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Satisfaction

By Jan Nesset

The last time my buddy and I belly crawled like this he got stung by something, plant or animal, causing him to puff up like a sausage and suck air like a double-barrel pump. He now carries an EpiPen. And here we are again, crawling through the same prickly pokey stuff a year later. My license filled earlier in the day, I crawled hands free as guide while my buddy scootched along his rifle. The herd of pronghorn antelope, our target, was oblivious to us, so far.
But it hardly mattered. They'd bust us, for sure. We had maybe a mile to crawl to get into shooting range of the herd. With us slithering elbows and knees over arid open prairie, the odds were in favor of the keen-sighted pronghorns. In our favor was a stiff cross wind, blowing away our scent, masking our sound and the swaying tufts of bunch grass and sagebrush distracting our movement.
We kept at it, keeping low, moving only when the nervous herd buck dropped his guard to shoo away young intruders moving in on his does. The girls grazed, idly ignoring the highly energized boys. Minutes passed, an hour. Another hour.
It seemed impossible, crawling to one impasse after another, where we held little confidence in whatever ahead could capably conceal us. Where we had little choice but to chance wriggling ahead, where each reaching of safety behind a sagebrush, a clump of grass or a small rise was recognized in silent gesture as a small miracle. It was slow going and we were getting lucky, miracle after miracle. Sunny, hot, and windy, the day stretched out. Fortunately, for us, the herd appeared to be pinned to this spot, close to a small prairie reservoir where the antelope were taking a long lunch of plentiful grass. And we were bearing down on them.
Itchy, sweaty, fevered by tension and getting recklessly tired, our persistence was paying off. We had kept under the radar, undetected by the herd and were pushing closer to it, deep into the thick of it. And deeper, until we had squirmed to below the lip of the earthen dam across the reservoir from the herd. It was a small dam, surely not a full day's work for a dozer, but its rise offered big relief, allowing us to sit up without giving us up.
The antelope, grazing beyond the distant shore, were a long shot from us but within prudent rifle range. It was a distance that would take a calculated aim in this wind and a relaxed trigger finger - a good shot. My buddy had only to creep to the top of the reservoir to get to the line of fire. Breathe. Breathe. Here we go . . . !

We could have called it a day right there. Almost! We had scratched out a great episode in a great day of hunting a great animal. Even without knowing how the shot would go, kill or no kill, getting to within rifle range of our quarry was back-slapping satisfying. The meals provided by that beautiful doe, superb.
For another take, check out "Success," pg. 12, by author David Petersen, an elk hunter who prefers taking his chances with a bow.