You're a poet...and you know it!
3 posts • Page 1 of 1
There is no feeling deeper than the exhilaration of the hunt,
quite akin (to take a potshot at metaphor) to foreplay.
Actually, it is that.
The sensation of game nearby,
allowing instinct to "feel" the air, perhaps catching scent,
almost not seeing a movement so slight off to the side that it may have not even been there.
Seeing a track laid moments before.
A slight sound that you may not recognize at first.
An adrenalin rush--you begin to focus on only things that lead to what you think is there.
One of the great notions in literature comes from Norman Maclean,
who said he'd found he'd not see something unless he thought of it first.
Maybe you become like that after several decades outdoors.
Maybe if you grow up outdoors but were also taught to think you come to it early.
You're walking in the rain, head down, casting for sign--a track not yet washed out--close.
You come out of the old riverbed, walk east silent as Sioux, easy for even Wasichu in this wet.
You walk a few steps, stop, look over, around, under, through bush. You repeat. Several times.
You come to a downed cottonwood, three-&-one-half-foot diameter.
You sense something more than see it on the other side.
You know your senses don't lie.
You see an antler tine above a branch ten yards away.
You think your heart, lungs, gut, sphincter cannot stand the pressure.
This is one of life's pinnacles.
One more step, maybe two, will lead to a clear shot.
Movement is shrouded by downed-tree branches.
A three-point, big-bodied, casually steps up onto the bank--twenty yards broadside.
You touch off the -.06, the buck humps like he's been kicked in the gut by a big horse, breaks into a run.
You touch off a second round. One would have been enough. You're still young enough to not know for sure.
The drop from the pinnacle begins,
a slide onto a combo-platter of emptying and filling,
a feeling Hemingway said is like "after you have made love to someone you love."
He was talking about having finished a satisfactory morning of writing. It is a sadness.
Something has happened that can never happen again.
It is wonderful, bewildering, much more than merely putting meat on the table.
It is something anyone not acquainted with it cannot understand, and won't.
Some who've been there won't get it, either.
by Larry Holland
Being beneath the bottom line