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Lenard
Ruterbories
The Hunt |
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Across the mountains, the thick air floats low, not showing the white tips which scrub the sky. The bugle of the bull elk calls back his cows and shows his dominance. Here in the half lit coulees steam rises from ancient breeding grounds, and water drips from vanilla flavored Ponderosa.
For a long time as a boy, I did not think about what the hunt means; it was a way to escape and simultaneously test the inevitable. Death is a promise from our birth, the ultimate contrast. It was easy to kill then, because I knew I would not die, but now I seek the words of my Father and try to understand what happened that day in Calgary. . .
The hunt has become a quest for the words of my Father, said long before the seeds of the mighty Ponderosa and the first breeding pair of elk. Before man and before death, there was The Truth. I wish Adam would have died with all of his ribs.