Screamers

We heard the animal crash through the tall grass and low branches fifty yards or so ahead of us, its pace was slowing as it reeled against its impending death. It was dark now, as my father and I trudged along behind it, pushing the buck in circles around our small corner of the forest. Several times already we had taken a break and considered leaving it until morning, but a boy’s excitement had coaxed my father to keep on its trail.

Rounding the northwestern section of the woods we pushed through some of the heavier brush and made our way into a kind of clearing. Tall cedar trees rose in straight lines on either side of us to the north for nearly a hundred yards and we stood in a lane between them. Walking slowly, the animal’s antlers came into view up ahead, the grass was shorter here but still enough to conceal a large animal if it was laying down.

There was no life left in it, my father placing a hand on my shoulder and shooting me a pride filled smile. To this day it was the biggest year and a half old fork horn I have ever seen, and the first deer I would take with the bow I had saved up for all year. The relief of finding an animal after tracking it through the cold dark woods for hours is a sweet feeling, but we had some work to do yet. Our truck was parked on the access lane on the other side of an eighty-acre plowed field and it was wet out.

My father, Rock, pulled the remaining half of an arrow out of the animal and handed it to me as we began preparing ourselves for the exhausting drag out of there, when we heard a noise in the silence of the night. It sounded like a bird ruffling around in some leaves, causing me to look around confused and question what kind of bird sounds like that. My dad on the other hand knew exactly what it was and urged me to get going, startling me in the process as he began to shout.

A moment later one of the most blood curdling sounds I have ever heard erupted from the forest and I quickly realized that was not the flapping of wings but the sucking of air through a long canine snout. Half a dozen coyotes began to scream, and yip form the blackness of the night that concealed them, brought in by the smell of death from the freshly harvested deer. The screams were quite literally screams, not a howl like a wolf but a scream like a woman being murdered in the woods. We were surrounded on all but one side, the side that had a field between us and our way home.

We would not lose our prize so easily though, as my dad, still yelling into the black, handed me the keys to the Dodge and told me to start moving. I take a great deal of pride in being courageous, and today about fifteen years later knowing what it means to be a man and to be brave, I am able to appreciate that I was a courageous teenager. There was a moment of hesitation, in one part terrified to run across an open field surrounded by predators, another part not wanting to leave my father there alone with nothing but half an arrow to defend himself with.

If you’ve never ran through a plowed field in winter boots before, I can assure you it is not a pleasant experience, nor is being stalked by coyotes. Coyotes are not typically dangerous, but in a scenario like this there are a few more variables than just encountering one which will usually turn tail and be out of sight before you know it. I could hear them to my left in the tall grass that separated the two properties, keeping pace with me as I pushed myself out into the field, through the muddy ruts.

I have always been a quiet person, rarely raising my voice or shouting, but in that moment as my heart pounded away in my chest I began to yell as I ran. Much like how you’re told to make yourself big and loud against black bears to scare them off, we were doing the same.

The relief of crossing to the access road was quickly replaced with an urgency to get moving and pick up my father who I could barely hear at this point. Looking around I realized I could not see the gloss black truck; it was one of those nights where the moon was so thin you could barely see your hand in front of your face. My flashlight swung back and forth as I searched down the road, and I decided to pick a direction and start running. When I didn’t find it in that direction I ran the other way, stumbling upon it at what felt far to far down the road.

The 5.2-liter engine roared to life as I cranked the wheel to my left and dove into the plowed field, bouncing around as the vehicle pulled its way through the muddy slop towards my father. Turning the truck and backing it up about twenty yards from the tree line went surprisingly well as the balding tires sank and spun a bit.

My dad was already emerging with the deer when I ran back to assist him, grabbing one side of its rack and pulling hard towards the bed of the truck. I got an “it took you long enough” before I had to explain how I really could not find the truck in the dark, I suspect now that maybe the adrenaline filled brain of a young boy might have overlooked something and ran in the wrong direction, but we’ll never know for sure.

Aside from a short drive home, and the gory process of gutting and cleaning out the carcass, we soon found ourselves sitting in the kitchen warming up. Shortly after my dad would walk in with the cooked backstraps, off the grill or out of the oven it is too long ago for me to remember, and I would have one of my first beers with him. While not a heroic tale, I look back upon it fondly and thought it a story worth telling.