As the soft chimes of my 0500 alarm go off I slowly rise from warmth of the bed. Through the slits of my eyes I search in the dark for my Carhartt pants and Under Armor. My hand fanning the air and making its way down to the floor. A few minutes later I hear the soft knock at the door and the scratchy voice of my father's voice seeing if I'm up. I grumble back the first words of the day that I am up. As I get ready I slip on the tight fitting thermal underwear then my Carhartt pants followed by my grandpa's old blue plaid hunting shirt. A tradition I do every hunt to honor him and so that he is with me on every hunt. I then pull on my camo pants and jacket and thread my belt through my pants. My belt is fashioned with my knife and multi tool in hopes that I will be successful.
I walk down the stairs in my wool socks to the kitchen where I can smell the thick scent of coffee and Irish cream. I join my father in drinking a cup as we plan out our hunt. We then nod and head for the truck and lace up our boots. I look at my boots and see how worn they are. This will most likely be their last hunt as the treads on the soles have worn out. Still half asleep I get into the truck as we set out on yet another year of hunting.
We drive up the mountain with every switch back we round the temperature drops. We eventually hit the snow line under the rumble of the engine the tires hit the snow and the crunch of the snow beneath the tires cracks and pops. We drive onward crunching the newly fallen snow. Then without warning to me the truck stops and is put into park. This is as far as we can go. The rest will be on foot. I brace myself for the chill of the outside as I open the door. The cold creeps into the cab of the truck as I take one leg out of the truck followed by the rifle that has been resting in between my legs. I load the gun and with each metal casing my fingers grow cold. Soon all five bullets are loaded and I sling the rifle over my shoulder and follow my father. These bullets, like the rest of the rifle, were cared for with the most precision. My father and I that summer and early fall had sat in the garage measuring out to the milligram the amount of powder that would make the bullet that much more accurate so went that time came for it to leave the chamber it would be the only bullet to crack the silence that day.
As I follow my father up the magic of the mountain is all around. Something happens among the trees and sagebrush. Without saying a word a passion is being handed down to me. I find more than an animal when hunting I find true darken. As we move from the truck and the headlights turn off I see what real darkness looks like. Darkness is like silence. It's eerie. The silence fills my ears. If you stand still for too long it could drive you insane. Luckily we only stand still long enough to catch are breaths every few feet. Soon the darkness begins to fade as the sun just barely breaks the darkness as it creeps over the mountains that have called me home. We come to the spot in the trees were we had seen the elk the day before. We simultaneously crouch into the sagebrush.
I remove the rifle from my shoulder as my father sets up the tripod. I roll onto my belly, and as I do the fresh crack of the sagebrush releases its scent around me. I lift the rifle's matte black barrel into the V of the tripod swing the rifle 45 degrees to the left, then right, and back to center. I flip back the scope covers to reveal the perfectly calibrated cross hairs. I snuggle up next to the cold wood stock and carefully place my index finger on the side of the trigger at the same time I wrap my thumb at the base of the stock resting it on the safety. I lean into the stock resting my cheek on it as if we were dancing. Now. I'm in a meditation state of mind. I'm focused on my breathing. Deep breath in...out *tap. Deep breath in...out *tap. With every breath out I tap the side of the gun with my finger. I do this to get in the rhythm of breathing out and shooting. Every little detail matters. Shoot on an inhale and I could move my gun off target and miss. The goal for every hunter in one shot one kill. As I get into this rhythm I slowly get in tune with my heart beat too. Deep breath in... bump... bump... out *tap. Soon my meditation is interrupted by the soft pat on my shoulder. I look over and see my father point forty-five degrees from me. Slowly I pivot my body and rifle. The rifle in an extension of me. As I pivot at the same time my father turns with me, his hand gently resting on my shoulder. We move without a crack of a branch as I adjust my view I see the elk.
One by one they crest the breast of the mountain. I wait once more. Going back the listening to my body. Breathing deep to keep calm. Soon more elk roll over the side of the mountain. I feel the double tap on my shoulder signaling fire at will. Through my nose I breath the cold air stinging my nostrils. Snot drips onto the brown wood stock, I let out a heavy sigh as the reality of killing hits me. I don't kill because I enjoy watching the death. I spend countless hours at the gun range perfecting my shot so that when I do pull the trigger there is no pain. I push back the safety and focus back onto my breathing. This time as I tune into my heart the rate of my heart has increased. I close my eyes and calm myself. I open them and follow an elk. I line up my sight and focus. Focus on my movement, my breath, my heart rate. As I follow and focus in on one I say "I'm sorry". Slowly I place the pad of my finger on the trigger. Deep breath in... bump bum bump bum... out BOOM!!!
Soon as I pull the trigger the gun kicks hard back into me as if I was the one being shot. Without thinking I reload my heart racing. I focus back in on the scope search for the elk. My ears are ring now everything is loud the eerie darkness and silence are now forever broken. My once quiet father is now yelling calling out where I hit. I see the elk as I began to ready my aim I watch as the elk slows. Slowly it walks downhill like it's getting ready for an afternoon nap soon lays down for the last time.
I flip on the safety and shoulder the rifle. I pick up the brass the gun had spit out and walk towards the elk. As we approach I grow sad.
I reach out and put my hand on the elk and I give thanks. I thank the animal for its sacrifice. I thank the mountains for providing a habitat and food for this beautiful animal to grow and live. Above all I turn my eyes to the heavens and nod. I thank the natives sprites that I believe protect the land. I thank my grandfather who could not join me on my hunt for guiding me and protecting me. I then place my hand on my father's shoulder as he pulls out his knife. Without saying I word I thank him for bringing my and passing down the sacred tradition to me.
His only daughter.
