The last day of hunting season Dave left work early at the Texaco and took off up the river. He had his rifle across the rear window and ammunition in his vest.
He turned up a Forest Service road and after a few miles turned again onto a logging road with washouts creasing and chewing at it.
He parked by a clear cut and walked across it to a place where he could overlook meadows on both sides of the Middle Fork. He'd seen the three pointer twice in the meadow below him. Once out of season and once when he couldn't get a clear shot.
At this distance he was pushing it. He didn't have long. Maybe twenty minutes until it would be too dark to see. How long past sunset? Gee officer I don't have a watch...he was smiling a little and mentally rehearsing excuses when the buck appeared out of nowhere in the near meadow. Dave had him in his sight and squeezed off a shot. The deer took off running, crashing through the brush.
``Damn!'' he said. Gut shot.
``Damn Damn Damn.'' Like the deer he was crashing through the brush to the meadow where he saw the blood. He followed the blood trail easily enough - there was plenty of it. When it got too dark to see he continued with his flashlight until he heard the deer ahead of him. Threshing about in a bed of Oregon grape. Unable to get up. Terrified. Flinging bloody foam from its tossing head. Legs struggling. Desperate to rise, to run. He shot it through the head this time.
He didn't tag it. What the hell, he thought. No way he'd eat that meat.
It was dark. Where was he? No idea. He was no woodsman. He looked all around him. No sound of water. No light. No moon no stars. No clue.
He sat down and re-lived the chase. Middle Fork to his right then up the first hill then down along the little ridge then - then-
North side of Middle Fork. Jackass Mountain? No. Too far east. Then he gave up and just started walking.
It was cold. He had to move. It felt like a long time that he struggled on, cursing himself for not having a cell phone. He was afraid. He curled up small and tried to sleep. He could die. He knew that. He wouldn't be the first. Not even the first this season. That kid...A wind was coming up. From the east to be that cold. If he kept walking into it he should reach the highway - maybe.
A cold rain rode the wind. He was hungry. He had some jerky in his pocket. Crouching in the rain with his denim jacket pulled over his head he tore at the jerky.
Then he saw it. A small red light appearing and disappearing. He took out his spotting scope. Not a tail light. A Coke machine! It appeared and disappeared as tree branches obscured it. A Coke machine? Then he was exactly one hundred and eighty degrees off course! This had to be the Coke machine outside the club house at the Dog Mountain golf course.
Now he knew where he was. When he reached the Coke machine he'd be just five miles from town on a paved road.
When he got to the golf course and started down the road he began to feel embarrassed. He'd look like such a fool! He'd have to ask his step-father for a ride up to get his truck above the Middle Fork. He'd look like such a fool.