Hunting the Most Dangerous Game

After the rain. The storm that raged through the night. Drenching the forest. The unseasonably warm winter weather had pulled in a monsoon. Rendered a natural symphony thanks to my meticulous preparation. Bone dry inside my sleeping bag hidden behind my earthy brown tarp. Itself veiled by a facade of fallen trees. Strategically placed to appear as if they just happened to slide there from the ridge above. I spent the night listening to the wind howling through the mostly bare trees. The increasingly rising creek running rampant alongside my dirt alcove. I had no idea that a performance of John Cage’s 4’33” could be so loud. It all had a calming effect on me. A much needed one as I attempted to quell the burning excitement within me and rest up for the morning’s festivities. I was well prepared. Probably to the point of overkill. But that’s par for the course with me. I had planned on this storm. Counted on it. And I got it.

The rain has left the leaves covering the forest floor soft. Therefore silent. Increasing my stealthiness on my journey through the trees. The morning is as indecisive as a woman. Not knowing if it wants to be sunny or cloudy. Warm or cool. No matter. I keep to the trees along the ridge above the creek. An ATV trail on the other side. One that is rarely used by anyone on wheels or feet given all the overgrowth. But I’m not taking any chances I don’t need to take. Dressed in seasonal camouflage attire. My face painted brown and black. The lack of foliage giving me increased visibility through the dense forest. In turn making it easier for anyone else to spot me. Not that I’m worried thanks to my caution. I’ve spent oodles of time in these woods and the reckless fashion by which others – including those up to criminal activities – stomp through here never ceases to amaze me.

I have high hopes for my prey this morning, however. The whitetail deer are out and about after bedding down through the night as I did. I hear them faintly. Scrounging the bits of green vegetation thriving in winter and washing it down with a plentiful supply of rainwater. There’s a section of deer trail, a drainage cutting through the most dense part of the forest, that’s always filled with water regardless of how dry the weather is. And that’s where the poacher will be. In his deer blind. Compound bow in hand. I know he’s on his way because a little bird told me. Or, more specifically, a crow informing his cohorts of a human intruder in the distance. In the vicinity of where he’ll enter the woods. I’m circling from the opposite direction to meet him. To approach his blind from behind. I don’t care that he’s poaching. Rather, I want to hunt a more dangerous game. The most dangerous of all. I remember how anticlimactic the experience of shooting my first deer was. 45 minutes into opening morning with a single shot at age thirteen. It was almost too easy. Devoid of any thrill to quell the anxiety of my boredom.

The thrill consuming me right now continues to build. Generating an excitement that increases my stealthiness and heightens my senses. I dart across the ATV trail to the start of the deer trail that will lead me to my prey. It’s wide here. Dotted with trees that prevent ATVs from taking it. Cut deep enough into the earth that the ground on either side acts as a ridge. Each lined with trees. I’ve walked this trail many times and have never seen evidence of anyone else doing the same. I liken it to the meat grinder in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker. But I nevertheless stroll easy here, so to speak. Nothing but bare trees in all directions. The damp leaves barely making a sound as they’re crumpled under my boots. Moving closer to my destination. The crows let me know that my prey is moving closer too. They haven’t said a peep about me. Perhaps I’m moving too quietly even for them. Like a ghost. The forest is extra spooky this morning. Eerily quiet save for the occasional bird chatter. The only force to be feared here is me.

I don’t need the increased visibility of bare trees to spot that tent in the distance. A massive dome of royal blue. It may as well be a flashing neon sign. I’m well aware of transients staying in these woods and have come across numerous camp sights over the years on my covert hikes. But this is fucking ridiculous. I crouch and scurry over the opposite ridge. Dropping into another deer trail. This one deep with rainwater draining into the creek. Careful not to splash. Much less fall. Grabbing one tree after another as I traverse this murky flow. My waterproof boots offering me some protection against potential hypothermia. Always prepared, like I said. I can still see the tent. Outglowing even the morning sun when it pokes through the clouds. The sounds of careless humanity growing louder as I move closer.

“Dang it, Christina! You’ve been hot railing all morning! Pass it my way!”

“You shut your mouth! And what did you do with my rose?”

“Like I give a dang about some plastic rose!”

My fighter pilot eyesight tells me everything I need to know without the inane banter. Late teens. Early twenties. He’s tall and scrawny. She’s short and fat. Neither her face nor hair has been washed in some time. The hallmarks of a female junkie. Sucking on that glass convenience store cock as he paces back and forth. Loudly snapping every twig under his feet. Jonesing for his turn to pleasure that methamphetamine daddy. Both out of their league when it comes to wilderness survival. Oblivious to the fact that a killer is watching them. No, I won’t be hunting them. There would be no sport in it. Other than possibly having to chase crank addicts through the woods. But they make so much damn noise that they’d never hear me coming. Fuck that.

“I love you, you son of a bitch!”

The good news is that, loud as these two meth heads are, they’re too far away to spook my prey. Still, I can’t get away from them fast enough. Crouching below the ridge. Slogging through the water. Stepping over logs. Watching out for sinkholes. The tree branches forming a canopy over me. The sky grows dark. I make my way down the remainder of this narrow swamp. Grateful that the cottonmouths are hibernating. The trail grows wider. Making the water shallow. I’m now far away enough from the forest junkie den to stand tall and take legitimate strides. Turning right onto an intersecting deer trail that will take me back to the one on which my poacher lies in wait. The crows let me know he’s there. This short connection is the final stroll through the woods towards my destination. Walking tall. Physically and mentally. I can still see the meth tent in the distance. Shining through the dense forest in all its Dodger blue glory. For fuck’s sake. It’s like they want to get busted. I think the majority of people would gladly trade the unpredictable danger of freedom for the structured danger of incarceration.

