The old burned trees creaked in that annoying high pitch again as the cold, warmth stealing wind, clawed at my camo’ed form. That wind and the lack of prey had been the only constants with me on the cold four hour watch I called a pig hunt. I will say one thing, learning to duck hunt in a Klamath Falls winter taught me how to dress for the cold. Still no matter how much one puts on, eventually the cold always seems to seep in when one is just sitting very very still. Dark had been the final curtain call on this hunt and I stood and pulled on my daypack and picked up my bow. I flexed my cold fingers as I started the long up hill walk back to the old ’95 Jeep Cherokee that I love. I have never loved a vehicle before, but this one I do. I know some day she’ll be too worn out and I’ll have to replace her, but I won’t like it. It’s dirty…inside and out. I haven’t washed it in a very long time, and it still has the markings of when I used it like a bulldozer on some blackberry bushes. I can still hear the laughter of my four-year-old daughter as we ran through them… then back… then forward… then back. It’s dirty, and old, it doesn’t even have a cd player, but the 6x tires are new and the engine still runs tight. The cold in my fingers tells me that I need to work on finding warmer gloves of some sort, a glaring chink in my “cold” armor. I get back to my jeep and put my gear in, eager to get going with the heat on. I take one last look at the hunting area and wished the Peregrine I share it with a warm night and fond farewell with a sense of brotherhood that only predators share. The drive home always seems to go faster then the drive out. I always wonder at that. Soon I am pulling up to the drive of my little house. Well it’s not mine in the traditional sense, I rent it, but I am coming to love the little old house. I am sure one day I’ll have to move away, but I won’t like it. I am told it was built in the 1940’s. It has a lot of character and beautiful wood floors. In its current incarnation it’s white with black trim and proudly displaying the house numbers in bright red. I stop at the gate that leads to the back of the house, where we park in the carport. I open the door and stiffly get out. Despite the warmth of the car heater I can tell the cold wind seeped into my bones. It’s a small price to pay for some hunting time. As the door comes full open I am hit with the smell of burning wood and I smile already feeling warmer knowing my love has a fire going. I can’t help but feel that she did that just for me. She’s that kind of woman. I pull the Jeep into its spot; grab a handful of gear and clothes, and head for the glowing windows of the little French doors. I open the doors and walk in, my love waiting there. For a moment I can’t decide which is warmer, her smile or the blazing fire.
Topic: Coming home, a short hunting story (Read 466 times)
