(Written September 20, 1988)
We were in a house trailer just outside the Lindreth trading post, in northwest New Mexico. There were six of us on the hunt that year: My Dad and I; Morris – Dad’s best friend, and his son Brad; Don – who owned the trailer and was to be our guide, and his son Chris.
I had watched my Dad leave to go hunting each fall since I could remember, had seen the freezer filled with venison after he returned. Hunting was the time when the men gathered together. Brad and I were 12, and this was our first time to go along, even though we weren’t to carry guns.
Now as I lay in the lower bunk late at night – Brad was in the upper, the noise level from the dining room was rising. Our bedroom door was open, and light filtered down the hall, hazy with smoke. I heard cards shuffling, chairs scraping, ice tinkling in glasses, the long monotone of the joke then the raucous laughter at the bawdy punch line.
I was wide awake, thrashing around, had a knot in my stomach and a strong sensation something was not right. I hadn’t known this partying was part of hunting and was not sure I wanted to be here. But I worshipped the tall man who was in there drinking and needed desperately to be a man in his eyes. He was my hero. I couldn’t talk about the tension and my misgivings – you just didn’t do that – but this felt strange.
On top of it all, earlier that day I had seen my first dead man. He was lying in the back of an ambulance outside the general store but the sheet didn’t cover his head; Chris and I stared in horrified curiosity, saw his vacant stare, the dark line of dried blood across his forehead and running down between his empty eyes. We stood gawking until a man came up and shooed us away. We lingered and heard talk that he had been coming back from hunting, driving too fast in his pickup. He topped a rise on the gravel roads and ran head on into another pickup. He was killed instantly.
I got out of bed, went out into the smoky pall of the dining room, and told Dad my stomach was upset. He looked at me with eyes slightly blurry, told me to go outside if I had to be sick, and went back to the cards. That felt odd. I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. I went out into the bitter cold night, a startling blackness. I voided my stomach of the steak and all the apple cider from dinner, but the tension remained.
I shivered. It didn’t make sense. Those men were in no condition to be safe and tomorrow they would all have loaded rifles. The whole thing felt insane. I wanted to go home. I went inside, down the hall; I glanced at Chris asleep in the top bunk; I wondered what he thought of all this. I got back in bed and finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.
9 A.M. I thought deer came out at dawn. Why were we sleeping so late? I got up and began dressing, pulling my blue jeans over my long johns, lacing the boots. I went to the front of the trailer. The men moved stiffly, slowly, gingerly. They looked like hell. I knew why. Last night seemed like a bad dream but the heavy smell of smoke said it wasn’t and there were the empty bottles and cards scattered on the breakfast table.
Grouchily the men downed gallons of coffee and made preparations, checking rifles and knives, speaking little; no one fixed any breakfast. I didn’t want to do what we were about to do – but I had no choice. God help us.
We loaded into the pickup, the three men in the cab with their rifles. Chris, Brad and I climbed into the bed of the truck and huddled against the cab, out of the biting wind. We were road hunting – driving along dirt roads through the hills, scanning the sagebrush and scattered woods. It was a grey, cloudy, bitter cold day, with a forecast of snow. Chris, who was 17, mature and worldly to Brad and me, began cursing the cold and the fathers in a low monotone. I was shocked by his language, but as I grew colder I mentally began to cheer him on. It felt like we had been in the back of the truck forever, I was freezing, didn’t they know how cold it was, didn’t they care?
From the front of the pickup there was laughter as the fathers scouted the hills, with the heater on high, safe and warm. I looked through the rear window and saw them passing a bottle. I turned back around and curled up in a ball, my stomach churned.
The stopped for a few minutes, got out, let us get in the cab to warm up. Then things happened so fast they blurred. Morris, who had the sharpest eyes, spotted two bucks up on a ridge, raised his rifle and fired. A hit, one buck staggered and limped into a draw. Don yelled that we couldn’t let the buck get across that fence down the road – it was Indian reservation, illegal to hunt there, and we had to head him off.
Dad started running down the road with Morris right behind him, guns held in front of them, chest high. Brad and I got out of the truck and stood uncertainly. I was terrified – be careful with the guns! Suddenly I had a vivid mental image of Morris tripping, falling, shooting my Dad in the back. It was a crystal clear picture; it felt real.
I stood frozen, shivering, nauseous. This was too much. I wanted to go home. Please, just let me go home.
The buck rose from the brush. Morris fired, the buck fell and everyone was yelling and talking excitedly.
I felt a sinking sensation as I began to realize that we’d have to do this whole thing over again next fall. It was ritual.
But that was then. These days I don’t go hunting at all.
I’ve seen enough killing.
