Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  The bull prepares to take another slow step, and I know this is my chance. I draw back and center my sights, curling the tip of my index finger around the release so that when it’s time, only a small squeeze will set it off. All I need now is for the bull to take that final step.

  But suddenly, his head lifts. His ears prick up as his nostrils begin to flare.

  And then I feel it. A tiny breeze working in from behind me, skating past my ear, and downwind from there. Straight into the snout of the seven-hundred-pound beast with the epic olfactory senses, who immediately takes two steps backward. His head swivels from side to side, seeking out what he scents as unfamiliar, predatory, and out of place.

  When he pauses and fixes his gaze in my direction, I see the glossy shine of his coal-colored eyes, and it feels like he’s staring directly at me, but I can’t say that’s the truth. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Because he’s already gone, disappearing back the way he came, bumped into action by one squirrelly moment of shifting wind.

  I let down my bow and sink back onto my heels, all my earlier adrenaline waning into something sticky and suffocating. Something that goes beyond frustration. Beyond disappointment. Beyond defeat.

  Failure.

  By the time I make it back to my camp, it’s dark. The moon is only a sliver in the sky, but the stars cut a bright swath above. With darkness came the cold and now the sweat on my skin feels like shaved ice melting under my clothes.

  As soon as my headlamp illuminates camp just ahead of me, I quicken my steps and immediately off-load my pack inside the tent. I know I should take a few minutes to make a short video diary entry about the failed stalk from this afternoon, so the experience of it all remains fresh, but it’s too fresh, and I don’t have it in me to hear my own voice as I retell it for an audience.

  Headlamp still on, I zip up the tent and trudge the seventy yards to get to the tree where I’ve slung a rope over a high limb and tied a bear-proof bag to it. While this isn’t major bear country, it’s always better to take a few precautions when it comes to keeping Yogi and Boo Boo out of your camp. Untying the end of the rope from the trunk, I give it some slack so the bag slips down from where it was hanging about twenty feet in the air.

  Once it’s down, I survey my choices for dinner: freeze-dried chili mac, freeze-dried beef stroganoff, freeze-dried lasagna, or freeze-dried beef stew. So many sodium-laced, gummy, depressing delicacies to choose from. Unfortunately, they all pretty much taste like the same bad lunch-line slop I remember from my elementary school days, so I grab the bag that’s on top and let fate decide for me.

  Stroganoff it is.

  The bear bag goes back up into the air and I head back to camp, knowing that I shouldn’t cook near or eat in my tent just in case a Yogi Bear does decide to wander by, but I’m willing to take the risk tonight. I set up my backpacking stove—essentially a miniature fuel canister set on a tiny tripod with a small cooking pot attached to the top—and, using what’s left in my water bottle, fill the pot and then light the burner.

  It takes only a few minutes for a pot of water to reach full boil, but when you’re beat down, hungry, and tired, time doesn’t pass the way it should. To keep from letting those too-long minutes eat away at what sanity I have left, I use the time to snap a picture so I can post an update on social media, using my headlamp to light a shot of just my boots and the camp stove on the ground.

  Dinner. After this, sleep. More miles to put on tomorrow.

  #hunting #longday #neverquit #coloradoelk #worththeclimb #grateful #stayingstrong

  Decent signal strength means I don’t have to go wandering around with my arm stretched above my head to post the pic, saving me from questioning whether I believe half of what I just hashtagged. After today, I can’t say if I have a clue what I’m doing out here. Maybe the skills I thought I had were nothing but a delusion created to convince myself I could do this.

  The water comes to a boil, so I shut off the burner and tear off the top of the freeze-dried meal’s pouch and prop it open on the ground to carefully pour the water in. With my dinner in hand, I head inside the tent and set the pouch off to one side so it can steep in the hot water as directed. Add water. Wait nine to ten minutes. Stir. Enjoy!

  Sure. Enjoy. That’s not a reach at all.

  Quickly, I take my boots, my coat, and my brush pants off, then crawl into my sleeping bag in my base layer gear and wool socks, sitting cross-legged so I can set my dinner in my lap. I take a deep breath and relish in the relief that a little warmth can bring about.

