#12. Sacrifice

"I'll never hunt again."
The words pierced the air like an arrow sailing forward with devastating force and severing the jugular of the moment.
"What's the point.....?"

I stared at him for what must have been long enough to show my repugnant thoughts of the words he just spoke.

"It's what you live for."

The irony of the conversation was evident and thick on my tongue. This was the exact opposite of every other argument we had ever had. My marriage to Kenneth was founded on a mutual love for the outdoors, although we had very different interpretations. I knew the importance of hunting to him. It's who he was, and what he lived for. Not hunting, was simply not an option. I could hear the hurt in his voice, it hurt me to hear. It killed me to see. He had to hunt. He had to. I was convinced that it was now my life goal to get him in the field again.

My father had purchased me a life time license when I was a very young girl. One of the few gifts of my life that transcends far beyond materialism. It was like a life time subscription to conversations with God. There is no price on that, its invaluable. I had an archery tag, Kenneth had a rifle tag. It gave me a month to convince him to go, to remind him that he did love hunting, and it was okay.

My fingers resisted my demands to lace my boots. I stopped all movement, and focused on the trembling tips, literally saying the words "do it," as if commanding them to go against their own will to tie the laces. It was 3:30 a.m. on the opening day of the archery elk hunt. I was covered from head to toe in rag tag camo and enough gear to live in the lap of luxury for upwards of a week if I were to ever be stranded in the mountains. I stood in the mirror and examined my body. My clothes hung differently now. I was no longer curvacious and full of life, I was vacant and depleted. Much like a balloon that had been over filled and then lost it's helium. I maintained buoyancy, but only enough to keep from laying still on the floor. My depressed figure brushed the ground, and wafted with the breeze. My face was sunken in, and my eyes hollowed out. Dark circles framed  my dark eyes, making it look as if I didn't have an iris at all, just two black dots staring back at my self. I looked tough, in a crack head prostitute kind of way. I looked used, ravaged. Emotionally, I was. I grabbed my eyeliner and began to darken the lines around my eyes. I had always done this before hunting. Initially, it was because I was concerned I'd run into some lonely hunter boy who just so happen to see me sitting in a tree, 20 yards above the forest floor, decked out in camo, covered in the scent of sage and pine, sexy and available. At this point, I could care less if I saw another human, let alone take the time to identify gender. I was putting on my war paint. I knew what loomed in front of me.
Unavoidable Isolation.
I was going alone.
I thickened the lines at the thought.
Had I painted on red lips I could have easily gotten lost in the crowd on the corner of crack whore and waste of skin. What a site.
 My camo gave me comfort.
I thought for a moment that maybe I'd dissolve into the forest, blend in and become a living breathing part of the ecosystem, somewhere that didn't understand this hurt, somewhere that wasn't going to ask if I was ok. Somewhere that simply didn't care.
The truck must have driven itself. Propelling forward towards what I had avoided for two months, being alone.
The voice in my head cursed me for the whole drive, "What are you doing? This is a bad idea. Just turn around. Just go back. It's not your deal. Just go home." I shook it off, and pushed in the gas pedal. 98 miles an hour down the Indian bench, hurling towards insanity, and I knew it. I pushed it harder, fighting the tears and the gleam of the sun that threatened to warm the cold darkness. I cut the night with my headlights, traveling faster than the light could illuminate my path. 102 mph, I governed out. Had I not driven quickly, I would have had to crawl there, every excruciating step sucking the life out of me and tearing at my soul.
I knew I had to do this. I had decided that if I went up here, and harvested an animal, Kenneth would be required to help me....it's a spouse agreement. I get something, you help me, and vise versa. He had agreed to help, had I been successful. Success was imperative at this point. I had to get him on the mountain, to show him it was ok. I had to do this for him. I didn't want to, I didn't need to. I hadn't considered quitting the sport, it's too engrained in my core beliefs. But I certainly wasn't ready for THIS in any way shape or form....yet here I was. I painted it in my mind as a sacrifice I was willing to make for Kenny. Something I was willing to endure for him. The word sacrifice is rooted in the word "sacred," to make sacred......It's the willingness to lose everything in order to benefit the greater cause. I was gambling with what little sanity I had left, in the name of love. Today's Sacrifice.
