Hunted

Snowshoe rabbit prints were hasty in their scampering need to keep ahead of the hunter. Powerful back legs thrust downwards, gaining purchase on the softness of newly fallen snow, as the animal leaped forward in fearful jumps.

 

Silently and without pause, the relentless pursuer followed. Only the barking of his slight cough punctuated the naturalness of the beauty around him. His pair of pine wood Algonquin snowshoes, weathered and pear-shaped, created impressions one determined step at a time.

 

A willow branch hid beneath the crusty covering, a reminder from last night’s drop in temperature. Then scraping free from natural bondage whip-lashed backwards, announcing its presence in the crisp stillness of morning. A hand reached to his face, remembering an earlier branch’s sting.

 

Following these newly laid rabbit prints in the snow began at six am. It was almost an obsession for the man, an act of perseverance in tracking down the owner of these prints. Working from experience he created an “S” trail until he turned up fresher tracks. It appeared his foe’s early morning jaunt had turned into hasty flight, since the man must have been observed.

 

The rabbit’s trail now proved more challenging than first imagined, as it drew from its own bag of escape-tricks. At first it was more like a game, the rabbit bulldozing its way under a stand of scratchy raspberry bushes; then ducking under overlapping spruce branches. To taunt his tormentor, the animal twitched its tail in derision dropping fresh samples of scat for the pursuer to ponder then circled around several times, crisscrossing his own path. 

 

The animal’s footprints led the hunter through a harvest of hardwood, stretching tall over a period of perhaps twenty growth years. From a rabbit’s point of view, it was more like the perfect hideaway with a sprinkling of fallen branches creating a cluster of confusion.

 

Hearing the continuing pursuit, the rabbit raced across an open expanse of beaver meadow and downwards into the darkness of a ravine. It was ideal since sunshine had little chance to penetrate clumps of brush and fallen trees.

 

The prey rested within the masking sounds of a trickling stream. Rabbit’s breathing steamed, nostrils quivered and his heart jack-hammered, almost loud enough to be heard beyond the ridge just vacated. Was it too much to hope the "shush" of creek water provided a blanket of respite? Or possible to cloak shivering fear as the animal trembled in the deep woods?

 

Hurried crunching from his pursuer arrived like a thunderstorm. The approaching form sent tremors through the tiny white body, and the animal sought new escape routes. Slender branches whip-sawed noisily as the hunter came closer.

 

A restful pause allowed the hunter a chance to capture his second wind of energy. In that short period of time, the forest scene provided a sense of awe for both hunter and hunted. It encouraged one last opportunity to remind them of nature’s beauty, before the main menu of the journey was complete.

 

The fierceness of this hunting trip was determined by scowls tumbling through the hunter’s thought patterns. He tried to shy away from remembering his disappointment in missing this same quarry last time out. He was certain this was the same elusive foe. The man had carefully reviewed his topographical maps, determining where every ravine may lead. No longer would he wander aimlessly seeking his foe. Today, he’s better prepared and the proof is nearby.

 

Scattered birch proud with memories, reached high into the sky. They accepted reflecting sun’s blink across shredding birch skin. Tamarack and others not yet named in the hunter's repertoire of knowledge also seized space aside the hillside.

 

A brown shade moved boldly across the hunter’s view, gracefully stepping into a cove of trees. The suddenness of the deer’s foray aroused an interest from the hunter. He was tempted to retrace his steps and return to his station wagon. Back there was a .30.30 caliber rifle, just the right answer for a haughty buck.

 

But, that adventure was for another time. The hunter surmised he already invested too much time and energy on the set of rabbit tracks before him. The sight of the majestic buck, however, prodded old memories. On many occasions he and his father, now laid in the good earth, spent many seasons in these same woods.

 

The hunter paused a few moments enjoying the view, reflecting on those past adventures. His rabbit foe would have to wait. Needing to rest, he selected a campfire-spot under a large blue-tipped spruce. He remembered this spot, where he and his dad once sat and talked about life.

 

After scraping away a circle of snow right to the ground, a foundation of wood was laid in preparation for smaller bits. Dad taught him the proper types of wood to select. A tepee shape about six inches high with shavings and bits of birch was best for a quick start, and followed by the addition of larger pieces.  . .

 

Cold hands warmed over the fire. Curling flame produced a scent, reaching deep into his heart, encouraging the fondness of former memories. “Always prepare a little fire, when you’re on an outing,” his father said so often. “It helps you relax, think, and remember.”

 

The hunter looked at his weathered hands. They had been through much. He thought of his wife back home, and four children who depended on him. They understood his need to get away. The family went on trips together, but on occasions it was necessary to be alone, to reflect and gather his wits.  

