Closure: A Short Story from the Mountains

The freshly cut pine popped and crackled as it burned on the ridgetop where Lincoln Emery’s camp was made. 

Sparks drifted into the sky as though they deserved to take a seat next to the stars. As he watched them burn out only a few feet above his fire he huffed, “ Story of my life.” 

That afternoon stuck in his gut like the disgusting fast food he ate on the last leg of his trip west. He had missed. It wasn’t the bow. It was him. It happened too fast. He rushed the shot. The giant bull elk charged down the side of the mountain with Lincoln’s arrow protruding from its hip. Desperate for evidence of an arterial wound, he found all but a few inches of his arrow only a few strides down the path the bull chose. The ironic pain in his own hips from the day’s hike felt well-deserved. 

Lincoln slipped into his sleeping bag that night wondering if he was even ready for all of this. The YouTubers made it all look easy. The articles he read seemed to know what they were talking about too. It was all bullshit. He had gotten to the moment of truth, but it just went sideways. A clean miss would have been so much better.

He drifted off into a restless sleep. 

Well before sunrise the next morning, Lincoln woke with a jump, “Where the hell am I?” He thought. He had grown too accustomed to comfort. We was too used to being in a building, at home, in his bed. He was soft. 

Everything hurt. His feet were cramping from too little water the day before. His lips were cracked. His shoulders and back were stiff. All those hours on the stair climber weren’t worth a damn. His frozen boots didn’t make things better.

The fire smoldered. He uncovered it and found an ember. Something bounded down the hill behind his tent in the dark. After he flipped on his headlamp nervously, there was nothing to see but a lone pine branch quickly swinging where the creature had passed through. Lincoln added tinder to the ember and started a small flame. It was just enough to feel some kind of warmth. 

Once his body heat was tolerable, it was time to do it all again. 

The sun finally broke over the ridge around 7:00 am. He had already heard a bugle in the canyon below him. He just needed enough light so as not to cause unnecessary noise. 

It was perfect. He could feel the thermals rising, and the wind was creeping up the mountain. He could make out the faint “mew” of a small group of cows. Periodically, the bull would rip off a deep, guttural bugle with a series of raspy chuckles. He knew this was the one he wanted. 

Carefully paralleling the group and eventually working in front of them at a higher elevation, he let out a soft cow call. The bull gave up his position with a scream.

The calculations began processing through his head. Wind? Check. It gently blew across his cheek to the top of the ridge behind him. Distance? Perfect. 35 yards. All the bull needed to do was step into the clearing. 

A set of brown legs trotting through the deadfall caught his eye. His heart rate skyrocketed. Then another came, and another. Then the sound of antlers hitting branches sent a calm over Lincoln. 

Thoughts of the day before were the farthest thing from his mind. This situation was different. He had time to be ready.

He drew smoothly. Quietly. His anchor point connected him to the bow. The peep sight aligned perfectly, allowing him to see everything he needed to. The bull stopped at the edge of the clearing. Steam billowed from his mouth as he bugled. The cows rushed through the opening, bull in tow. 

It was all one motion. His sight pin settled in. He closed his eyes and opened them one more time. The bull looked at him, broadside. As if he was acknowledging the moment. Like a warrior accepting his end. 
The arrow flew. This time, as it was designed. The bull lurched forward and crashed into the darkness of the canyon. Blood flowed cleanly through the wound the broadhead had made. His breath shortened. Every stride was a marathon step to his finish line. He couldn’t run anymore. He stopped. Making one final circle in the pine duff, he could walk no longer. He laid down and made one final effort to get back up. 

It was over. 

Lincoln’s legs and lungs burned from the pack out. Blood had dried on his hands. He poured water over them, and he was shocked by a sting. He had forgotten that he had cut himself during the quartering. “That’s going to need stitches when I get back,” he grinned as he wrapped some duct tape around it. 

The fire was different that night. The sparks seemed to make it higher into the night sky this time. Blood-stained bags of meat hung down the ridge from the camp to cool and keep predators away. The front end of the previous day’s arrow, about four inches with the broadhead still attached, leaned against a rock by the fire. 

The pain of that day resolved with the finality of a second chance.