I came to a stop at the top of a ridge, the same ridge I had sat on while I was pregnant with Weston and shot my first elk with my bow. It was familiar to me although it was still to dark to see further than three feet out of my window. I shifted to park, and killed the engine. My heart raced. I wasn't afraid of the night, it was going to end in a dramatic display of sunlight pushing its way to center stage. I always believed the sunlight pushed the night. I wasn't afraid of solitude, I didn't feel alone here. I was afraid of myself. My mind. My thoughts.
I instinctively slipped on my release and removed my bow from the case in near silence although I was still encapsulated in the truck. The radio whispered the baseline of some country song and illuminated my hands while I worked to get my gear in order. I unwrapped a laffy taffy and shoved the whole thing in my mouth. I chewed like a cow gnawing cudd, grinding it to a pulp and trying to misdirect my mind. I don't think I was even thinking. I was focused on what was ahead. Dark, it's still dark. I swallowed hard twice to get the ball of goofy berry taffy down my throat, and took a deep breath. Slowly, and with great caution, I pulled the door handle, and opened the door into the night. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It was more than a hurdle, it was a mountain, literally....a mountain I had to climb. 
Crickets. Even in the darkness they sang to me. Singing me songs of high pitched hope, erratic and inconsistent. The melodic tones soothed my tangled mind as I focused on trying to find some sort of pattern, or identify a single crickets tone in the midst of all of the chaos. My feet stepped forward, unsure of my footing, still straining to see. "That one is Bert," I thought, "nope, I lied, that was Henry, Bert is a little higher pitched, ah yes....that one is Merv, he must have been a smoker, his chirp is deep." My own stupidity almost made me smile. It was innocent and simple. Anyone laying witness to my insanity would have deemed me loony and locked me up. But to me it was a thought, any though but what was truly on my mind.
Rewind....Push play.
I walked on.
I had full intention of sitting on a water hole I had discovered a few years earlier. It was a steep and rocky hike in, but the physical exertion was not a concern. I noticed in my walking, however, that the pack I used to carry with ease, now cut into my shoulders and hips where I had cinched it down. The pack was too large for my frame now. I had shrunk a full inch, lost thirty pounds, and seemed to hunch a little. I had lost muscle, and myself, and my son.
Rewind....Push play.
Keep walking.......
The birds started singing and I knew daybreak was rapidly approaching. I was right on time for the morning migration. The elk funneled to this water every day, without fail. I was almost guaranteed a shot at something if I executed as planned. My harvest would equal Kenneth getting to come help, and in turn, planting the seed of desire for him to do the same. Keep walking. I reached my ground blind and unclipped my back, a blister popped on my side and I lifted my shirt to see a raw circle oozing water into my belt line. I had just started, it wasn't a good sign. I shifted my weight onto my heels and squatted down, moving branches and twigs I should have cleared weeks ago in preparation. I pushed myself into the brush and allowed it to tangle into my hair, pulling on it with death grips every time I moved more than an inch. It helped me hold still, and would keep me awake had I had the unique (and highly unlikely) opportunity to collapse with exhaustion. I faced the West but could sense the sun spying on me over the ridge behind me. I scooted my body into a position I could pivot and left clumps of hair dangling in the brush behind me. Should have worn a hat. I could see it shimmer in the fresh light. My thoughts regained focus on the dissipation of the darkness. It didn't want to focus on the light. I realized I was afraid of the light. The darkness was less obvious, and held mystery and possibly something worth seeing that I simply just couldn't see because it was dark. It held potential. Keep it dark and you'll never have to know for sure, you are left to wonder, and in a convoluted way, hope.  The light left no room for question. It was what it was. Blaring, obvious, reality. Staring me in the face. Looking at me. Warming me. Almost like a hug you just didn't want. I squirmed around in the leaves, rustling and making noise. This was stupid, I'd never see an animal if I couldn't hold still.......I regained focus and stilled my body. Still insanely uncomfortable. I felt like I was covered in ants, biting fire ants. And every single one of them was pissed. I turned from the sun and furrowed my brow in anger.  I coursed my fingers over my bow string, trying to hold my attention on the frayed filaments. There were no crickets, no birds, no sound. It was me. And my thoughts. And the fucking sun. I could have crawled out of my own skin. I would have skinned myself had I had access to my Wyo knife. No, I thought. I can't do this. I can't do this. Get me out. I was trapped. My hair was stuck, the branches clung to me, trapping me, I was stuck. Let me go. The sticks tore my skin, the sun tore my soul. My heart was breaking, I could heart it. I was losing it. I was losing my mind and I was aware of it. Conscience of my crazy. I pulled forward, my hair stayed back. I pulled harder, and felt it rip. I was seriously stuck. I clutched my bow with one hand and grabbed the prisoner strands with the other and slid my hand to the base of my scalp and lunged forward. I screamed in pain. Tears streaked my cheeks as I stumbled forward and faceplanted into the hoof trodden dirt. The pain was eminent but the freedom was a release. It hurt, but I was free. I lay in the dirt crying. Loudly. I was no longer hunting. I was dying. I was now the pray, and my own anxiety was the predator. I was a goner. The anxiety was a well practiced hunter with fierce precision in the blows it delved out.
