Top of Blacktail Mountain, Photo by Pamela Breedlove House

This is a recent photo taken at the top of Blacktail Mountain.  You can see the heavy cloud cover, an inversion, which will sometimes  blanket the whole valley for days, weeks even, like it did here.    It was good to be at the top of the mountain where the sun was shining and everything was white and pristine.

The  friend that took the photo, Pam House, came to visit with her sister Debbie and we had a great time playing in the snow and getting above the inversion, which we did the next day at Big Mountain, a ski resort a few miles north of Blacktail.

I still haven’t finished the hunting story, the ending needs to be tweaked.

Long live the grizzly bear.

Last night’s sunset.

I’m putting the fnal touches on the hunting story and my goal is to have it finished by the end of the week.  In the meantime, I thought I would post this picture; I know it looks dark, but it was getting dark and that’s just what it looked like so I decided not to alter it any.

I love it when the mountains go all pink like that.

Twenty minutes later I went back out, my hair dry, my nerves steadying despite no reason to, a willingness settling over me.  I repositioned on the patio using the picnic bench and sat with the gun pointed up the mountain.  Brent said he thought the buck had moved and it did appear that he was in a different position, but the shot was still not sure.  His head was completely behind a tree, the antlers coming out from each side in perfect unison.  Later, I moved over to my left and realized he had moved!  Both Brent and I were there with our sights on him the whole time and neither one of us actually saw him move. I was now offered a side view of his neck and I knew then that I would attempt the kill.  I was warm now and though I should be shaking from all that booze from the day before, a calmness descended and my hands were steady.  I breathed deep and squeezed the trigger.  Smoke from the gun went straight up my nostrils, and burned.

We hiked up the steep slope, a gentle rain falling through the thick woods.  Twigs and limbs pulled at my feet and  my knee ligament tightened, reminding me that it still wasn’t healed, that these things take time.  “You gotta be careful coming up on him.  He could kick you right in the head and you would be one hurtin’ critter.  You just gotta really be careful.”  I was heeding the warning, staying just behind Brent as he approached the fallen animal.  The deer’s back was to me, his head uphill and out of sight until I drew closer.  The blood was red at the back of his neck and I knew when I saw it, there would be no more movement.  We walked to the other side of him and Brent raised his head.  The jugular I had been aiming for sprouted a fountain of the most brilliant red, rich against the moss and wet pine needles.  I stood there with my mouth open, momentarily unable to move or even think.  My shot was sure.  He had not lived long.  Thank you.  Brent immediately began the gutting process, having mercifully delivered me from this task, but not willing to let me leave the vicinity.  I thought I would be disgusted by this part of hunting, but I was only fascinated.  Brent sunk his forearms into the deer and pulled out the liver.  It was healthy, strong, a good filter for the blood, eliminating toxins and chemicals and keeping the entire organism healthy.  The heart was larger than I thought it would be and, it, too, looked healthy and strong.

“I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please.”  The flight attendant didn’t bat an eye that morning. Apparently lots of people use flying as an excuse to have an early nip.  I had decided that I would drink my way from Georgia to Montana and that it would be my last day of drinking.  And so I did.  I drank my way through three airports and 12 hours of take-offs, landings, friendly seat-mates and stale peanuts.  I had a  good time.  The next morning I told Brent of my decision to stop drinking, trying desperately to feel committed to it, but with many such self-promises behind me, it seemed unlikely this one would stick any better than the others.  It was about that time when Brent yelled, “There he is, baby!  There goes that big ‘ole buck!  Get your gun!”  The 6-millimeter Remington seemed custom-made for me and when I practiced with it on the trip, my aim was dead-on.  My dad bought the Remington on the off-chance that one of his three daughters might want to hunt with it.  I don’t think it got much use after my grandmother shot her deer with it - over thirty years ago.  He’d let me bring it from Georgia and was flying out the following week to go hunting with me and Brent. I grabbed the gun and we went back out.  Brent set me up in the second-story window of the other house he’s building, the one nestled right up against the armpit of the mountain and I waited for 45 minutes or so, growing cold and stiff in the morning air.  I had not seen the deer, but Brent was convinced he was still up there, still sniffing the does in the front yard of the smaller house, resting from a  night of chasing them through woods damp with rain that should already be snow but wasn’t.  I grew weary and hungry and walked the short distance back to the smaller house and the warmth of the fire and more watery coffee, Brent fussing at me the whole time.