  But after only a moment, I realize that a strange hissing sound is competing with my deep breathing. I dart my gaze around the small tent. Not the hiss of an animal or a snake. Not the sound of my dinner “cooking.” And since the wind has already been sucked out of my emotional sails, I can’t blame this noise on that.

  I peer down at my lap, now noting how my body seems to be … sinking.

  Oh, come on. No. This can’t be happening. The universe cannot be this cruel; it isn’t possible.

  But it is, apparently. Because my sleeping pad—the one-inch cloud of comfort I dragged up here in my backpack, then spent a good fifteen minutes blowing up puff by puff when I set up camp, and is the only thing between me and the rock-hard ground when I sleep—apparently has a fucking hole in it.

  I’m sure there’s a rock somewhere that’s to blame, but who knows. All I know is that now, I have the distinct pleasure of feeling every rock beneath me as each one digs into my back tonight.

  Now, to those who’ve never slept in the backcountry, this might seem like a minor setback. Not worthy of the jaw-clenching, guttural groan I just let out or the dizzy sensation of uncontrollable anger that’s clouding my vision a little. But for those of us who have spent multiple nights afield, we understand that there are small luxuries you come to rely on when regular-world comforts are miles away—and without them, you can easily start to lose perspective on everything.

  If this weren’t a solo hunt, and if I weren’t slowly working over my very last nerve, this would be one of those moments that Teagan and Colin and I would laugh ourselves stupid over. Teagan would have heard the hissing first, widened her eyes, and waited until Colin heard it, too. Colin would make a predictably male joke about musical fruits or toxic gases, or something, until fatigue and stupidity would have us all in tears from laughing so hard.

  But without them the humor is hard to find. Suddenly, I feel impossibly, utterly, entirely alone. More than merely lonely. More than solitary. Alone.

  When the last of the air seeps out from my precious sleeping pad, all I want is someone here, with me, because I miss everyone in my life so deeply it feels like my heart is about to crack open. Trey and Jaxon, Teagan and Colin. My parents. My uncle Cal. I miss them all.

  And Braden? I miss him, too.

  Because Braden understands this life better than anyone. He would remind me that this isn’t bad luck, because luck is for suckers. Out here, hard work is all I have—and the only thing I can control.

  Wild, unruly frustration begins to rush though me, tension coiling in my chest so tightly that the tent becomes too small to breathe in. I haul myself out of my sleeping bag, yank on the tent zipper, and crawl out so I can stand under the near moonless sky. The cold beneath my feet feels damp, and even through my socks, that sensation roots my body to the dirt.

  I ball my hands into fists, tip my head back, and stare at the blanket of stars above me, my breath curling into the cold air as nothing but silence surrounds me.

  Alone means no one will hear me.

  One long breath in through my nose. I hold it, then close my eyes.

  Then I scream my weary little heart out.

  (Braden)

  “What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?”

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU, “WALKING”

  After almost two days on the road, last night I finally made it home, completely exhausted from the long drive. When I
walked inside, evidence of Amber having crashed here was scattered about, from her thank-you note on the kitchen table to the empty peach Snapple bottle she left sitting beside it, likely giggling to herself when she did. In my bedroom, I found one of my Tshirts neatly folded at the foot of my bed and—since I’ve apparently become a total fucking nut job—I actually sniffed it. Strawberries, of course.

  Once I skulked through the house like I was on an Amber-themed scavenger hunt, I dropped into bed and crashed for a good ten hours. All my restlessness, and the disquiet I couldn’t shake when I was in Oregon, feels long gone when I wake up. Maybe using the Amber-scented T-shirt she left on my bed as my own personal pillow sachet helped. If so, then Mr. Creeper, party of one? Your table is ready.

  It was too late to text her when I got in last night, but it’s all I can think about the moment my eyes open this morning. I drag my phone off the nightstand and shoot her a message.

  I’m back in town. Need help?

