Dances with mule deer - field ethos
In the vast expanse of Oregon Elkhorn Mountains, I, a young native, not the one you heard of but a distant relative, set out to make my bones as a mule deer hunter. You see, in my culture, hunting isn’t just a sport; it’s a rite of passage, a dance with nature, and, at times, a terribly inconvenient way to get dinner. But traditions are tradition, so there I was.
The morning air was crisp, and the world seemed to be painted in hues of gold and amber. The mountains whispered tales of old, and if you listened closely, you could hear the coyote chuckling at man’s folly. I carried a hand-me-down Winchester Model 70 slung over my shoulder; that rifle had seen its share of blood, and I was determined to etch my mark in its wooden stock and claim the prize of manhood.
As I trudged on, I couldn’t help but think of all the great things the tribal elders would say to me when I delivered my kill. But something else snuck into my mind. The advice my Uncle Buster had given me the first time I got picked to drag the elk on a makeshift toboggan back to the truck. “Young Buck,” he said, puffing a pipe (Uncle Buster liked to party), “hunting is a lot like life: sometimes you’re the hunter, and sometimes you’re the deer. And other times, you’re the guy who gets to drag the sled.” Luckily, my legs were fresh, I was much older and had a backpack with game bags—but I was still dragging the sled. Hours seemed to merge into one another. The mule deer, with their large ears and keen senses, proved to be as elusive as the meaning of life in a Vonnegut novel.