 

He reflected on the death of his father several years before. It had been painful traveling from Nova Scotia to Toronto to attend the funeral. “A massive heart attack,” mom said over the phone. Death was so final, and now he was pitting his hunting skills against a most worthwhile foe, a wily jackrabbit.

 

The man was proud of his wood lore, and prowess at tracking prey. Determination mingled with patience is the key. And yet, raising a cold-barreled weapon of death made him reflect on reasons for hunting today.

 

Beneath this majestic tree, the man realized he was an intruder in these woods. He questioned why this need to continue proving his manhood. Must he always shoot deer, partridge and rabbits? Why such a desire to gain dominance over nature? Questions were revealing and yet had no place in the repertoire of a hunting adventure. Or, did they? 

 

The fire soon crumbled into a mass of smoking embers. And the man raised himself to full stature, stretched, and prepared to resume the hunt. It seemed no longer important to capture the marrow of this rabbit. He knew the creature was nearby, filling nostrils with wood smoke, waiting and wondering what the relentless pursuer was going to do. The man checked his rifle to ensure snow had not entered the barrel. Then re-loaded the breech, flicking on the safety.

 

Making sure the fire was out he mounted his snowshoes, turned and began to follow the last seen tracks. Not far away was a collection of deadfall, with a scattering of brush perhaps hiding his potential target. The man approached in a steady rhythm, each lift of snowshoes easing forward, eagerly, anticipating. 

 

The rabbit, hiding and resting nearby, could not stand the emotional strain any longer. His exact presence was made known through an explosion of movement. Bolting from the shadows came as a desperate last-ditch effort to shake off his stubborn hunter-predator.

 

The man was waiting for this precise moment. Stalking through the woods, patient in pursuit of a worthy foe, the prize now ran before him. The scene unfolded as if on replay from many times in the past. With his father on similar hunting trips he often wondered about the level of fear from their victims. It was a hint of memory that attached itself to his thoughts. However, the man knew the daring dash for freedom was much too late.

 

Just as quickly he raised his .22 Cooey repeater to his shoulder in one fluid motion. Super accuracy in the hunter’s skills was fashioned through long hours of practice from firing at tin cans and bottles, during his march from youth to manhood. An energized series of rifle shots could easily create echoes of mutated sounds. And then reverberate with melancholy throughout the valley.

 

The shuddering shock would soon be a painful memory as it penetrated tender flesh. And a second intrusion would forge a deadly intrusion between valleys of bone.

 

Hunter and hunted finally met; one prepared to shoot, one accepting its fate. The script was a replay of intensity, captured from ancient tales of the Hunt. Chapters of strategy, in planning and stalking were now complete.

 

The human’s heart hammered with excitement, exhaled satisfaction arising from an inward cheer. Yet, at this precise moment the slender instrument of destruction was lowered. Like a plate of sunlight, smiling slowly covered the hunter’s face.

 

Less than fifty feet away a jackrabbit panted with exhaustion. It was not yet lying on its side, crimson from a quickly fired rifle, nor thrashing in anguish. This veteran of many seasons was prepared to face a loss of future.

 

Time to such a creature in the woodlands is measured in seasons and he had shared many with friends and family. Also, he could never be removed from their memories. There were too many starry nights on a myriad of trails dancing with moonbeams that would remember.

 

When was the hunter going to fire his weapon of anger? How soon would blood gush from a fatal headshot, staining the whiteness in an area of final rest? Purity and nobleness upon the white landscape would then be replaced by the finality of hostile intentions. Somehow Rabbit knew a mask of death approached.

 

The serendipity of this morning provided an air of uncertainty within the stillness of a proud forest. High above, a crow's “Caw-Caw” signaled a desire for a declaration of truce between man and beast. As yet the feathered creature did not wish to consider departure to a more tranquil valley.

 

Victory shouts did not rush from the man’s grizzled throat. Instead there was gladness in the intensity of the moment. With a lighter heart the man realized chasing wild creatures through the forest no longer was a reason for his being. Respect for this creature of the forest overwhelmed him as a blanket of compassion.

 

The man was certain his decision was an acknowledgement of success. And yes, father would understand. No longer hunter, the man lowered his rifle, bullet unspent, a grin expanding beneath tears in his eyes. “This one’s for you, dad,” he managed to say. Uttered softly at first, words barely heard by the rabbit awaiting a final sentence.

 

Suddenly the hunter’s shout lifted high above the silence in the crisp woodland air. “Dad, I MISSS YOUUUUU!” began as an echo of love, traveling from ridge to rocky ridge.

 

Snowshoe rabbit was uncertain in the momentum of this moment. And certainly surprised to be alive, not expelling the last of life’s breathing. The man’s exuberant shout faded, thus accentuating the end of today’s hunt. When he turned towards home, he cradled an empty rifle against his chest.

 

And rabbit was allowed to live beyond today in the dream of his inheritance.