J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

In college working on her Veterinary Technician associate’s degree, she did the seemingly obligatory stint as a vegetarian, failing miserably one hungry night when she jokingly realized she was about ready to take hostages at an In and Out Burger. At the time, her mom was needing some meat on the table, and she came up here to see if she could get a deer that season, her uncle driving up from his place a few miles down to help get it to the butcher if she was successful.

Sitting in her comfortable warm home tonight she still remembers walking in her uncle’s cabin for the first time by herself on her first solitary hunt.

The interior had been shadowed and bare, the only furniture visible when she first walked in, a dust covered chair crouching in the corner as if afraid of the light.

The hunting cabin had been closed up for almost a year. It was a long drive up here but worth it. She would rather have driven for hours then head to the nearest “Squatters’ Rights RV campground” where the closest thing to wildlife was the married couple in the next spot that drank too much tequila and had a fight.

When she found the light switch, she saw there was more inside, a couple of couches, covered by a tarp, a small table and 2 more chairs, a sink, though there was no running water, a small refrigerator and some cooking supplies and a supply of bottled drinking water that her uncle left here for her. She enjoyed tent camping, but since she was by herself, this was much better. Putting up a tent on her own entailed cursing and usually bloodletting unless it involves a Pop-Up tent (oh good, tent Viagra). She would go with the cabin any time when she was on her own.

For it was just going to be herself this weekend, friends off with friends or family, doing other things. There was plenty to do as she lifted her firearm from its case, the glint of silver easing the gnawing stillness of the lonely room.

She cleaned up, swept and dusted as best she could, preparing stew and biscuits in a cast iron skillet to tide her over for the next couple of nights, some nut butter sandwiches and apple slices to have in her pack for lunches at the blind. Later days will hold a dinner table set with game, turkeys bewitched to a dark gold, venison succulent with the juice of life, the laughter of friends. Now is not the time for the feasting but for the gathering.

There was no TV, there was no radio. After putting some fresh toilet paper in the outhouse, she sat in the still quiet, thinking back to the city, right now bustling, growing and dying, buildings lined with amber windows that only hint at their human secrecy to the observer in the streets. People rushing to and fro, the casual innuendo of work relationships, fleeting obligations, names forgotten quickly at tedious meetings. Above, the communal wafer of the moon shined brightly, surviving the directionless pull that is the city for some.

Soon she was settled in the cabin, far away from the city, the blind out far away in the woods, her footsteps back out just a memory for anyone watching. Before it was even 9 pm, she was snuggled down in her sleeping bag as comfortable as she could be.

In the morning, she could feel the chill in the air as she had a cup of coffee with her bacon and eggs, over a small campfire, her breath competing with its steam. There’s a cold front coming in, and despite the forecast, she knows there is a chance of not just hard rain, but thunderstorms. She could imagine the clouds gathering up like an angry crowd even as the moonlight bloomed in the trees like a faint blue flame. It would be light soon, time to get out in the blind and hope the storm would pass her by.

It was a long hike out. She had not meant to head out this far away from the cabin, initially planning on using the blind within shouting distance of shelter, but sometimes you make that decision, one that every adventurer takes, try that new cave, explore that new trail, put up that blind out where you saw the giant scrape. Let the cowards ponder other things back in the safety of the jeep; it’s time to blaze a trail that will either be heartbreak or the profoundly sublime. Acting on intuition and trusting your gut, you risk a new adventure or a fourteen-point rack.

And possibly a thorough, cold soaking.

The storm was not supposed to be severe. The ones that affect you deeply never are. First, there was nothing but a congealed sky, the blue turning to dark-the color of cold and constant night. From the next ridge line came a rumble, or maybe that was her stomach, breakfast had been some time ago. But she didn’t wish to get into the pack for the real provisions, as the sky had just spit in her face, a challenge she wasn’t in the mood to take on.

The animals sensed it before she had, the forest going silent. The only whitetail she had seen all day was there and gone in a blink of an eye. In just the instant before he saw her, all the light in the sky remaining gathered on him, then he disappeared into shadow. He was there, and then he was only a specter of hide and hair. Then nothing but longing, followed by a clap of thunder that echoed somewhere deep inside.

She should have gone back, but she didn’t want to. She only had two days to hunt. She didn’t want to pack up the cabin and head back to the city. For at least one weekend each year, the woods here were hers, brief moments of time away from the drudgery of pavement and obligations. Time away from loss and explanations and time in tiny rooms that don’t allow her to breathe.

It’s not easy sitting still in the deer blind, listening only to the hearts whispered confidences, conversing silently with your own regrets. But if you were patient and completely still, there in the distance you may hear it. Not the birds nor the brook, but the soft crunch of leaves, scarcely a sound yet, almost sound anticipated, yet to reach the ear. There it was again, drifting into your hearing, then ebbing away again, sound dying softly on a trail that’s leading away from you. It’s gone.

She told herself it was a three legged, one eyed, scrawny button buck not worthy of the shot, while down inside she had a mental picture of tines with a spread of two and a half feet and a form that blots out all sound that you will make.

She knew there were deer here; creatures living shadowy in the limbo from which time began, moving around and away from time, away from you. Their forms moved right around her, as her heart sounded out that beat of time, going too fast. If only she could see with the eyes that all hunters have. She knew they were close, moving in and out of the sun’s glare, flirting with her with grunts and snorts, hot air from soft muzzles, challenging her to the dual that only one of them will win.

There’s nothing else like it; that unforgettable sense of openness. The profound and brooding woods, that lives quietly in her in the city as she bustled around between school and part time job at a dog groomer, the look of the hunter in her eyes behind the thick glasses, not visible to those around her, the fire hidden deep inside. Then later, the hot and wet and cold and warm hands on skin, peeling off clothing, fresh flannel, hot stew, warm coffee, renewal.

So, she stayed out longer than she should and getting caught in a cloudburst was her cover charge. It wasn’t a dangerous storm; even she knew well not to head out into the tall trees during one of those. It was a small storm, but small is relative when it takes just one lightning strike to light up your world.

Any thunderstorm out in the open is dangerous, so she found shelter as best she could, avoiding the tallest trees, with lightning cracking within a few miles. The poncho is quickly pulled out of the pack and donned, another to cover her rifle and gear. She settled down to wait, rivulets of water running down her face, thoughts retreating like the tide, exposing a bare landscape of fire and blood, rock, and water.