Culling

I knew it.

Felt it in my bones that mornin’. Joints creakin’ like loose floorboards. Took me damn near an hour to get up and outta bed. Put a pot of coffee on, hoping that’d put a pep in my step. Ain’t nothing you haven’t felt before, I tried tellin’ myself. Been getting’ old for a long time, hasn’t stopped you yet. Sipped my coffee and watched the sunrise. Never got tired of it, watchin’ that ball of fire peekin’ over the horizon. Coffee tasted like shit, as usual. Drink it black as night. That stuff could take the rust off a radiator. Still didn’t wake me up much. Sun sure did, though. Feelin’ that warm light on your face. Nothin’ better. That finally got me motivated. Started pulling gear outta the storage chest. That old, faded camo jacket hung on these skinny shoulders like a kid in his dad’s coat. Pants were stiff and putrid. Too many times pissin’ myself waiting on a buck and then forgetin’ to wash ‘em. Boots were a joy as always. A hole for each toe. Ventilated, I told myself, laughing till I coughed. My trusty rifle was waitin’ for me in the closet. Hardly never serviced the damn thing, but it still cocked and shot like a Swiss watch. Steppin’ out on my cabin porch, I sucked in a big ‘ol breath of cool mountain air. Closed my eyes and felt that sun for a bit longer. That’s when the feelin’ finally caught up to me. Felt it in my gut, strong as hunger or heartache. This is it, I thought, my final hunt.

Loaded up the ol’ Chevy and got ‘er running after it coughed ‘n sputtered a bit. Drivin’ down my windin’ driveway towards the county road, I wasn’t sure where I outta go. Typically I’d head out somewhere real far, maybe those hills past the farmland down south, or maybe to that government land out east. But this old man was feelin’ tired and lazy, which got me thinkin’, maybe it might be nice to end my huntin’ days where it all started. Just a short jaunt down the county road, there’s an access road that’ll lead ya up to some old loggin’ roads that criss-cross the mountain up above where I’ve got my cabin. Roads were just like I remembered them, rough as hell. The Chevy shook like a son-of-a-gun. Shocks were shot. Clutch threatenin’ to give out on me. But I stuck it out ‘cause I thought it’d sure be nice bein’ so close to home at the end of the day.

That was this old man’s first mistake.

Up in those woods, there’s a nice spot on this little ridge overlookin’ a wash. Nice line of site, out of the wind, plenty of brush cover. Wasn’t a far hike from the truck, but of course I was suckin’ wind, soundin’ like a clogged vacuum. Had to stop a few times to get my bearings, what with it bein’ grown-in and all, since last I’d been there. Them little pines they planted after cutting the old growth were now five stories high. Real pretty country up there now that it’s recoverin’. They don’t do like they did up there anymore, them clearcuts. They take trees here and there, keepin’ the forests healthy.

Finally got up to my spot and plopped my ass down in the dirt. My pants soaked from trudgin’ through all ‘em plants wet with morning dew. I settled my things and was lookin’ around. Couldn’t help but feel nostalgic.

Been almost 70 years since I got my first kill from that same spot. “Do we have to shoot ‘em?” I’d asked my pops. “They ain’t hurtin’ no one.” He set me straight. Told me how it was. Taught me how deer and people are alike. “Both got big appetites,” he’d said. “They’d eat up this whole forest if ya let ‘em, throw the whole balance of nature outta whack.” Culling. That’s what he called it. Said one of the best things we could do for ‘em is to remove a few of ‘em from the population. Maintain the balance. Those words made all the sense in the world to me.

A rustlin’ in the brush down in the wash shook me from my reminiscin’. I grabbed the rifle, breathin’ real slow to steady myself ‘cause my heart was a thumpin’. Almost forgot what it was like to get excited about somethin’. Outta the brush a couple squirrels shot out, chasin’ each other every which way. I cursed at em’ for gettin’ me all worked up. But they sure did give me a chuckle watching them zip around and squakin’ at each other.

I settled down and got back to daydreamin’. At some point I got to thinkin’ about my place in this world. Ain’t many hunters like me left, at least not in these parts. My pops used to tell stories about the old huntin’ parties. Told me we was carryin’ on a proud tradition in our family, stretching back generations. Since my brother passed, it’d just been me out on these hunts. Every now and then I’d come across a like-minded soul on them internets, but they’d be off in some country god knows where. Afraid I’m one of the last of a dyin’ breed.

Hadn’t seen anything since the squirrels. My back was achin’ so I laid down with my head on my pack. Watched a hawk circlin’ above. They keep them small critters in check, pickin’ off a few of ‘em every day. The warm afternoon sun on my face was makin’ me real sleepy, so I dosed off for a bit.

Late that afternoon is when they came. Of course, I can’t hear or see worth a damn anymore, so they was just about on me when I finally spotted ‘em. I moved slow, grippin’ my rifle and raisin’ the scope to get a better look at ‘em. Down in the wash, about 50 yards away, stood a buck and a doe. The buck was bigger than I’d seen in a long time. It’s neck thick like a tree truck, and real muscular body. It probably had the pick of the herd. Sure enough, the doe was a beauty. The hide was a nice tan color. Real slender but healthy shape.