 I had blood on my hands, I wasn't sure from where. I was sure I had a bloody nose because I could taste the blood in my mouth.
Rewind....push play.

I spit feverently, trying to get the taste out. I pleaded for something different. I grabbed a handful oakbrush, decorated with my gleaming hair like Christmas tassels. I shoved the leaves into my mouth and bit hard, drowning out the coppery flavor with the intense bitterness of the leaves and fibrous wood. I was on my knees and leaned forward over them to keep from vomiting. The flavor was brash and my body rejected it. Intensely. Tiny bits of goofy berry laffy taffy, mixed with that morning's coffee, and my own blood blew out of me with enough momentum to fill my mouth, and then my nose. At least it didn't taste like blood. I allowed myself to heave. This was good. This was starting over. I'd just start over. I sat in the "I'm puking leave me alone" position until I was sure the contents of my stomach were all laying in front of me. It became important to purge them all. I looked them over, observing the specs of blood I had so desperately not wanted to taste. It almost felt like a win to see them there in front of me. I hadn't allowed them to penetrate me, or stay with me. They were tiny flecks of resentment, and I'd be God Damned if I was going to choke on them. I filled my lungs with air. I filled them to max capacity, allowing my cheeks to bulge with over expansion and held my breath. I was going to breathe. There was movement. My ears pricked to the sound of a breaking branch, and I shifted my eyes up from my own tiny victory. Hooves, I could see hooves.
I had dropped my bow in the lunge forward, and it now lay battered and bruised a few feet from where I slumped. My cheeks deflated quickly and the sound of my lips vibrating at the rush of air alerted the passerby to my location. The air went still. I didn't breathe. I just hovered there. My heart started to beat into my ear drums, I was sure whatever this animal was (although I believe it was an elk based on the color of the hide directly above the hooves) knew where I was, when what I was, and could smell my laffy taffy/coffee/bile concoction by this point, and could hear my heart. But I remained still, overtaken by adrenaline, and a deep curiosity. My heart pounded now. I could feel the pressure coursing through my body, almost lifting my palms when it reached the wrists. The animal exhaled hard, and snorted in disgust. The hooves surged away from me, and were gone.
My mind was centered, for the first time in months. It was drawn from my own darkness into the blaring reality that was illuminated by the sunlight. I blinked hard a few times, taking in what had just transpired. It all looked crisp now. Defined by what I had, only minutes before, wished would stay dark. I began to notice things, I hadn't before. I braced myself over my pile of "victory" and clambered to my feet, coughing on the dust. I used my sleeve to wipe my nose, and noticed how sore it was. It felt broken and the cartilage offered little resistance to my pressure. It crackled, and blood rushed down my throat again.
Rewind.....push play.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
Keep walking. I thought........keep walking. Sitting was obviously not an option at this point. Spot and stalk, ya...that's what I'd do. I'd spot, and stalk. I was still determined to make this excursion about harvest success, and helping Kenneth. It was still my derived objective, and I was hell bent to see it through. This still, wasn't about me.

I did walk. My God, did I walk. I walked and walked and walked. According to my GPS I had walked 13 miles by the time I realized I had been going downhill for most of it. Although Newton would argue, what goes down.....must come up. I had no idea where I was. I hadn't considered looking for wildlife. I was focused on walking. I was going to walk until I was graced with the opportunity to harvest an animal, and I was going to drag Kenneth out here, and he was going to remember why this was important. I supposed I had imagined it would all just fall into place. There was no way this was going to be another loss......No one was that cruel.
