I always walk with my eyes to the ground, a habit I learned from my dad. My sister and I were taught from a young age to walk quietly and deliberately, keeping our eyes to the ground to prevent any sounds.
My dad, the hunter, dragged us little girls through some of the roughest terrain in Santa Cruz County in search of the elusive white tail buck, armed with our own canteen belts and backpacks. My father insisted we carry our own gear, refusing to hear our complaints about the weight or awkwardness of a canteen belt too large for our kid bodies.
We tracked quickly through canyons and tall grass without a word. We tried hard not to step wrong or make a sound. We had to keep up and not complain. I remember walking and trying not to let the water in my canteen slosh, my heart pounding, trying to please my dad. Then he would hear a sound and freeze. Our job was to freeze, too.
Slowly he would crouch down and we would follow suit. Quietly he would steady his binoculars and scan the grassland or hillside looking for the source of the sound that most of the time we never heard. I just listened to my own breathing and tried to focus on all the sounds. If we were lucky, my dad would hand us the binoculars and point in the direction of the sound.
We would then do it again for miles and miles. Once, as we crouched down on a hillside eating our poorly packed lunches, my dad went silent. We kids slowly scrambled back as he carefully pulled the rifle from his back and steadied the scope. 3-2-1-CRACK!
The walk back to the truck was a loud, victorious march. Finally, we were allowed to breathe. Once we were all piled into the truck, my dad and his buddies tracked down his kill and we all stood over it in awe. My dad pulled out his Polaroid and we all posed with this once living creature.
Back at camp, the deer was dressed, the men would drink, and we kids would play with the recently detached deer hooves.
Fall deer hunt was a ritual in my childhood followed by the spring javalina hunt, with a few elk hunts in between. Crouching and crawling through mesquite bosques in the freezing morning hours while learning to keep your arms close to your body to avoid thorns was common knowledge for us kids.
At one point in my life I was a pretty good shot with a rifle. As I got older, I decided that playing with dead animal hooves wasn’t my idea of a good time anymore and I started going on the hunts less and less. My little sister remained my dad’s hunting buddy, but she eventually learned to go out on hunts with one of the less serious dads so she could breathe a little easier.
My dad remained serious about hunting until his last. Sometimes, when I’m out for a walk alone, I test my skills. I slow my breath and walk carefully. I walk silently listening to my surroundings. If I hear a sound, I freeze. I then get my bearings and pivot in the direction of the sound. Slowly I crouch down, and I scan my surroundings until I find it.
For a brief moment I am ten again and my hand is holding onto the sleeve of my dad’s camo jacket, his orange and white Ford pickup truck is waiting in the distance, and I am at peace.
Cassina Farley can be contacted at cassinaandzachfarley@msn.com