Moustaches and writing.
This month is National Write a Novel in November, since, after all, it is November. So while some of my friends might choose to raise your awareness of their prostate through growing a mustache, I am going to offer you something else: The opportunity to read a short story written by me, with a new passage added every day for the remainder of this month. Heres why: I have tried 3 separate years to write a novel in a month and everytime, like growing a full 70’s porn like stach in under a month, I have failed. It’s ok. I have come to terms with it– you learn from failure. So this year– it different. This year, I am just going to try to get out one story passage per day. Hopefully I will come up with one or two that everyone likes. Here goes:
Somewhere you will never be, WA.
3 solid days. 3. That’s how long I have been out here. Some years, its been longer before I hear the bugle for the first time– a few years, I haven’t heard it all. Other years, it’s just other hunters in the valley, making their desperate calls out to the other elk hunters here, but those have long since faded since I discovered this particular ridge some years back.
I know he’s here and its just a matter of time before his ______ gets the best of him and he becomes obsessed with curosity. Every bugle has to be perfect and timed perfectly to keep him in the game, but I know hes close, I can feel him closer every hour. These older bucks know these lands better than any man does and the slightest scent that I am here, he will not hesitate to go to another one of these unlimted peaks in these mountains, but I know this is his ridge.
I have been tracking this particular buck for the last several years. It was his magnificant barrel chest and impressive rack that I saw three seasons ago from another ridge– he had heard my bugle from that ridge and he ran to the high ledge of this ridge to see what other male was in his territory– it was close to the rut, so I was sure he was checking his compition. I saw him from below on the other ridge, out of range of my bolt and too far too track that year, but I swore I would be back that way– and it didnt take long.
I was back there the next season, lumbering my way up the side of the ridge like a billy goat. I had broken camp just below the ridge, knowing that hauling his carcass out of that ridge would probably take days. But he wasn’t going to give it up that season. There was no sign of him that year and I thought another hunter must have him hanging on their trophy wall.
But they didn’t. I saw him the end of last hunting season, as I was hauling out my kill for that year. That kill went down not far from the ridge that I had seen this giant buck, most like having again heard my call echoing through the valley, he was again in search of that other beast entering his territory– but I already had my kill.
This season I started up a little earlier than ever before so I could be on the ridge when the season opened– I knew that the process would be long and I wanted to get started as soon as I could in order to call him out– I knew now that he was resiliant and that it would take time before his pride won over his instinct.
I broke camp where I normally would and proceeded the long hike to the ridge and up it, intending to spend a little more time there each day, being patient as I knew that was the only thing that would get him to show himself. This would be going into the third season I had been tracking him and skill would be the only way to properly take down such an old codger like this. The hike in was long and the push up to the ridge took the last breaths of strength I had to give, but even on the first day up there, I could feel that this would be the place where the beast would breathe its final gasp of air.