So there I was, in the bottom of a canyon, I had just slid down the West facing hillside and stood face to face with the East facing sister face. It mirrored the opposing side, with the exception of the lack of a trail to help in the climb. My toes were tender from rocking forwards in my boots, trying to grip the hillside on my descent. I was inclined to avoid the steep climb, and instead turned to the north to follow the creek bed up the draw. Stopping was not an option. That type of imprisonment was torturous. It was past noon, I didn't have a clock and my phone was turned off to reserve battery. I wanted to make sure it was fully charged when I needed to call Kenny to come get me and my harvest. The sun was beating me down again. I was sticky with sweat and could no longer tell the difference between the liquid oozing from my blisters, and sweat that collected on my skin and then ran down the path of least resistance. I could smell myself. My clothes were wet to the touch. I kept walking. As I moved north, slower now than before, I remembered I hadn't eaten. Anxiety crept up my throat and threatened to constrict my airway, I stepped off the deer trail and made it a point to make my own trail. The harder the obstacle, the more thought it would take, the less the anxiety had to grip to. I lost my trail.......Now I was committed to my obstacle course. My blood sugar was low, I could feel my dyskinesia kicking in; I was disoriented and dehydrated. My feet splashed in a puddle. It hadn't rained recently, that I was aware of. I noticed the foilage had changed, and I was now standing in grass that covered my boots, and left streaks of moisture where dry leather had once been. Water?......I had found the creek that had once filled the creek bed. It hadn't had the longevity to reach the bottom of the canyon, but it had made it to this point. As I walked on, I noticed the puddles getting larger until a contiguous stream was at my feet. I was gaining altitude, but my mind focused on the increase in volume of the water. It was my newest muse. Rocks became larger until they were like terracing platforms, each one with their own water paths cut into them from hundreds of years of erosion. The water had taken from these rocks their sediment and weaknesses, and left a shallow pathway for the water to flow. Water carried life and nutrients to the grass I had just tolled over. I scaled the terraces and refused to glance back, or down. I had climbed several hundred feet in the matter of minutes, and hadn't considered my unreasonable fear of heights I had developed. I wasn't looking back now. I wasn't going back either. The only option was up. A ten foot ledge loomed in front of me, pioneering a new obstacle, a new muse. How to get up? Roots from an old pine penetrated the rock providing feeble, but considerable foot placings for climbing. I removed my pack and relished in the rush of air that hit the soaking clothes. I strapped my bow to the well placed clips, and replaced it. Cinching it once again as tight as it would go. It felt even bigger now. Like I had shrunk in the last few hours. I gripped a root above my head and placed a foot on the rock, knee high. All I had was a toe hold, but being faced with a ledge and no options, you become an expert mountaineer and rock climber, and make a move. The root broke and I stumbled backwards, landing on my bow and breaking an arrow. I was by no means hurt, but I was angry. "shit....." I said out loud while I looked at the arrow. I rolled it between my hands, examining the bend and determining it was now useless. The word "Love" was written in black ink on the side of the shaft. It was my feeble attempt to maintain sensitivity while I snuck through the forest looking for something to shoot at. It was a testament to my project. And now it was in my hands, broken. I dug the arrow into the sandstone rock face I was yet to climb. It stuck there, like a flag pole, my fletchings standing proudly at attention. I half smiled, and veered at the ledge again. Well......let's take another swing at that. I scaled it masterfully this time. Making my moves more calculated and testing the strength of my footing before attempting the step. I crested the ledge and pulled myself up by my arms, laying on my belly on the heated rock. It was hot, very hot, but the warm rock felt good on my skin. The water had pooled on this terrace. It created a small, private, rock bath that could have only been witnessed by me. I felt like the only person who had ever trespassed this land. It was mine, and I felt safe here. I lifted my hips and unhooked my hip straps to my pack, I slid my hand upwards and unhooked the breast strap and slid my arms from the restraints. The pack slopped to the side and I rolled onto my back. The water flowed gently from the rock above, and the splash from the fall danced on my face. It felt amazing. It felt like a reward for making it this far. I started crying. I wasn't sure why. I was never 100% sure why I was crying, I felt no need to distinguish the difference. It really didn't matter. I cry a lot. I believe