towards her head, my gun still pointed at the deer. Gently I gave her one last nudge, just under her jaw.
She was dead. I was a hunter.
Kneeling beside the kill, I slapped its back quarter several times. Perhaps not as much meat as I might need for a month, but still something. And I had taken it. No one helped me.
“I can do this,” I whispered aloud, smoothing the fur on the side of my deer. “I can survive this. I can make it to next spring. Then maybe, I can get home.”
Rising up, I threw my arms in the air above my head. Pumping several times like Rocky Balboa celebrating his stair climb, I let out a small whoop . Remembering there was no one to hear me, I doubted Dizzy would have even heard the gunshots two miles back in, I shouted as loud as I could.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” echoed through the otherwise silent woods. Only the pines, and maples, and birches took in my celebration.
When the adrenaline quit pumping through my veins, and my heart rate slowed to below 500, I studied my kill. It was double-lunged, just where I was aiming…I think. Dizzy claimed I only pointed the gun; you need to aim was his typical battle cry after a miss. Well, aim this, sucker.
A problem came to mind, studying the deer. What was I supposed to do next?
My plan had always been to have Dizzy guide me through the next steps. He was the experienced hunter. Certainly more experienced than I was. But he was two plus miles away. Most likely memorizing his magazines.
“Gut it,” I said aloud as if I knew what that meant. I remembered that much from my limited hunting experience.
And that was a problem. I had never actually watched a deer’s entrails being removed. Typically, I showed up an hour after Dad or Bud had taken and properly cleaned their kill. Even then, the nearby gut piles made me want to puke.
To gut this thing, my first kill, I was going to need a knife. That meant running back to the cabin, finding a sharp knife, and making my way through the rest of the mysterious process.
I rose, glancing one more time at my deer. My deer. That sounded awesome for some reason to me.
Day 50 - continued - WOP
I ran most of the few hundred yards back to the cabin. Trotted was probably a better description. Though I was “fit,” I wasn’t that physically active in my former life. My exercise program included a weekly walk with Shelly, usually taken on Sunday mornings.
My wife had always warned me I needed more physical activity. “Some day you’ll thank me for riding your butt,” she often said. Usually, I laughed her off. But at that moment, I remembered just how right she was. Eerily correct.
Sucking for air, I scanned my small home. Somewhere someone must have left a decent knife here. A quick check of the kitchen offered one possibility. An old wood-handle meat knife with an edge duller than the lip of a wood table. If needed, I could make it work.
I lit a candle to dig in the deep recesses of the dark closet — nothing. Did Dad really cart his hunting knives back and forth to Milwaukee every deer season? Didn’t he know that I might be in need of one someday? Like when the world ended and I found myself stranded here, in thew middle of nowhere?
I took a spot on the couch; my heart rate settled. There had to be a real-life hunting knife, somewhere, in a real-life hunting cabin. But where?
A thought finally came to me. Standing, I made my way back into the bedroom. Pulling open a dresser drawer, then a second, I spotted what I knew I’d find, Grandpa’s old hunting knife.
My first recollection of the tool was my first deer season, some 10 years in the past. Grandpa, dressed from head to toe in woolen blaze orange, strapping a thick leather belt around his rotund mid-section. The only reason for the belt was to hold his knife, sheathed in a dark tan leather holder.
Back then, it and he was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.
“Don’t you dare touch that,” he warned me at the time. “It’s sharper than
She was dead. I was a hunter.
Kneeling beside the kill, I slapped its back quarter several times. Perhaps not as much meat as I might need for a month, but still something. And I had taken it. No one helped me.
“I can do this,” I whispered aloud, smoothing the fur on the side of my deer. “I can survive this. I can make it to next spring. Then maybe, I can get home.”
Rising up, I threw my arms in the air above my head. Pumping several times like Rocky Balboa celebrating his stair climb, I let out a small whoop . Remembering there was no one to hear me, I doubted Dizzy would have even heard the gunshots two miles back in, I shouted as loud as I could.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” echoed through the otherwise silent woods. Only the pines, and maples, and birches took in my celebration.
When the adrenaline quit pumping through my veins, and my heart rate slowed to below 500, I studied my kill. It was double-lunged, just where I was aiming…I think. Dizzy claimed I only pointed the gun; you need to aim was his typical battle cry after a miss. Well, aim this, sucker.
A problem came to mind, studying the deer. What was I supposed to do next?
My plan had always been to have Dizzy guide me through the next steps. He was the experienced hunter. Certainly more experienced than I was. But he was two plus miles away. Most likely memorizing his magazines.
“Gut it,” I said aloud as if I knew what that meant. I remembered that much from my limited hunting experience.
And that was a problem. I had never actually watched a deer’s entrails being removed. Typically, I showed up an hour after Dad or Bud had taken and properly cleaned their kill. Even then, the nearby gut piles made me want to puke.
To gut this thing, my first kill, I was going to need a knife. That meant running back to the cabin, finding a sharp knife, and making my way through the rest of the mysterious process.
I rose, glancing one more time at my deer. My deer. That sounded awesome for some reason to me.
Day 50 - continued - WOP
I ran most of the few hundred yards back to the cabin. Trotted was probably a better description. Though I was “fit,” I wasn’t that physically active in my former life. My exercise program included a weekly walk with Shelly, usually taken on Sunday mornings.
My wife had always warned me I needed more physical activity. “Some day you’ll thank me for riding your butt,” she often said. Usually, I laughed her off. But at that moment, I remembered just how right she was. Eerily correct.
Sucking for air, I scanned my small home. Somewhere someone must have left a decent knife here. A quick check of the kitchen offered one possibility. An old wood-handle meat knife with an edge duller than the lip of a wood table. If needed, I could make it work.
I lit a candle to dig in the deep recesses of the dark closet — nothing. Did Dad really cart his hunting knives back and forth to Milwaukee every deer season? Didn’t he know that I might be in need of one someday? Like when the world ended and I found myself stranded here, in thew middle of nowhere?
I took a spot on the couch; my heart rate settled. There had to be a real-life hunting knife, somewhere, in a real-life hunting cabin. But where?
A thought finally came to me. Standing, I made my way back into the bedroom. Pulling open a dresser drawer, then a second, I spotted what I knew I’d find, Grandpa’s old hunting knife.
My first recollection of the tool was my first deer season, some 10 years in the past. Grandpa, dressed from head to toe in woolen blaze orange, strapping a thick leather belt around his rotund mid-section. The only reason for the belt was to hold his knife, sheathed in a dark tan leather holder.
Back then, it and he was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.
“Don’t you dare touch that,” he warned me at the time. “It’s sharper than
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