I always liked gettin’ does more than bucks. Meat is better, more tender. And the heads look nicer on a mount. But I’d need to shoot the buck too. He’d be non-too pleased that I just shot his mate, and might get brave and charge at me. I steadied my rifle and aimed for the buck’s heart, just down and to the right of the shoulder. Quick, clean, no sufferin’. The buck turned and spotted me just as I squeezed the trigger. Bang! It stumbled back a bit, legs buckling until it slumped down into the grass. The doe startled, looking around, looking back at the buck. I aimed at the doe, and then, missed.

Now, before you go judgin’ this old man’s aim with a scope at 50 yards, I’ll have you know I missed on purpose. Why? Beats me. Somethin’ in that moment made me aim off target. Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age. Or maybe just bein’ lazy. Hauling two kills back to the truck wouldn’t be easy. Whatever the reason, the shot was enough to spook the doe. It hauled off into the forest like a bat outta hell.

That was my second mistake.

In my younger days, I could pack out a whole kill myself. I’d gut it, take the legs off, and sling that sucker across my shoulders and walk out like it was nothin’. That’d pack my freezer so full of steaks that I could hardly close the damn thing. But bein’ an old man, I gotta pick and choose. I’d take just the head for a mount. Maybe a bit of the hind quarters for a couple steaks. The rest I’d leave for the coyotes.

Most folks may not know, but there’s a real skill in takin’ off a trophy head. Ya don’t just whack at it like in the movies. First, gotta do a nice, clean slice around the neck while pullin’ the hide back to reveal the meat underneath. Then, slice through the neck muscles to get to the spine. After tilting that big ‘ol head forward, I spotted the gap in the vertebra, cut it, then twisted that sucker and pulled ’er loose. Musta done it a hundred times, but it was always real satisfying.

Sun was goin’ down by the time I got back to the truck. Thought I might have a heart attack three times along the way. Anyways, right after I threw everything in the truck bed, I saw somethin’ in the trees outta the corner of my eye. Probably seein’ things, I thought, not thinkin’ much of it. The Chevy started with a grumble. I checked the rearview mirror just to be sure, and I swear I seen the doe. I swiveled 'round to look too quick and a nerve bit me. By the time I got this old body turned ‘round, it was gone. I ain’t gonna lie, it spooked me a bit. Ain’t never had one follow me before. But I told myself I was bein’ silly and it ain’t nothin’ to worry about.

That was this old fool’s third and final mistake.

If the drive back had been any longer I mighta dosed off. I pulled up the driveway toward the cabin with eyelids droopin’ like a hound.

I thought of stashin’ the trophy in the freezer to mount later. That recliner of mine was callin’ my name, and it sure woulda been nice put my feet up and take nap. But damned if I didn’t feel some urgency to get it done.

The shop was a pigsty, like always. The walls filled up with mounts years ago, and so I had ‘em layin’ all over the place. I knew I outta clean up the place a bit first, but like I said, this old man was feelin’ anxious about gettin’ it done for some reason, so I just cleared off a workbench and made due.

Like I said earlier, taking off a trophy head is a skill. But preppin’ a mount, now that’s an art. I like to listen to music when I prep, so I switched my dusty radio on and dialed it to the least staticky channel. Classical music. Them boys like Beethoven and Mozart and such. I hummed along as I laid the head on the table. I grabbed a handful of the hide and started peelin’ it back while cuttin’ away the connectin’ tissue from the skull. Real slow and methodical-like. There’s something satisfying about it, like peelin’ an orange in one go. You get that off and then you lay it out on the table. Next ya need a real sharp knife, and carefully scrape all the meat and fat from the hide. Then pull out a jar of tannin’ solution and brush that on real generously. After hangin’ it to dry I stepped back and admired my handi-work. It’ll make a real nice mount, I thought, fittin’ for my last go.

For the skull, I just dunked that thing in a boiling pot for a couple hours. You time it right, and all that meat falls off the bone like a slow cooked chicken. The tongue took a little scrappin’, but I’d expected that. Them mushy eyes pop right out. For the brains, I just stuck a spoon in and scrambled them up so they’d pour right out. Another dunk in the pot and I had a nice, clean skull.

I set the skull down next to the dryin’ hide, and damned if I didn’t get a little water-eyed thinkin’ about it bein’ the last time I’d done it. Of course, you can never enjoy a moment too much in this world, 'cause just as I was feelin’ accomplished I heard a loud bangin’ on the shop door.

I knew that knock. Knew who it was before I even opened the door. The doe. She’d seen my plates and reported ‘em. Those county boys down at the station knew my out-of-date plates, and I’d been enough of a thorn in their side over the years they they was itchin’ to barge onto my property. Sure enough, when I opened the door, there they were, barkin’ orders like I was a mutt. I did as I was told and lay down on the ground. The first boy through the door let out a little yelp when he saw the mounts and then started gaggin'. I thought them boys would have stronger stomachs than that. They slapped them cuffs on real tight and propped me up against the wall, demandin’ answers. So I told ‘em what is was. Culling. Deer, people, it’s all the same, I said. Gotta control the population. Of course, they didn’t like that answer. They roughed me up pretty good before puttin’ me in the back of the cruiser.

Now I’m sittin’ here, rottin’ away in a jail cell while they rack up charges against me. Don’t see the sun much nowadays. I miss that. Word through the jailhouse grapevine is that my huntin’ trophies is the talk of the town. Guess I’ll never understand why people will accept seein’ one type of head up on a wall but not another. I’m just hopin’ some feller’ out there is still carryin’ on like I did.