Crouching down once again as I cross the ridge. Dropping back into the meat grinder. Narrower and more full of trees than it was further back. Muddy too. The fresh deer tracks are impossible to miss. As are the fresh bobcat tracks in hot pursuit. Soon obscured by water. Rising quickly as I forge ahead. Slowly. Silently. Ducking branches with every step. Sometimes moving one away only to be smacked in the face with another. My sunglasses a lifesaver right now. And necessary with the sun once again breaking through the clouds. Careful not to fall into the water. Keeping my sidearm dry should I need it. I hope not. That would be too fucking easy. Filling his torso with a magazine’s worth of lead. Where’s the sport in that? Nope. I’ll be sneaking up on him. Quickly and quietly. Once he sees me, he’ll have just enough time to accept that his life is over. Before I slice him open with ten inches of hand-forged, razor-sharp steel. I’ll have him gutted and field dressed before he hits the ground and bleeds out.

This visualization of successfully hunting the hunter plays on repeat down the home stretch. As I crawl out of the water-filled deer trail and into the trees. Making my approach to his deer blind from behind. While he watches the trail. Oblivious to the killer approaching his safe space. The fox outfoxed. Crouched low. Moving from tree to tree. Getting closer by the second. Knife in hand. It’s heavy yet feels light as a feather. The combination of precision balance and adrenaline rush. The thrill of the hunt. It’s the most dangerous game I’ve ever played. And I’ve never felt so relaxed. The sun’s rays piercing through the dense canopy of bare branches. Drops of gold raining upon me. I’m dressed like the earth. Moving with it. Every sense on high alert. Constantly scanning the forest for any movement. Any unexpected sign of life despite my meticulous preparations. But there’s nothing out here except for me and my prey now only yards away. Standing on the threshold of the most daunting objective I’ve ever pursued. I’ve never been more up to any challenge than I am to this one. It can’t come soon enough.

And there it is. The camouflage dome amongst the trees. Its coloring so on point that only the shape gives it away. I crouch behind the thickest tree nearest me. Peering around it ever so slightly. Only twenty feet away from my prey. Hidden in his nylon disguise. Or so he thinks. My knife in hand. A white knuckle grip. I look for a suitable object to throw at this side of the blind. After which I’ll circle around as he comes out to investigate. Affording me precious seconds to evaluate the situation and proceed to my advantage. One hunter outhunting another.

A small two-point buck races up the deer trail which is now to my left.

“God damn it!”

I hold my breath and seemingly my heartbeat. Watching my prey emerge from his sanctuary. Or, more accurately, fall over himself stumbling out of it. Leaving it lopsided as he stomps around. Cursing himself at the top of his lungs. Slamming his compound bow to the ground. Stomping around and kicking everything in sight. Wracked with a severe case of buck fever. This rotund oaf with his disheveled hair and beard in his cargo shorts and Bass Pro Shop t-shirt covered in food stains. What a fat fucking pig. My excitement turns to rage as I take stock of my prey. The object of my sporting desire. Whom I’d built up in my mind as a worthy adversary. Fuck me. I would’ve been better off hunting the meth heads instead. Although he has surely spooked them off with this pathetic rampage. I remain motionless while he pulls out his phone and dials.

“Fuck, bro! You should’ve seen the absolute fucking trophy I had in my sights! An eight-pointer! So fucking massive you’d mistake it for an elk! Fuck yeah! But this fucking bow’s a piece of shit!”

Of course he’s a lying sack of shit. I would expect nothing less at this point. He gets off the phone and resumes his hissy fit. Oblivious to the killer who has him in his sights right fucking now.

“Fucking piece of shit PSE! Sixty fuckin’ pound draw my ass!”

He continues stomping around. Kicking over the remaining standing portion of his deer blind. Reaching into that deflated pile of Realtree. Retrieving cans of Natural Light and bottles of Kool-Aid Bursts. Some full. Some empty. Heaving them in all directions. I remain motionless as a crushed can smacks my hiding tree. I’m still peering around the side. He looks straight in my direction but doesn’t see me. This irks me. Despite how well camouflaged and hidden I am, how did he miss me? Aside from his bow, he doesn’t appear to be armed. Not even a pocketknife on his belt. I throw caution to the wind and stand up in the open. He throws an unopened blue Kool-Aid Bursts right at me. Looking right at me. I lean slightly to my right to avoid being hit. And he still doesn’t fucking see me. It’s the final straw. He turns his back to me while I walk towards him. Making no effort to be stealthy.

“Hey, fat boy.”

He spins around and finally notices me. Motionless and mouth agape at my presence. I kick him in the balls. Watching him drop to his knees. Gasping for air. Tears streaming down his face. Both hands protecting his crotch from further assault. My knife still in my right hand. I grab his dirty hair with my left hand. Yanking his head back. Glaring into his eyes.

“This is for ruining my hunt.”

I slide all ten inches of my blade into the left side of his bloated neck. The handguard protecting me as I strike vertebrae. The sheer disgust in my eyes penetrates his soul, as it were. I could try explaining it to him. But that would be an exercise in futility. One is enough for this morning. He’s already dead. Yet I twist the blade ninety degrees for good measure. Blood gushes from his gaping wound. Eyes rolling back in his head. His entire pathetic existence fades to black. I remove my knife and slam his corpse forward. Smashing his stupid face onto wet leaves. I snap a pointed branch off a nearby tree and insert it into his wound. It’s a stretch on my part. But I’m not counting on anyone else to have their shit together. Then again, it’s not like this loser’s death is worth an in-depth investigation. Regardless, it’s time for me to exit these woods. Never to return. And thoroughly unsatisfied.

Sigh…