carbine by the campfire

I always had one gun when I'd hunt. An old .30-30 lever gun. Short thing for trappers, what most would call a carbine. Thing had wooden furniture. In the evening after pushing through the brush looking for game in the Oregon forests, down past Ashland, I sat at the fire warming my numb appendages. The gun was light enough to carry around without tiring you out, but creeping through the forest as long as I had would tire anyone out, so long as they were as out of shape as I was (and still am, as of this writing) and my muscles were sore.

    I was young. Young enough to be a kid, but not so young I couldn't appreciate the beautiful sunset ahead of me. Young enough to think having a cigarette would make it all the sweeter. It didn't hurt, I suppose.
   
    Above the crackling fire my elders and I conversed and many jokes were made at my expense. I deserved it I suppose. I moved through the forest with all the subtlety of a chainsaw, despite my best efforts, and was a little bit of a show off, spinning my rifle by the lever. I thought it was cool back then, but having a rifle being chambered and cocked as the barrel sweeps along a relatively unpredictable arc (towards your body at that) isn't too cool.

      But above the drone I heard the snap of a twig. And a very distinct noise. Like something smacking against a tree. My hearing was better (not that I'm a blind, deaf old man) back then. I could hear what the old farts couldn't. I picked up my rifle and stood up.

    We were camped in what used to be a quarry on a hillside. To one side of us was a sharp incline leading the the top, and the other was a slightly more manageable angle downward, still ready to bring you down a lot faster than you intended if you weren't paying attention, with your decent ending in a tree halfway down or a wonderful tumble down the bottom. Past the hillside trees however you could see all these green treetops if you looked straight outward, or if you looked down you could see all the way to the forest floor.

        I walked peacefully, as quietly as I could. Before I could reach the edge I began to see something that tensed all my muscles up. The beginning of a beautiful rack, slamming against a tree, maybe 150 yards out.  I turned quietly to the other hunters, looking straight at the eldest of the group.

      His name was Leroy. He was nearing the end of his life. Not that he had some specific ill, his body was simply giving out at his age. He was the  kindest of the old men. He treated me with the respect I craved but did not know to deserve. He could barely walk, hear, but he could see alright.

        "Theres a fantastic rack down there"

Everyone got quiet. Even the fire seemed to stop crackling for a second. I edged as calmly and as quietly as I could to the edge to see a big buck. Fella was old too.

"He's big. Real big."

Leroy didn't make a noise for a minute. Not a peep. And the big buck just kept smackin his head against the tree.

I could hear the other men getting up to help Leroy up. I turned over to see Leroy smile and shake his head. He was supposed to get the deer this year. It was unspoken of course but it was no telling how many more hunts he could go on.

He looked me dead in the eye with a grin on his face.

"Go on, kid. Itll be too much trouble to get me over there. Ill get the next one.

I looked back down and saw the deer had stopped. He had now turned too look straight at me. I thumbed back the hammer on the winchester, and lined up the sights. The thing stood perfectly still.

  It was damn eerie.
 
      I fired and the big buck dropped instantly.

      I was too damn young to understand any of it really.


      I'm damn glad I do now.