The Hunt

 I have hunted animals all my life.  I come from a place where the standard fall greeting in the cafe is, "Get your deer yet."  Here in Idaho it's "elk."  Even so, I admire vegetarians.  They may have some moral ground to despise the hunt.  I have always thought, "People who eat meat should be required to kill, clean and prepare their meal at least once, so they know the price that is paid for their meal."  Going to the store (where no animals are hurt) to buy your hamburger, is not only ludicrous, it's really just hiring a contract killer.  The town slaughter house across the field from my boyhood home was an active and ugly place.  Nevertheless, I prefer to be intimately acquainted with who I eat, which is the norm in an agrarian society.  Bessy gave milk and eventually her life to those she loved.

I have only been out hunting deer a couple times so far this fall.  The first time out, the mountains glowed with softness and the flicker of light off forest colors, making them vibrant, enchanted me anew. 

Warm sun peaking through a dark canopy, rays of sunlight stretching down to highlight tufts of lime green mosses, light glistening off yellow leaves dancing in the breeze, a red squirrel scolding me for intruding into his realm: this for me is the hunt.

Much younger, I chose a bow rather than a rifle.  It allowed me to play with deer I chose not to kill; the closeness an arrow requires brings you into the big brown eyes of the animals' domain.

Redneck Joe's Mule Florence. 
(Everyone else that day rode horses.)

This day I climbed, only 1500 feet up from the Selway river, about 3000 foot elevation.  The snow didn't begin until past 4000 that day.  In Arizona we call the phenomenon Sky Islands, traveling from desert to tundra by climbing Mount Graham.  In these mountains it is seasons you travel up through.

Joseph had clients to take up to the top of Glover Ridge that day, but he had Florence to take him up, not that he doesn't relish the opportunity to look like he is effortlessly striding up a mountain side for the sheer pleasure.  I mosey up mountains.  "Slow and steady, steady and slow, that's the way, we always go," to quote Goofy telling Donald how to travel.

Whether on horseback, muleback or moseying up from a Bitterroot river, any day in this, the largest expanse of forest in the lower forty-eight states, is a good day.  I didn't see any deer, so my 30.06 rifle was just extra weight.  I stopped hunting with a bow years ago.  It's just too much work.

Looking back down to the Selway River.

I have been away from the forest too long this time.  Being granted a Sabbatical ought not be a gift, but a requirement for people who stand day after day in front of the hope of our world, expected to dispense something of value: an idea, a formula, an enlightening story, the beginning of a skill, a dream.

Everyone can remember being changed, appreciated, accepted, motivated, or just helped along the way by a teacher, a mentor, and if you're are really fortunate, a sage.  But for a teacher to do that, be that person, they must have something to say, something to share, something to give.  Full containers need to be emptied, and empty containers need to be filled.

Harold, a man Maricopa Colleges and especially MCC owes much to, once mentored me saying, "Sabbaticals should be mandatory.  One semester, every seven years, you should be required to take one."  I suppose that is what God had in mind with "Shabbat." The seventh day; the seventh year, fallow for the fields; the Year of Jubilee, every slave free every debt canceled: these are commands, times set aside for Him, Holy days of obligation, consecrated.  It's an old idea.

Last week, maybe longer ago, time is losing some of its grip on me, Joseph and I went up to the highest hill of the Camas Prairie, called Craig Mountain; he to hunt Mule Dear out of the trees and over the edge into the Salmon and Snake drainage, me to stay atop looking in the forest for Whitetails.  This place is vertical.  Joseph decided not to shoot a pretty nice buck; it was too far up to carry it back to the Jeep.  He did video tape him with his does to show me.  I moseyed around the top, not going too far from a trail, not too far down so I would be able to climb back up, safe places.  It looked a lot different than hunting uphill from the Selway.

Atop Craig Mountain

I saw Mule Deer does hopping around.  Unlike the remote seclusion of the Bitterroots, here other hunters  abounded.  I visited a couple camps.  I fell down in the brush, shook snow out from my neck, retrieved my hat from brushy fingers and again, carried a gun for little purpose.  I actually got to terrify my younger brother driving down Craig's hill on the 7 and 8% curvy grade sliding back and forth at 10 miles an hour.  I tried 13, not smart.  It was a good day and a scary night.

I have been stuck in front of a keyboard for at least a week now.  I haven't even gone outside for days.  I finished my first attempt, at a first draft, (which means I have only edited it three times) of a chapter for the book I am writing for this time of Shabbat.  The 20 pages are still too academic, the voice too scholarly, but I am closer to finding Lawyer Canyon's voice.  I know I won't find her voice sitting in front of a computer though.  I can only practice here at capturing it.  This week, I will walk her Canyon and listen.

I might even take a nap in her bosom.  The one thing this Sabbatical has brought graphically to my attention, I'm getting a little slower.  I think mosey is my top speed.