Guest Post by Francis Marion
Prologue:
There is something about the process of harvesting your own food that is liberating for the soul. Perhaps it is simply this: Self reliance breeds freedom. Just my humble opinion of course. I get a similar satisfaction from growing my own food as well. A head of lettuce from the back yard is so much sweeter than one from the supermarket. The same goes for meat. Since I don’t farm, I hunt. This is the story of my first bull moose.
The Bull
By Francis Marion
The wind whispered
through golden aspens
as I slipped silently along the ridge
above the river.
I’d seen
the bull
here
the year before
in the eskers
above the valley floor.
His fresh tracks
were still there
littering the ground
in a crisscross of trails
mingling with deer, elk
and bear.
Above the river that rushes
north to the arctic,
the wind is always
moving,
flexing
and shifting.
It is both friend and foe
so I am forced
to move
slowly
always listening
for more than
whispering
leaves.
As it flexed again
I was struck!
Betrayed,
the smell
of the rutting bull
touched
my nostrils;
its pungent aroma
made me
wince
as I stopped
to glass a neighboring
hillside
for movement.
I knew.
He was near.
Patience.
Take a few steps.
Look.
Wait.
Pay attention.
Listen.
Quiet.
Listen.
For a moment.
There was nothing.
Then the next
like a ghost from the fog,
He was there.
One thousand pounds
of shimmering
black coat,
bone and muscle,
his breath suspended
in air,
steam rose
like smoke
from his nostrils
while his ears
alert
twisted on top of
his massive skull.
And I wondered,
“Can he hear my heart
pounding? “
In my head
It beat
a relentless rhythm
both ancient
and familiar.
Breath……..
I told myself.
Relax…
And then
Then….
There is something about the time
in between
the moment
when your finger
caresses the trigger
and your rifle
replies.
It is an eternity.
And I think again,
“Surely he can hear me.
Surely…
he can hear
my beating heart.”
Steady.
Breath….
Relax.
Through the scope
his dark coat reflected
the evening light
mingling yellow, orange
and Red
And
for a moment
Time.
Stands.
Still……….
Then is released!
I remember
His life escaping
his lungs
and hanging
for the last time
in the
light autumn breeze
vanishing
while the smell
of burning powder
filled my nose.
My ears rung.
I could feel
the blood
coursing
through my veins,
my heart pumping,
pounding…
Breath…….
Relax.
I knew.
I knelt beside his
hulking mass
still warm with blood,
nerves still pulsating,
muscles twitching
and ran my hands
through his thick dark,
coarse hair.
I pulled my knife
from its sheath.
Good, cold steel
makes quick work
of fresh,
warm meat.
Slowly
My heart began
to settle.
So
I began.
I could breath.
I knew
I was alive.
I know
I am free.
So it ends.
So it begins again.
One cold morning in Arvilla ND, I looked out my kitchen window and a huge bull was prancing across my yard only 20 feet away. Not a flatfooted cow or a graceful horse, this really big boy had a sexy spring to his walk. Too bad our ancestors didn’t tame them.
I’ve killed over 300 deer in my hunting carer ( S.C. has no limit on deer ). Most were killed on my club and were shared with all of the members . There is nothing like eating a mid day snack of deer jerky after chasing Spring turkeys all morning .
Hopefully in the next few weeks I’ll add a wild pig to the freezer .
Moose are a once every two to four year affair. Its a LOT of meat and depending on where you tip them over it takes that long to forget what a pain in the ass it is to get them out. I liken it to a woman’s desire to give birth…. seemed like a good idea at the time….
Epic. Reminds me of my first kill. Was bittersweet.
Jfish says: Epic. Reminds me of my first kill. Was bittersweet.
Former girlfriend?
El Ciber – First girlfriend looked more like “roadkill”. That’s what my buddies told me anyway. I loved her tho, because she let me get to 2nd base.