"Wonderboy"
Four vultures circled the men as they walked up the spine road toward the highway. The scavengers, macabre silhouettes against a cloudless, powder-blue sky, glided silently along their orbits. The absence of any discernable effort on their part suggested they could wait out the men for as long as it took, until one of them dropped.
“Those buzzards up there don’t think you can make it, Jim,” prodded one of the men. His words puffed out in short bursts as he breathed heavily with each step. Droplets of sweat beaded on his nose and eyebrows before falling to the ground.
“I just gotta outlive you, Tom.”
The clay road beneath their feet was rockhard and gray. It’d been some time since a front passed through and the absence of any rain had left the clay road petrified and cracked, like magazine images in National Geographic of parched earth on a desert floor. Every now and then one of the men picked up a loose shingle of clay and sailed it sidearm down the road in front of them.
“How long’s this road again?” Tom asked.
“Right at two miles from where we turned back at the number thirty-two field to the blacktop,” Jim said. “Of course, we wouldn’t be having to walk two miles and hope Mr. Little’s around with his tractor if you hadn’t’a got the truck stuck.”
Tom groaned. “You’re the one who told me to stop and put it in four-wheel right in the middle of that low spot! Everybody knows you don’t slow down or stop in the mud; you keep going.”
“You were the one driving!” Jim shot back. “I just said I thought you might want to put it in four-wheel. I figured you knew how to drive your own truck through the mud.” Jim straightened his back a little after making what he thought was a good point.
Tom bristled because he knew it was. “Well -- you shouldn’t’a took us that way,” was all he could muster.
They trudged along in silence for the next few minutes until they began to walk up a steep rise in the road.
“I don’t ‘member this hill on our way in,” Tom said, panting.
“Course not,” said Jim. “We were driving down it coming in.”
“I also don’t ‘member that tree,” Tom said. “What happened there?”
Tom pointed to a black, hulking shell of a live oak which stood lifeless just off the side of the spine road. A full one-third of its girth, along with about half its canopy, lay skeletal on the ground. Worthless as firewood, it had been dragged aside and left uncut by the members of Jim’s hunting club after a lightning strike killed the ancient tree. The portion that remained standing was black, with a hollowed-out trunk and limbs that writhed toward the sky as if begging to know why it had been singled out for destruction.
“That’s the tree I told you about,” Jim explained. “We use it as a place to meet up when we come out of the woods. Got hit by lightning about three years ago, I reckon.”
He continued. “Last year I hung a trail camera on one o’them big limbs sticking up on that dead piece right there.” He motioned toward the brittle hulk of tree on the ground. “That’s where I got them pictures of that huge drop-tine I emailed to you.”
“Yeah, I remember that buck,” Tom said. “What’d you call him again?”
“Wonderboy. You know, like in that baseball movie, The Natural? Seemed fitting since I got his picture by a big tree that’d got split open by lightning. Man, that deer was perfect: big body; good sway in his back; low-hangin’ gut; huge, swoll-up neck; and that rack -- perfect four-by-four, with probly a eighteen- to twenty-inch inside spread.”
“And those drop-tines,” Tom interjected.
“And those drop-tines,” Jim said whimsically. “I thought he was just a 8-point until he had his head turned just right in one o’them pictures. But he’s a ten-point all right, with two big ol’ handlebars stickin’ straight down. I been obsessing over that deer ever since. Never seen ‘im on the hoof, though.”
The two men crested the rise in the road and spotted the highway about a mile or so up ahead at the end of the long clay road. They stopped briefly to catch their breath, each of them bending over and putting his hands on his knees. They relished the brisk wind that blew in their faces.
Still bent over, Tom turned his head and looked down a narrow path leading off the spine road into the brush.
“Psst!” he hissed, whispering to his friend who was turned the other way. “Freeze, Jim. Don’t . . . move.” Tom whispered his imperative to his friend who was turned the other way.
“What is –”
“SHHH! I think it’s Wonderboy,” Tom said, his voice still low.
Slowly, Jim turned his head until he saw the dark back half of a deer protruding from the sedge grass off the trail. With deliberation, the two straightened themselves up, taking care not to move too fast or make any noise.
But in a flash, the buck shot up its head and glared at the unfamiliar objects standing in the middle of the clay road. Grass and wild clover still hung from its mouth as it stared a hole through them, as if trying to assess the threat they posed.
The afternoon sun gleamed off its dark antlers. Its neck was thicker than Jim remembered. A loose brisket hung suspended from a broad tuft of white hair at the base of the neck. The buck weighed well over 200 pounds and was at least 4½ years old, they surmised. A true trophy. Jim stared, transfixed on the two drop-tines.
The buck rolled its jaw as if to chew one last bite of forage, then stomped the ground once with its left front hoof.
Time seemed to slow down. Jim tried to quell the nervousness in his throat, but after a few moments he could no longer hold off a coarse, dry swallow. His dry lips pursed together tightly and his Adam’s apple grated up and down. The involuntary action felt like sandpaper going down his throat.
With that, Wonderboy blew, squatted, turned and lept into the brush, all in the same explosive instant. The men remained motionless, as if they’d been caught red-handed robbing a jewelry store. They listened to the heavy thumps and crashes of Wonderboy’s exit until it was out of earshot. Neither of them moved. They were unable to speak for moments after the sound faded.
Finally, Jim broke the silence.
“Wonderboy . . .” His voice trailed off in pursuit of the object of his admiration.
“Wouldn’t you know it?” Tom offered. “The one time we leave our guns in the truck. Still, though, just seeing him like that makes for a great day outdoors, don’t you think?”