Brent was back only a few minutes and I had just barely gotten warm when he saw him again out the back window.  Brent’s house sits right up against the mountain - “out the back window” is wilderness.  I wanted to wait, to come back that weekend with steadier hands and nerves, more prepared in body and spirit to even attempt such a thing.  My reluctance was growing by the minute and I heard it:  my voice began to take on that whining tone.  “I just really don’t want to do this, Brent.  Can’t I wait?” 

 “Angela, he said, that’s not how it’s done.  It just don’t work like that  He won’t be here Sunday.”  So out we went, this time picking a spot on the patio.  I made a makeshift prop of out of a picnic bench to rest the gun barrel on.  It was still cold so Brent pulled an electric heater outside and put it at my back.  I was better dressed than earlier, but it was rainy and cold and pretty soon I was shivering.  I have to admit, though, that hunting couldn’t get much more comfortable than this! After a few minutes, we spotted him, bedded down on the side of the mountain, little more than a hundred yards from where I sat.  I sighted him, but his position would make this shot have to be perfect.  Because he was lying down, the large area of heart and lungs were unavailable, a neck shot was the only one and the distance was long.  For an hour, I sighted him, got the crosshairs on that tiny point below his chin, but never gained the confidence to take the shot.  I did not want to injure this animal and have him running further up the mountain to die a slow and painful death before I could get to him, or worse, never finding him.  Man!  Was I ever feeling tired!  My hair was wet and my teeth were chattering and Brent reluctantly let me go back to the smaller house to warm up – again.

I was a most reluctant hunter, never having shot a rifle until three months’ earlier.  “We’re not leaving these woods until you shoot that gun.”   I mentioned passion; did I mention stubbornness?  I would’ve gotten around firing the rifle that day with anyone but Brent and when he retrieved the target, we were both a little shocked.  I was a damn good shot.  A year earlier, a friend of a friend had shot a deer and wasn’t going to make use of the meat.  It was offered to me on the condition that I help with the processing which my friends did at their home.  This was the deal:  “Help process, get meat.”  I had barely gotten through that experience without fainting -   what made me think I could actually kill a deer?   I agreed to the deal, having no idea that within a couple of months I would undergo major surgery and lose my job only days later. Unable to draw unemployment, I was without income for several months.  That venison went a long way in keeping me fed that winter, and not just literally, it kept me fed spiritually.  Thus I became willing to consider the notion that I might shoot my own deer for the next lean year.  I certainly had no trouble consuming the animal, maybe I should be willing to do the killing.  I started to feel compelled by something outside myself, or maybe it was some latent primal instinct that the venison had awakened within me.  Whatever it was, I didn’t understand it, didn’t really even want to honor it.  Still, I found myself following the call, being pulled into the mystery despite my reluctance and all the rational thinking I could throw its way.

This is a piece I’m working on about my hunting experience.  I’m not quite done with it, but I decided to post it here as a short series. 

The blast of the rifle’s report shook me to the core, ripping through my body like a bolt of lightning, ingniting every nerve and every cell.  “Oh, shit!  I forgot my ear protection!  Damned novice!”  The shock flew me to my feet, adrenaline pumping through veins filled with excitement and something similar to fear, but not fear.  The veteran to my left, a man I’ve known for about a year, shouted, “Get that gun back on your shoulder!  Get ready to shoot again!  He might not be dead!”  To say that Brent can be excitable is something of an understatement – his passion often precedes him, but I was pretty sure – that buck was dead.  Anyway, I was already on my feet and had lost all ability to take aim again quickly.  I was sure of the shot, although surprised beyond belief that I had actually taken it.  I regained my composure and my position and got my sites back on the 4-point white-tail I had been watching on and off for three hours.  I saw his legs twitching, black hoofs pawing at the air.  Please die, I willed him.  Do not suffer.  The air was wet and heavy in early November, no snow yet on the ground, the grey days of winter getting an early start.  Wthin seconds no movement remained; the deer didn’t move, Brent didn’t move and I didn’t move.  The only sound was my own breathing, the tears streaming down my face as silent as the now slain animal.  All the animals in the woods surrounding Brent’s property on Blacktail Mountain had gone silent.  As the tears continued to flow, they smelled of salt, of longing and loss all the doubt I’d been carrying around for years.  And something else – something strange and wonderful and barely remembered – they smelled of strength.