  Her reply takes a bit, but just as I start to drift off into another strawberry-induced slumber, my phone beeps.

  What? You’re back? You filled your tag already? You are SUCH a show-off. I want to punch you … or maybe do other things to you. I’m not sure. DO NOT GLOAT. I’m too tired to deal with that.

  A sleepy grin slinks across my face. Feisty and frustrated. A combustible combination that would make for a good time if she were in my bed instead of on a mountain. I tap out a reply.

  No gloating. Decided to come home early. Send me your coordinates. I’ll come help you.

  I start to worry when five minutes pass. Then ten minutes. Eventually, twenty minutes, then just as it nears thirty, she replies.

  I want your help … I do. And if you’d texted me yesterday, I would have taken you up on the offer. But I can’t. I have to finish this out on my own.

  A string of sad-faced, teardrop-soaked emojis follow the last sentence. Everything in my chest sinks and what feels like rejection stings. Deeply enough that the selfish jerk inside me wants to fire off a rant about my hunt, the one I sacrificed, all to come home to her. Followed by a guilt trip about the vacation days I save up every year for, which I’m now going to spend stuck in my house, crawling the walls.

  But I count to ten and take a deep breath, all to keep from doing anything stupid. Reason wins out when I finally start to type.

  If you change your mind, text me. I’ll keep my phone on. And keep me updated. I want to know you’re safe.

  Her reply?

  More fucking emojis.

  Well, there it is. A new low.

  Charley is pissed at me.

  Not that I can blame her, really. Too many days spent around the house, fussing like a cranky toddler while trying to keep busy but available just in case Amber reaches out, means I’ve become the worst version of my already-prickly self. Poor Charley normally acts as a salve to my disposition, but even her furry charms can’t salvage my current mood. She’s kept to her bed for most of the day while giving me some seriously ticked-off side-eyes. So much for unconditional love. New low. Seriously.

  Launching up from the chair, I toss the book I’m reading onto the side table and set off for the kitchen to check on the wild turkey carnitas I have braising in the oven.

  I spent all day yesterday trying to decide what to make for dinner today, because it’s the last day of season and Amber will be off the mountain no matter what. Based on the updates she’s sent me, she’s had a tough time finding elk, and when she finally did find a decent bull, a change in the wind blew her chances. But she’s determined to hunt straight through until the last minute, and short of a scenario in which she shoots an elk late in the day, she’ll still be here for dinner, and I want to be sure she has comfort food waiting for her. Something other than the freeze-dried meals she’s been subsiding on, because after a long hunt you’re too tired to cook but all you want is real food. Knowing that, I went into town earlier and picked up some corn tortillas, avocado, red onion, and sour cream at the store so we can use the tender shredded meat to make tacos, then grabbed a six-pack of a Mexican beer to go with it.

  After taking a look at the carnitas, I set the lid back on the cast-iron pot and shut the oven door, then grab a few dog biscuits from the pantry in hopes I can buy back Charley’s affection by plying her with snacks. The rattle of the box is enough to get her attention and she skitters into the kitchen, tail wagging and all her grievances long forgotten. If only biscuits worked this sort of magic with people.

  My phone beeps just as Charley nudges her snout to my hand and I slip her the biscuit while digging my phone out of my pocket with my free hand. I swipe open the text, knowing it’s Amber and hoping she has good news.

  Packing up camp and heading out. I had a good bull at 30 yards. I missed.

  “Shit,” I wince.

  That is not good news. She missed. At thirty yards.

  For an archery hunter, yardage is everything. Without the luxury of the firepower that comes with rifle hunting, hunting with a compound bow demands a closer range. Experienced hunters will sometimes take a shot on an elk at fifty yards if everything is perfect, but most of us feel far more comfortable at half that range. Thirty yards, though, is a sweet spot—close enough to help ensure shot consistency but far enough to stay undetected. You can’t ask for much more when it comes to the spot-and-stalk scenarios of elk hunting.