As the two friends turned back toward the blacktop, a cardinal with brilliant red plumage lit upon a branch of the twisted oak beside the trail where moments before Wonderboy had stood. The bird called out to the woods in Wonderboy’s direction, as if underscoring the men’s disbelief of their encounter, and the wonderment of their one lost chance.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
“Those buzzards up there don’t think you can make it, Jim,” prodded one of the men. His words puffed out in short bursts as he breathed heavily with each step. Droplets of sweat beaded on his nose and eyebrows before falling to the ground.
“I just gotta outlive you, Tom.”
The clay road beneath their feet was rockhard and gray. It’d been some time since a front passed through and the absence of any rain had left the clay road petrified and cracked, like magazine images in National Geographic of parched earth on a desert floor. Every now and then one of the men picked up a loose shingle of clay and sailed it sidearm down the road in front of them.
“How long’s this road again?” Tom asked.
“Right at two miles from where we turned back at the number thirty-two field to the blacktop,” Jim said. “Of course, we wouldn’t be having to walk two miles and hope Mr. Little’s around with his tractor if you hadn’t’a got the truck stuck.”
Tom groaned. “You’re the one who told me to stop and put it in four-wheel right in the middle of that low spot! Everybody knows you don’t slow down or stop in the mud; you keep going.”
“You were the one driving!” Jim shot back. “I just said I thought you might want to put it in four-wheel. I figured you knew how to drive your own truck through the mud.” Jim straightened his back a little after making what he thought was a good point.
Tom bristled because he knew it was. “Well -- you shouldn’t’a took us that way,” was all he could muster.
They trudged along in silence for the next few minutes until they began to walk up a steep rise in the road.
“I don’t ‘member this hill on our way in,” Tom said, panting.
“Course not,” said Jim. “We were driving down it coming in.”
“I also don’t ‘member that tree,” Tom said. “What happened there?”
Tom pointed to a black, hulking shell of a live oak which stood lifeless just off the side of the spine road. A full one-third of its girth, along with about half its canopy, lay skeletal on the ground. Worthless as firewood, it had been dragged aside and left uncut by the members of Jim’s hunting club after a lightning strike killed the ancient tree. The portion that remained standing was black, with a hollowed-out trunk and limbs that writhed toward the sky as if begging to know why it had been singled out for destruction.
“That’s the tree I told you about,” Jim explained. “We use it as a place to meet up when we come out of the woods. Got hit by lightning about three years ago, I reckon.”
He continued. “Last year I hung a trail camera on one o’them big limbs sticking up on that dead piece right there.” He motioned toward the brittle hulk of tree on the ground. “That’s where I got them pictures of that huge drop-tine I emailed to you.”
“Yeah, I remember that buck,” Tom said. “What’d you call him again?”
“Wonderboy. You know, like in that baseball movie, The Natural? Seemed fitting since I got his picture by a big tree that’d got split open by lightning. Man, that deer was perfect: big body; good sway in his back; low-hangin’ gut; huge, swoll-up neck; and that rack -- perfect four-by-four, with probly a eighteen- to twenty-inch inside spread.”
“And those drop-tines,” Tom interjected.
“And those drop-tines,” Jim said whimsically. “I thought he was just a 8-point until he had his head turned just right in one o’them pictures. But he’s a ten-point all right, with two big ol’ handlebars stickin’ straight down. I been obsessing over that deer ever since. Never seen ‘im on the hoof, though.”
The two men crested the rise in the road and spotted the highway about a mile or so up ahead at the end of the long clay road. They stopped briefly to catch their breath, each of them bending over and putting his hands on his knees. They relished the brisk wind that blew in their faces.
Still bent over, Tom turned his head and looked down a narrow path leading off the spine road into the brush.
“Psst!” he hissed, whispering to his friend who was turned the other way. “Freeze, Jim. Don’t . . . move.” Tom whispered his imperative to his friend who was turned the other way.
“What is –”
“SHHH! I think it’s Wonderboy,” Tom said, his voice still low.
Slowly, Jim turned his head until he saw the dark back half of a deer protruding from the sedge grass off the trail. With deliberation, the two straightened themselves up, taking care not to move too fast or make any noise.
But in a flash, the buck shot up its head and glared at the unfamiliar objects standing in the middle of the clay road. Grass and wild clover still hung from its mouth as it stared a hole through them, as if trying to assess the threat they posed.
The afternoon sun gleamed off its dark antlers. Its neck was thicker than Jim remembered. A loose brisket hung suspended from a broad tuft of white hair at the base of the neck. The buck weighed well over 200 pounds and was at least 4½ years old, they surmised. A true trophy. Jim stared, transfixed on the two drop-tines.
The buck rolled its jaw as if to chew one last bite of forage, then stomped the ground once with its left front hoof.
Time seemed to slow down. Jim tried to quell the nervousness in his throat, but after a few moments he could no longer hold off a coarse, dry swallow. His dry lips pursed together tightly and his Adam’s apple grated up and down. The involuntary action felt like sandpaper going down his throat.
With that, Wonderboy blew, squatted, turned and lept into the brush, all in the same explosive instant. The men remained motionless, as if they’d been caught red-handed robbing a jewelry store. They listened to the heavy thumps and crashes of Wonderboy’s exit until it was out of earshot. Neither of them moved. They were unable to speak for moments after the sound faded.
Finally, Jim broke the silence.
“Wonderboy . . .” His voice trailed off in pursuit of the object of his admiration.
“Wouldn’t you know it?” Tom offered. “The one time we leave our guns in the truck. Still, though, just seeing him like that makes for a great day outdoors, don’t you think?”
As the two friends turned back toward the blacktop, a cardinal with brilliant red plumage lit upon a branch of the twisted oak beside the trail where moments before Wonderboy had stood. The bird called out to the woods in Wonderboy’s direction, as if underscoring the men’s disbelief of their encounter, and the wonderment of their one lost chance.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 8:52 PM
