Guy Miner
Master Loader
- Apr 6, 2006
- 17,836
- 6,309
I want another incredible hunt.
I want to ride the high country, please on a horse that won't kill man more used to walking... I want to see the countless stars overhead. I want to worry that a grizz might stray into camp - to show us who really is boss up in the high country. I want to struggle up a steep ridge. I want to gasp for breath at high altitude. I want to hear the wolf howl. To fish a stream in which few have wet a line. To stalk a stand of silent timber that hasn't seen a man in a year, or ten, or a hundred. To rise in the cold darkness, pulling myself out of the bag and dressing in the half light of a still glowing camp stove. To stalk silently along a trail leading higher still in the pre-dawn darkness. To thrill to the shrill challenging scream of a rutting bull.
To issue my own false challenge - hoping to fool him - at least for a bit.
I hope to settle my crosshairs on his chest, pausing to breathe the thin, icy air, remembering to gently stroke the trigger, while the rifle is snugged to my shoulder...
I want to exalt in the thrill of seeing him collapse at the shot. To feel sorrow for taking his noble, wild life. To feel the gravity of extinguishing such a mighty creature.
I want to strain under the load, carrying out quarters. Placing each foot with care.
I want to hunt.
I want to ride the high country, please on a horse that won't kill man more used to walking... I want to see the countless stars overhead. I want to worry that a grizz might stray into camp - to show us who really is boss up in the high country. I want to struggle up a steep ridge. I want to gasp for breath at high altitude. I want to hear the wolf howl. To fish a stream in which few have wet a line. To stalk a stand of silent timber that hasn't seen a man in a year, or ten, or a hundred. To rise in the cold darkness, pulling myself out of the bag and dressing in the half light of a still glowing camp stove. To stalk silently along a trail leading higher still in the pre-dawn darkness. To thrill to the shrill challenging scream of a rutting bull.
To issue my own false challenge - hoping to fool him - at least for a bit.
I hope to settle my crosshairs on his chest, pausing to breathe the thin, icy air, remembering to gently stroke the trigger, while the rifle is snugged to my shoulder...
I want to exalt in the thrill of seeing him collapse at the shot. To feel sorrow for taking his noble, wild life. To feel the gravity of extinguishing such a mighty creature.
I want to strain under the load, carrying out quarters. Placing each foot with care.
I want to hunt.