Hunting. Not killing yet. So I passed over the easy kills I saw and kept moving, moving. I went off to the left of the swamp throughout the morning, off to the left and then the land started to rise. First in a gentle slope and then steeper and steeper until I was moving onto a ridge made of a large gray rock outcropping that stood out like the backbone of some giant animalskeleton. I worked along this ridge, not on top because I had learned that all things look to the top of a ridge or a hill and I didnât want to scare away animals that might be in the same area.
Below the ridge line and slow, two, three steps, pause, stop, study whatâs ahead, start again, stop right away, and study, study, breathe in slow and out more slowly, wait, wait.
Two more steps, stop. Think of fitting, fitting in to the ridge line, into the grass under my feet. Think of being the weather, air, all of everything. Fit in to the edge, edge of the dream. Slow. Sloooow. Looking for a line, a curve that doesnât belong, doesnât fit.
Down the face of the ridge moving that way, watching, seeing, but more, more, feeling, feeling everything, feeling all things, knowing all things. Closer to the creek where it wound around the side of the ridge, water against the rock, cutting away until it left a small clearing back against the rock face and out to the creek, with thick brush andgrass coming down to the water on the other side of the creek.
And there.
Right . . . exactly . . . there .
A grouse. Sitting low in the grass. Body down, head up a bit. Frozen. No motion.
Slowly draw the arrow back, feel where itâs going, how itâs going to go and then without thinking about it, release. Soft âthrummâ of the string and the cane arrow is gone, clean and gone, hitting the grouse just below the head, through the neck.
One flop.
And done. Dead.
Food.
I had an old two-bladed pocketknife that Fishbone had given me, only one blade, the other broken off, and I used it to cut the birdâs head off and the lower part of the legs and feet. Then tore the skin awayâeasier to skin than to eat feathers because they never all come off when you try topluck themâand then a small fire, creek water in the pot with the whole grouse. Small bird. And the mushrooms to let them boil until the meat falls off the bone. Gather more wood while itâs cooking, all night wood, then before dark set a trap for crayfish.
The creek is alive with them and the tails taste almost sweet. Fishbone says they taste like lobster, or shrimp. I donât know. Wouldnât know. Never tasted them. But crayfish make your mouth water just thinking of them. Well. So does grouse. Or rabbit. Or biscuits and flour gravy. Or anything.
Fishbone says most people eat the tail and the guts, but I could never get into scooping the guts out and eating them, so I stick to the tails. Donât eat rabbit guts. Donât eat squirrel guts. Donât eat frog guts. Donât eat guts.
Just the heart. Sometimes. Throw it in the stew as I did with the grouse heart. Just meat. Good meat.
Where the creek curved away from the littleclearing, the bottom was almost free of weeds and grass from the current picking up speed around the corner. On the side of the bank there was a U-shaped gouge that came back into the dirt about two feet. The water in the U was about five inches deep with a clear, sandy bottom. I took flat rocks from the ridge stone and made a small underwater wall across the face of the U and left a two-inch opening in the center. In the back of the U I put the grouse guts, head, feet, and feathers, except for the outer wing feathers that I saved to use on cane arrows later, and I weighted the guts down with stone. Kept the good parts on the bottom. Meat, skin, guts bring all the scavengers inâfish, crayfish, even leeches, which will come if the water is still. Leeches donât do very well in fast current. Which is just as
Below the ridge line and slow, two, three steps, pause, stop, study whatâs ahead, start again, stop right away, and study, study, breathe in slow and out more slowly, wait, wait.
Two more steps, stop. Think of fitting, fitting in to the ridge line, into the grass under my feet. Think of being the weather, air, all of everything. Fit in to the edge, edge of the dream. Slow. Sloooow. Looking for a line, a curve that doesnât belong, doesnât fit.
Down the face of the ridge moving that way, watching, seeing, but more, more, feeling, feeling everything, feeling all things, knowing all things. Closer to the creek where it wound around the side of the ridge, water against the rock, cutting away until it left a small clearing back against the rock face and out to the creek, with thick brush andgrass coming down to the water on the other side of the creek.
And there.
Right . . . exactly . . . there .
A grouse. Sitting low in the grass. Body down, head up a bit. Frozen. No motion.
Slowly draw the arrow back, feel where itâs going, how itâs going to go and then without thinking about it, release. Soft âthrummâ of the string and the cane arrow is gone, clean and gone, hitting the grouse just below the head, through the neck.
One flop.
And done. Dead.
Food.
I had an old two-bladed pocketknife that Fishbone had given me, only one blade, the other broken off, and I used it to cut the birdâs head off and the lower part of the legs and feet. Then tore the skin awayâeasier to skin than to eat feathers because they never all come off when you try topluck themâand then a small fire, creek water in the pot with the whole grouse. Small bird. And the mushrooms to let them boil until the meat falls off the bone. Gather more wood while itâs cooking, all night wood, then before dark set a trap for crayfish.
The creek is alive with them and the tails taste almost sweet. Fishbone says they taste like lobster, or shrimp. I donât know. Wouldnât know. Never tasted them. But crayfish make your mouth water just thinking of them. Well. So does grouse. Or rabbit. Or biscuits and flour gravy. Or anything.
Fishbone says most people eat the tail and the guts, but I could never get into scooping the guts out and eating them, so I stick to the tails. Donât eat rabbit guts. Donât eat squirrel guts. Donât eat frog guts. Donât eat guts.
Just the heart. Sometimes. Throw it in the stew as I did with the grouse heart. Just meat. Good meat.
Where the creek curved away from the littleclearing, the bottom was almost free of weeds and grass from the current picking up speed around the corner. On the side of the bank there was a U-shaped gouge that came back into the dirt about two feet. The water in the U was about five inches deep with a clear, sandy bottom. I took flat rocks from the ridge stone and made a small underwater wall across the face of the U and left a two-inch opening in the center. In the back of the U I put the grouse guts, head, feet, and feathers, except for the outer wing feathers that I saved to use on cane arrows later, and I weighted the guts down with stone. Kept the good parts on the bottom. Meat, skin, guts bring all the scavengers inâfish, crayfish, even leeches, which will come if the water is still. Leeches donât do very well in fast current. Which is just as
Similar Books
