Licensed to Kill

driving down dirt roads in a 40k SUV
with running boards and clearance
too low for jeep trails
we each scan our side of the road
for tracks in the snow
we're after elk

so far we've only seen one
strung up by the neck
from a tree by a rope
wrapped in cheese cloth

I'm the passenger, a rookie on the tour
know nothing of guns or hunting
still blood lust wells within me
after days of scanning snow covered
pines, brush, and aspen
for elusive elk

the old man is no stranger to hunting but
prior to this trip he'd tracked only smaller game
in the high sierras of California
black tail, mule deer and crosses
he could sling across his shoulder
after dressing them out

a trip with his brother
to Rocky Mountain National Park
where herds of elk grazed in meadows
like cattle on the range
sparked his urge to abandon
his 6 acres on Grizzly Flats
for greener hunting pastures

bought his tags for areas adjacent to the park
in hopes its abundance would overflow
into his sights

last year he'd been kept home by complications from
his vietnam war souvenir
hepatitis from vaccine air gun cross contamination
leading to liver cancer and transplant
Would his donor have balked, if she'd known
he liked to kill?

closest he came to cracking off a shot
was when I mistook a pair of does
across the road and down the hill
nestled on their knees between two pine tree trunks
for an elk or perhaps a moose

he retrieved the rifle from the back seat
loaded the chamber
peered through the scope
told me they were deer
yet high fived me for spotting them

it was enough of a rush
to stay longer on the last day of the season
shine on his 5 year old nephew's family only
birthday dinner so he could stalk on
seemed we'd spent weeks rather than days
wandering the woods 15 miles an hour
pausing on the road to chat with other hunters
in day-glo orange vests and hats
he'd tell 'em with a grin,
"Well, I can tell you where they're not."

on the last couple of days I urged him to let me
walk along the tree line
to flush our quarry out into the meadow
for a clear shot

crunching through twigs beneath powder
I'd pause to listen and look
nothing

twilight looms with our last chances fading
he speculates about being able to see anything
through thick scope glass
that's nothing more than a black circle
in low light

color drains from the air
leaving shadows from yellow headlights
he parks by the sign leading to town and our motel
unloads the 7mm mini magnum shells from the magazine
complains he can't buy them anywhere

driving back home over the pass
at newspaper delivery speeds
on icy roads with swirling snow
his thoughts turn from bagging a kill
to the wrong turns he's taken in his life
regrets he can't undo

a vietnam vet with tales of the war
spent stationed on a supply and repair base
in Okinawa, Japan

all of his battles were fought
along racial lines drawn
in black and white as
barracks and bars were carved into territories
guns were left at the door though
knives were just as deadly

from time to time he'd told me
to be sure his disabled vet plates
weren't covered with mud or snow
couldn't even tell me how many times
they'd saved him from a ticket

at last, domestic thoughts return
as we wind down into suburbia
he rambles on about
where he can find a car wash open
this late at night, with water jet strong enough
to clean the sludge from his undercarriage

later, in soft falsetto
imitates his wife chewing him out
for skipping his nephew's party


©polarpaul 2006