by espousing some shamanistic credos he'd learned from what he called, "Our red brothers."

It had started to snow and the trails we hiked in on had a light dusting that displayed human footprints. The wind was at our back, sending our scent, like a piece of mail, right up to any deer's olfactory mailbox. He assured me that when we got in further we would find a fresh trail and embark on "our singular mission." The day was not going the way I'd imagined, there was no majesty to it, no thrill. But this plan satisfied me, for a while anyhow. Dad pulled out a cigarette and started smoking one after the other. We walked on for an hour or two or three and suddenly we were right back at the roadside. "Well," Dad said. "Would you look at that?" He shook his head and then hiked down to the truck.