  That being said, we all miss. It doesn’t matter how much you practice, how much you commit, how well you normally shoot. We all miss. Sometimes we miss for reasons we can explain—poor form with your bow or shitty follow-through when you take your shot—but sometimes we miss even when everything seems to have gone the way it should. Those are the worst. You’ll replay the moment a million times over, trying to figure what went wrong and why, blaming the wind, your bad luck—or yourself. It will drive you out of your mind if you let it.

  Which is why I’m already in my truck, headed for the trailhead. I want to be there when Amber arrives, even if all I can offer as comfort is me.

  Amber emerges three hours later, burdened by her pack and what looks like the weight of the world given the sag of her shoulders. She sways a little as she takes the last few steps down trail, lurching to an unsteady stop when her feet meet the asphalt of the trailhead parking lot. When she sees me, I have to fight the urge to barrel over there, wrestle the pack from her body, and then carry her back to my truck.

  Once she gathers what may be the last lump of resolve she can muster, she strides my way, stopping ten feet away from me, all of her features rigid and tethered. The message is clear: now is not the time for coddling. I attempt to look casual, even when I’m anything but, leaning against the side of my truck with my forearm resting on the top of the bedside, hoping she doesn’t notice the way my hand is balled into a fist.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi,” Amber returns flatly.

  The game warden in me asks the one question I need to. “Was it a clean miss?”

  “Clean miss. It landed in the dirt about ten inches away from his front hooves. He probably thought it was a skinny tree limb that broke off in front of him.” She raises a weary fist pump. “Yay for that, I guess.”

  No response in the world would be right, so I keep my mouth shut. Amber’s arm wilts down and swings at her side.

  “I’ve had seven miles to think. I don’t want to think anymore, Braden. I want you to take me home, feed me, fuck me, put me in a warm bath, and make it all go away for a bit. Can you do that?”

  I lift a brow. “In that order? Because I’m thinking warm bath first, food second, and then the fucking. You’ve been without running water for days, and even if I can’t smell you from here, you have to reek. Probably best to address that first. But I am open to switching up the order of the food and fucking.”

  I’m rewarded with a tired smile. Amber’s shoulders sag again, but in relief this time.

  “I can’t tell you how much I love that you get it. All of this. You are the onl
y face I wanted to see right now. Because you get it.”

  I try to hide the way her words hit me square in the gut, how much I want to take all her troubles away. Instead, I approach her slowly, unbuckle the waist strap on her pack, loosen the shoulder straps, and gently work the pack from her shoulders. She lets me, without putting up a fight or a protest. I set her pack in the bed of my truck. Taking her face in my hands, I put a kiss to her forehead, and Amber slips her hands around my waist with a sigh.

  “Now let’s get you home and into that bath, mountain sprite. I was right. You reek.”

  “I liked your house before, but now? I love it. I love this couch, especially.” Amber uses one hand to tug up the wool blanket I draped over her earlier so it’s bunched up under her chin. “And this blanket is the best blanket ever made. I’m also a fan of this T-shirt of yours that I’m wearing. And this pillow. And these socks you lent me.”

  One of her feet sneaks out from under the blanket and she wiggles it onto my lap. She’s stretched out on her back, slumped against the arm while I sit in the center. I take her foot in my hands and rub gently, careful to keep my touch away from her ankle because I saw the blisters there when she stripped down to sink into the bath I drew for her.

  I chuckle. “What about the three beers you drank? Are you a fan of those?”

  “Yes,” she drawls. She’s not drunk, but she’s limbered up, for sure. A hot bath helped her onto that path, and the comfort food and the beer only hastened her travels. Before I can offer up one other surefire suggestion for further relaxation, Amber is casting off the blanket and slithering onto my lap. Guess my suggestion would have been beside the point. Amber draws her hands up over my chest, across my shoulders, and links them behind my neck.

  “Confession time,” she says. I widen my eyes a fraction. She leans in and mock-whispers. “I already wore this shirt. When I was here before.”

  She’s wearing the shirt I found folded up on my bed when I got home. It’s cute on her, but equally enormous, so she’s swimming in the fabric that hangs down nearly to her knees.