THE HUNT

By Robert LaRue

In primitive societies, men hunted, and women gathered. Those instincts still exist deep within our beings. When a man is on the hunt, his awareness narrows to just the task of capturing his quarry. Other senses and the passage of time become secondary. It is the way we are made. No amount of social engineering can eliminate it.

My second deer-hunting season began in 1951, when I was fourteen. I rode my mare, Paint, into the mountains above our Eastern Oregon ranch. As I approached an Aspen grove near the head of a canyon, a small herd of deer (a buck, two does, and two fawns) rose and clattered up the canyon wall. Before I could dismount and take a shot, they crested the ridge and disappeared.

I tied Paint to a tree and set out on foot in hot pursuit. At the top of the ridge, I watched the herd disappear over the next ridge. I tromped through the brush and timber of the canyon separating us to the top of that ridge, only to see my quarry disappear over the next ridge. It was like the deer were playing a game with me. Each time I caught sight of them, they somehow managed to disappear over the horizon. Time stood still. Distance ceased to have meaning. It was just me and the elusive prey—the hunter and the hunted.

My senses snapped back when I could no longer see the next ridge. Night had fallen. I did not know where I was. I had lost the hunt. My horse was tied to a tree several canyons back. All of my survival gear was tied behind the saddle. A deep forest and unfamiliar mountains surrounded me. It was dark. Stark reality replaced the exhilaration of the hunt.

I knew that I was in the mountains somewhere above Pine Valley. If I kept going downhill, I would eventually reach the valley floor. I just had no idea how far that would be. But the thought of spending the night with no blanket, no fire, and no shelter held no appeal. I started walking downhill.

It was rough going in the dark. Avoiding a fall challenged each step.

A welcome moon cleared the horizon. It provided a little light. I worked my way through the forest and undergrowth for what seemed an eternity. Finally, I stumbled onto a dirt road. I had no idea where it led, but there was a stream nearby. I stuck my hand in the water to feel the flow, then turned downstream and kept walking. The smooth road surface was welcome.

I must have walked for three or four miles when, off to my left, I made out the stacked logs, lumber, and equipment of a sawmill. With a sense of relief, I knew where I was. It was the East Pine Lumber Mill. Home was behind me. But to double back to the ranch meant navigating a maze of primitive roads. I decided it would be easier to continue down East Pine Creek for about three miles to the valley floor. Then I could hike on well-marked county roads the eight or so miles home.

The night wore on. I walked along country roads, past darkened farmsteads. Dogs barked at my passing, but none attacked. Cattle lowed, and horses snorted, disturbed by the dogs barking. No sign of human activity interrupted my passage. It was nearing dawn when I finally turned up Dry Creek Road for the last two miles home.

Faint pink light colored the eastern sky as I dragged my tired feet through the familiar picket fence gate of home. A kerosene lamp shining through the dining room window told me my parents were up. Caught up in my own dilemma, I had given little thought to what my mom and dad were going through. The fact that they must be worried suddenly occurred to me. I crossed the threshold and announced that I was home and sorry for any worry I had caused. Mom was in tears. Dad wanted to know what I had done with my horse. Dad’s reaction was easier to deal with than Mom’s.

After I described the events of the last twenty hours, Mom fixed me something to eat. I ate and fell into bed, exhausted. Dad let me sleep until the sun was well above the horizon. He roused me and told me it was high time to go rescue my horse. I did not complain. I, too, was worried about Paint.

In the light of day, it was no problem to retrace my route to the Aspen grove. When I got there, Paint was standing tied where I had left her. She looked around at me with inquiring eyes like, “Where did you go?” Then she expelled a little nicker like, “Good to see you.” I guess I was forgiven. I tightened the cinch, crawled up on her back, and we headed home. The hunt could wait for another day.