The Monarch

After a long night of restless sleep I awoke at sunrise and tried to refrain from the urge to get an early start. The ride to the creek was all of 15 minutes to the old family property that was once a flourishing farmland but had since grown over in the passing years. The last of the barns were salvaged for the lumber and all that was left standing was the weathered hand pump that no longer pulled the fresh water from the earths depths. Thinking back I remember as we gathered around as children with our hands cupped to be filled with cold water while we took turns pumping the old well for one another on those hot summer days. I recall the stalks of corn as tall as small trees and the wagons of hay that filled the loft in an endless sea of gold. The occasional herding of an elusive cow that had ideas other than being milked. And as always an endless barrage of cats and kittens, too numerous to count or name, that earned their keep by hunting the armies of field mice that constantly tried to infiltrate their way into the grain bins. After my short stroll down memory lane I realize that it’s time to go.

Even with hip boots on, the spring fed waters of the creek are cold. I soon find that once in the creek the banks rise to my chest area, this couldn’t be more perfect. With barely a breeze my mindset turns to that of the predator as I slowly navigate upstream choosing each step carefully and calculating the path ahead. With every motion I listen and observe my surroundings in an attempt not to alert the other inhabitants of my presence.

Time passes slowly as I find myself drifting back to the picture of the old buck walking away in the last rays of the evening light just a few weeks earlier. The forest has thickened and taken on a silence so deep that it makes my ears ring in an attempt to hear something. The trees have enveloped all but the last hints of daylight and fingers of moss have begun to stretch down the banks in a desperate search for water. A musty smell has been growing ever stronger with each calculated step and an overwhelming presence of being watched has sent chills down the back of my spine.

As I scan the area I realize I am here. The trees show their newest battle wounds and the earth permeates the odor of territorial marking once again. I see no sign of the buck. No sign of any deer for that matter. For the moment I wonder if I had been watched and he wisely slipped out the back door undetected and unscathed. With my thoughts and hopes quickly diminishing I soon find myself conceding to defeat in this strategic game of chess played between human and nature. A perfectly calculated plan gone awry by some matter unseen to my self-centered human eyes.

As I lower my bow the once bolstering confidence turns to criticism with each passing minute. I fight with myself to refrain from walking back through the woods rather than the creek. Feeling the buck was untouchable I wanted to let him know just how close I had gotten by announcing my existence as I crashed through the army of obstacles on my way back to the pickup. One last glance of my opponent’s domain brought a sense of defeat yet a sense a great accomplishment knowing I had penetrated his walls of defense. The obvious was there to see. This placed seemed lifeless, void of any living creatures and shrouded in damp darkness that chilled me to the bone. Turning to leave I notice a hoof print in the soft mud.

Larger than most and stamped in the earth like the calling card of a thief who had squandered my last hopes of victory as I look in the direction of their departure. And there, in all his glory was the magnificent monarch picking his way through the forest making no audible sound and walking in my direction. He had crossed the creek earlier in the day, possibly to mark the outer edges of his kingdom, and was returning to the safety of his core with no obvious concern to the lone sentinel that had unknowingly positioned himself perfectly. At thirty yards the giant stopped and began to work the earth with his hooves. The clumps of moss became airborne in a steady flow as the scrape was worked and the monarch turned broadside. In the same instant he stopped to test the air, my arrow flew in seemingly slow motion and found its mark. With my heart pounding in the heat of the moment I watch as the giant trots away then stops, looks back in my direction, and collapses in a heap that shakes the ground.

As I walk up to my trophy I can’t help but wonder how many times he has passed on his dominant genes. Perhaps one day, with the falling of the king, a new leader will rule in this same domain offering a chance to hunt, a son, of the great monarch.

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