There’s still no snow in the valleys and the weather has been unusually warm for this time of year.  Dad came out to visit and he, Brent and I hunted for a couple of days.  Mostly what we did was soak up the good forest energy and enjoy hanging out together.  I feel like I’ve hardly taken a breath since returning from Georgia, but things will be slowing down soon and I intend to spend more time at the computer, being inspired by your blogs and attempting to put my own experiences into words that make sense.

The past two weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster, but one I wouldn’t trade for anything.  The dips, turns, flips and flops seemed strangely orchestrated by a universe insistent on change – a universe that actually wanted me, personally, to change, now.  Synchronicities abound and possibilities don’t seem endless, they seem doable.  A few of them seem actually doable.

Killing that deer seemed to open up a window of opportunity that was there all along, but the glass was dirty and it was hard to see. It’s hard to say how profoundly it has affected me.   I’m working on it, though.  I’m working on how to say it.  If I had to sum up the whole thing so far in a couple of words, they would be:  spiritual turning.

I returned from Georgia on Monday evening and here is what I did Tuesday morning.  I think I may be the most reluctant hunter on the planet, but it was a thrilling, emotional and very spiritual experience for me.  This deer will see me through the next year, providing sustenance not just on my plate, but in my soul.  I had been preparing for this, but I don’t think I was actually sure I would go through with it until I did.  This buck presented himself in such a way that it would have been a sin for me to not take the shot.  I charged the antlers under the full moon last night, offering matter back to spirit with a sincere prayer of thankfulness for her abundance.

Brent was a big hit in Georgia and I’m beginning to think I may be walking beside this cowboy for a long time to come.  Here’s a picture of he and my dad in Georgia, my two hunting teachers, my lover and my father, friends.

I’m pretty sure the next time I see this view, it will have snowed and I will have missed that initiatory white blanket for the first time in 6 years.  But that’s ok, I haven’t seen Georgia at this time of year in that long and it will be nice.  The cowboy and I leave before dawn tomorrow and arrive in the late afternoon.  It’s a long travel day, but I’m staying until the 10th so I’ll have a full seven days to visit family and friends.  Brent (yep, that’s his name) will return on the 4th so as not to cramp my style so very much.   But I’m glad he’s going and I think I’ll drive him to the North Georgia “mountains” and hit a couple of cool spots in the city as well.  Hmmmm, apple cider and boiled peanuts – that’s the traditional North Georgia mountain fare and I’m telling you IT IS GOOD!

I have something to look forward to upon my return.  There’s a kitten that’s got my name on her and she’ll be moving in when I get back.  The little critter is partially blind and I’m a sucker for the ones that no on else might want.  I think we’re made for each other.\

I realize I am not writing much here and I’d like to tell you the reasons.  First, my computer is on its last legs and is running very slowly so it’s a little frustrating to actually sit down and get a post done.  Second, I haven’t fully gotten with this wordpress format.  I still haven’t figured out how to do some things that were very easy to figure out at blogspot and I’m not entirely happy with the way it looks and can’t get it how I want it!  But now that I’ve started it, I guess I’ll just stick with it until I do figure it out, or they make some improvements.

See how that works?  Sometimes I have to actually write things out to sort out how I really feel about it and what I’m going to do.  That’s what is great about writing to me and as a reader, I appreciate the opportunity to witness others do it as well.  It doesn’t really matter if it’s memoir, fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry or a news article.  Someone works something out in their head in the writing of it and hopefully their readers do as well.

Well, gee, I seem to be rambling.  Below is a photo I took in Missoula last weekend in the backyard of a friend’s family home.  Isn’t it gorgeous?