I have seen enough violence to last me a life time too. Lovely post (if you get what I mean) :)
It’s not just heartbreaking to imagine you going through this; it’s also a terrific story, beautifully written, vivid, powerful. A real story, not just a memory, you know? So even those of us who have never experienced something like this are right there with you. Just lovely, as Tabitha says. :)
This particular story does not mention out-and-out abuse, but you can sure see it going there. Alcohol and guns…and kids! Yikes!
Marj – Yes, this does not mention abuse directly, but even me reading it again, it feels abusive! One of those critical events burned into your soul.
Wow, I was riveted.
My father was more crazy than alcoholic, but I can so relate to being afraid that he was not in control when he should have been… and sometimes afraid that he was in control – of me, body and soul – when he should not have been.
Glad you liked this piece about the hunt. Yes, a lot about not being in control. Later I realized that when I visualized my Dad being shot – it was a secret desire out of self defense. Didn’t see that until much later!
This piece intersects with the Grandma stuff of the other piece you commented on. I wrote it for a creative writing class in 1988, and the teacher raved about it – stirred up all those old Grandma demons more than I ever could imagine!
Thank you so much for your powerful comments!
Dan
I’m glad I stumbled upon this post – I’m a therapist and one practice focus is helping people work through family of origin issues including lack of physical, emotional and psychological safety.
I resonated with your fear – and the lack of control you must have felt as a child in that situation.
Thank you for your authenticity. I’m quite sure others will benefit from your words.
Lisa Brookes Kift, MFT
The Toolbox at http://LisaKiftTherapy.com
Lisa – Thank you for your kind comments – I’m glad you ran across this post, too! Yes, family of origin issues about lack of safety – in all aspects. This event certainly felt that way for me! “I resonated with your fear” – what a wonderful way to phrase it! Yes, I felt completely out of control and powerless! And visualizing my Dad being shot – I realized later was a buried desire for self defense, against the violence that began escalating around this time.
I really appreciate your comments!
Dan
I agree with Winslow! This is a poignant, painfully beautiful piece written about an event that obviously made a very powerful impression on you. My heart ached as I read it, mostly because of the painful situation in which you were caught, but also because of the beauty of your writing. Thanks so much for sharing this stirring story with us all.
Regards,
Jo
Jo – Thank you so much for your kind and powerful words! Yes, this is a poignant piece! Yes, it did make a very powerful impression on me! It was an incredibly painful situation – with no safety and no regard for me as a person! Thank you for honoring the beauty of my writing. I did this piece for a creative writing class, and the teacher spent 45 minutes praising and glowing over it! That was a breathtaking experience in itself! It was the first time I got it at a deep gut level that I had a gift that needed to be stewarded!
Warmly,
Dan
I remember the feeling of something not being right, of the nausea and fear every time that I had to go somewhere alone with my dad. The majority of my sexual abuse took place in his truck on some lonely road. It is a wonder that I didn’t get ulcers at a young age. I remember wanting to throw up but not doing it. Your mental image describes those feelings quite well for me.
Your post bought back to life three separate memories for me. I have my own memory of riding in the back of my dad’s truck on a November day and freezing on our way back home from a hunting camp. I shivered for an hour before I got warm again.
My dad was a hunter and fisherman both whichever was in season. By the time that I was 16, I had been on fishing trips enough that I hated it.
My mom and dad shared an interest in hunting trips so I didn’t have to go hunting with my dad very often. The last time was after I was married. Dad decided to take my husband and I deer hunting. Neither of us wanted to go but couldn’t talk my dad out of it. They left Daniel and I sitting under a tree waiting for a deer to come by. We both had guns. We both decided that any deer that came by us was safe. We weren’t shooting him. We had an enjoyable time just sitting and talking until the hunters returned to retrieve us from under our tree.
The third memory I won’t share here. It had to do with the incest. Your words do paint powerful pictures.
Patricia – I can see how my story would stir up a lot for you! When you described being with your Dad in a truck on a lonely road, it gave me chills! Yes, I can see where my reactions in the hunting trailer would be very reminiscent for you! The nausea and fear – so real and so deep!
Amazing that you had the experience of freezing in the back of Dad’s truck on the way home from hunting! It was for me a painful sense of being abandoned to the elements. And your story of you and Daniel going hunting and deciding not to shoot is amazing – such a freedom in that decision.
Thank you for honoring the powerful pictures my words paint! I did this piece for a creative writing class in 1988. The teacher usually took 3 pieces per class and the class would critique them. She spent 45 minutes praising and pointing out the amazing things I did with this piece. It was a huge confirmation that I had a gift to be stewarded. Yet at the time, it was overwhelming!
[...] first piece was not read aloud in class. I worked hard on a second piece entitled “The Hunt,” about an experience I had as a 14 year old deer hunting with my Dad and his friends. The [...]