Chap Stick.
Nothing was awake. The air was
crisp like a winter night, the birds weren’t chirping, the fog was near the
water, and when we got on the four-wheeler our breath was crystal smoke. It was
a good morning. Until, I was putting on my chap stick on and it fell out of my
finger tips from a bump on the road. It was no longer chap stick. My husband
offered over-and-over to go back and get it. I was so in tune to just get a
buck.
We hiked 3 miles in a basin where the skies were blue as a young boy’s room wall. It was like touching the clouds. My lungs felt heavy as we climbed further. We stopped to glass and there were 5 bucks chowing down on their usual. I had no fear of heights then. I stepped each foot grasping the mountain grass. Hoping I would get a shot at a once in a lifetime first deer. We sat down near willows about 180 yards from them. My husband insisted we ate breakfast.
With our backs to each other- one facing towards the bucks, another facing a different basin. I spotted a bear. A bear that was fierce like a grizzly. His claws gripped the mountain walking down a steep hill. Pausing, he watched us, watch something we intended for. He had no intentions but to do his morning routine.
The deer were eating until 11 in the morning. Knowing typical schedules, they should have laid down by now. I chose to pick our packs up and leave. When we came to our wheeler, we rode back down the mountain. My husband noticed my chap stick (before I did) and made a quick turn-around. It was untouched! The road we travel on isn’t less traveled. To have something so small left alone…
Until, the following morning. We set off again. With my untouched chap stick in my orange pocket. Forgetting I put it there the night before. We hike a different spot, one we never have in the 3 days of hunting. I spot one. A buck. It was mine. My husband had no memory of seeing him. He was between the evergreens. Just patiently enjoying his morning. The wind was right, he was young (and dumb as I say), and he quickly stood up after we stared at him for 5 minutes.
I kneeled down to get my set up. It wasn’t right. Something told me to not use the shooting stick. I saw him in my sights, my husband got his attention by yelling like a sick cow on its death bed, then bam. Took the shot. I followed through, and remember a jolt in the deer’s body. Then smoke covered my sights. He fell down the tall mountain about 30 feet, leaving us to follow his blood trail. My lips were chapped. I realized I needed that untouched chap stick. We found him. As ethical it could get. Double lung, through the heart shot. My first big game, high country, muzzleloader, buck…
We hiked 3 miles in a basin where the skies were blue as a young boy’s room wall. It was like touching the clouds. My lungs felt heavy as we climbed further. We stopped to glass and there were 5 bucks chowing down on their usual. I had no fear of heights then. I stepped each foot grasping the mountain grass. Hoping I would get a shot at a once in a lifetime first deer. We sat down near willows about 180 yards from them. My husband insisted we ate breakfast.
With our backs to each other- one facing towards the bucks, another facing a different basin. I spotted a bear. A bear that was fierce like a grizzly. His claws gripped the mountain walking down a steep hill. Pausing, he watched us, watch something we intended for. He had no intentions but to do his morning routine.
The deer were eating until 11 in the morning. Knowing typical schedules, they should have laid down by now. I chose to pick our packs up and leave. When we came to our wheeler, we rode back down the mountain. My husband noticed my chap stick (before I did) and made a quick turn-around. It was untouched! The road we travel on isn’t less traveled. To have something so small left alone…
Until, the following morning. We set off again. With my untouched chap stick in my orange pocket. Forgetting I put it there the night before. We hike a different spot, one we never have in the 3 days of hunting. I spot one. A buck. It was mine. My husband had no memory of seeing him. He was between the evergreens. Just patiently enjoying his morning. The wind was right, he was young (and dumb as I say), and he quickly stood up after we stared at him for 5 minutes.
I kneeled down to get my set up. It wasn’t right. Something told me to not use the shooting stick. I saw him in my sights, my husband got his attention by yelling like a sick cow on its death bed, then bam. Took the shot. I followed through, and remember a jolt in the deer’s body. Then smoke covered my sights. He fell down the tall mountain about 30 feet, leaving us to follow his blood trail. My lips were chapped. I realized I needed that untouched chap stick. We found him. As ethical it could get. Double lung, through the heart shot. My first big game, high country, muzzleloader, buck…
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