The Hunt

The frail man stumbled out of his tent. The sun cresting over the summit of the far away mountains hinted at how the day would go. As the man prepared his coffee-black and steaming hot-he could hear the faraway cry of wolves. The ominous howling would frighten the elk towards his camp. This pleased the old hunter, for he knew he couldn’t travel too far. His weak legs risked giving out if he didn’t get some nourishment soon. After hanging his putrid garbage in an old redwood tree, he decided it was finally time to begin the hunt. The man set out into the overgrown forest in the direction of the same meadow in which his great grandfather used to hunt. There was one very special area in this meadow that gave the perfect view for stalking animals. This coveted spot was within firing distance to the only pond in a ten mile radius. The exhausted hunter sat on a rotting stump, fifty meters away from the basin. He knew it may be several hours before any animals ventured into the vulnerability of the meadow. The pleasant sun and the chirping of chickadees lulled him to sleep, gun rested on his lap.

            Suddenly, the sound of hoof beats sprung him to attention. He slowly raised his head, careful to not startle the animals back into the thick forest. Standing by the pond was a family of elk: a father, a mother, and their offspring. The man knew it was incorrect to kill an elk with a young offspring, but his crippling hunger outweighed his morals. The hunter slowly raised his old rifle to shoulder. He allowed a smile to transpire on his wrinkled face. He knew he would have a feast tonight.