Boys and prey

Here's an adapted post from BC I've meant for some time to migrate over here. The recent brouhaha has turned my mind more toward BW and reminded me to take care of this. I've included a link to the original BC thread so people can compare the post I've made here with the first one as well as look at the original replies. Jim I think I've written before about being a hunter. Well, I just returned from a week-long hunting trip, something I've been looking forward to for years. This is the first time I've ever hunted something that could hunt back, so to speak. The trip was spectacular. First, I bagged my trophy. Seeing him come into the clearing and immediately sense me and lock eyes with me was a spine tingling, electrifying experience. I was thankful that I decided against using a bow, which right up until the last minute I was determined to do. In the end, I was very glad for the circumstances that dictated a high power rifle. The kill was quick, though nothing like deer or birds or other prey animals. I won't be hunting big game again. It felt not like harvesting meat but more like something akin to murder. I WILL eat the meat and I will use the pelt but... it's still not the same. I don't know if I can explain why. Somehow killing another top predator is too much like killing a person. It was after, after I wound down from the hunt and after spending a few days hiking alone and fishing in the mountains that the trip really allowed me to relax. No TV. No newspapers. No phones. No Internet. I can't remember the last time I had so much time to do nothing but think with no distractions. Here's a picture of one interesting boy-related experience. The animal is dead, huge and bleeding all over over the bed of my truck. It's pitch-black and late at night. Where is that road? Could it be this one? No signs. Damn, where's that graveyard? Is that the church he meant? Couldn't there be a moon tonight? The countryside is barren. This is wilderness. I've driven for tens of miles without seeing so much as one other vehicle. Finally - a light. I stop and ask. Almost there. I made a wrong turn about 10 minutes ago but now I have good directions. I pull up to the place - to the game butcher. It's just a dilapidated shack in the hills with pale, yellow, very dim light pointing out the turnoff from the gravel road. "Ya got one? Back er on in, man!" The speaker is a half naked boy of about 11 years. He's wearing ragged shorts of some indeterminate sheer fabric. His straight, long hair is too dirty to identify a color. His arms and chest are dark with grime. No, walking into the light, I can see he's covered, not with dirt, but with blood. "Billy! Got another one! Come git er outta da truck!" Two men and a smaller boy, all shirtless and covered in blood, flecks of fat and gobs of matted hair walk out of the door and we all heave the animal onto a sled. We pull it into the shack. Several more are lying, gutted and stiffening on a concrete slab floor. A very large animal, far larger than mine, is hanging from a hook in the ceiling. His skin is half off already and one of the men begins to finish the job. The boys - now I can see they are blond and blue - return to their chores, spectral sights. The smell of the rich fat and the acrid blood is slightly nauseating. The boys don't seem to mind. They're cleaning the floor and pushing dead animals around. What a sight they are covered in blood yet grinning, smiling, joking and then pestering me for the story of my hunt. I negotiate a price and arrange for a pickup time. I accept the offered beer and sit down to tell my story again. Another truck pulls up. A man walks in, trailed by a young teenaged boy. No, they haven't bagged anything. They saw the sign earlier in the day and drove up to ask about the hunt - they want tips and suggestions. The teen's eyes take in the scene and become big as saucers. I notice that his breathing seems rapid and shallow. I hope he isn't going to vomit. The two little boys, crimson-stained and reeking of rancid fat, walk up. The older boy sees them and steps outside into the cool evening air. I've finished my beer and my story telling so I head to my truck. I pass the boy who's facing away from the butcher's shack, eyes drilling hard into the ground. "This is the worst part, you know. And it's over quick." "Yeah." "Not a hunter?" "I hate it!" "But you don't want to tell your dad?" Silence. "It takes a lot more courage to do what you think is right than it does to hunt even the biggest predator." More silence. I get into my truck and drive away into the inky blackness. (http site) The original post on BoyChat [Anonymizer] [NetHUSH] [Megaproxy] [subDIMENSION Anonymizit] [Linkbeat] [freeProxy] [@nonymouse] [BlackCode] [SafeWeb]