tears are words that need to be said. I was alone, and laying there, enjoying the moment had become a point of guilt. I didn't feel worthy of enjoying anything. I curled into the fetal position and pulled my knees into my forehead. I sobbed. Breathing deeply, and coughing at the smell of my own body. The smell was exhausting, a mixture of vomit, sage, pine, and grief stuck to me like a bad perfume you wish you had never sprayed on yourself in the supermarket. And there it was, the rock bath. I pulled my shirt off, exposing just how badly I was blistered. I hadn't taken the time to care. I tugged on my belt and the weight of my knives dropped them to my feet. I peeled off my shoes, socks, and base layers and stood in the broad daylight, naked. The water was only a few inches deep in the depression on the rock, but my body fit perfectly inside of it and I let it wash over me. I was still crying. The water stung my wounds and I became aware of every single one of them. The water stung like the venom of a snake, biting me wherever I was exposed. I lay there until the pain subsided and relented into numbness. The water crept up my skin, washing away the day's tribulations. I cupped my hands and brought the water to my face. When it splashed down, the water turned red. The way it had when I washed my son's blood off. The pool tainted a pale pink against the sand colored rock, and I closed my eyes.
Rewind. Push play.
I opened my eyes and the water was clear again, washed away by the constant flow from the terrace above. Relief. I scooted back into the trickle and let it roll over my matted hair, I watched the filth fill the pool, and run off the rock. It became a part of the terraces below me. Something I had already passed, and wasn't going back to. I filled my lungs with air again, this time, just to capacity. This time, I exhaled. I opened my mouth to breathe again and the water trailed in, it was salty from my own skin and had a mineral quality to it. I let it trace lines down my face, wherever it desired. I let it wash me. For the first time in this new life, I felt clean. I turned sideways in the depression, knees and head offered to the rays of light, while my core continued to be washed. I fell to sleep.
I was startled awake again by another nightmare. I lay gasping and disoriented. Being strangled now by anxiety and the inability to fill my lungs the way I had before I fell asleep. I punished myself for allowing it to happen, I knew better. Never sleep. I jerked up and grabbed clothes, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. I put my clothes on again and strapped my pack on, my weapon still strapped to the back. I started the climb, leaving behind forever the water I baptized myself in. Just like the pink water, I let it be behind me. Something I'd never see again. Something I let go. I poked my cheeks with more taffy as I moved forwards, trying to keep a blood sugar level that would keep me from passing out and stumbling backwards. I wasn't hungry though. I never was. I had gone 17 miles now. It was going to get dark. I had made incredible time, but with no direction an object in motion is just that....an object. I needed to find my way back to the truck, and rejoin humanity............I needed to. I didn't want to. It took some time but my GPS picked up enough satellites to tell me that I had made a partial circle, and taking a direct cut across the diameter of the circle would put me back on the road, and close to my truck. The problem was the path of the diameter.....it cut straight through a rock slide. A steep rock slide. One ridiculous, terrible, unstable, piece of shit rock at a time I climbed 600 feet up, at a 15% grade. Up the draw was off course, down the draw was not an option, the rock slide was the new muse. When I reached the top I was soaked and smelly again. I didn't care. I looked down and felt the twangs of my phobia spring to life. I braced myself on a tree, gasping for air, and raised my free hand to flip it off. I wobbled with the lean and wrapped my arms around the tree. I felt as though it flipped me off in return. I turned my back to it, and left it behind. I meandered through the trees, grateful for a semi level surface and heard the familiar sound of hooves, somewhere close. I hunkered down and unstrapped my bow, returned my pack and placed my release on my D ring. I was ready now. It was about time. I could smell elk. They have a deep musty smell that is unmistakable. My heart raced again, surpassing the cardio workout I had just conquered and leading into adrenaline. They were coming. I knelt down and found solid stance. They were closing in. I knocked an arrow. A cow and two calves bounded towards me, almost in high spirits. Their eyes were growing larger as they approached me. I watched them, they didn't see me. She stopped at thirty yards, alerted by her sixth sense to danger. The calves stopped behind her, only a fraction of a second behind her cue. I drew my arrow on her and looked through my site. My fingers froze. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to release the arrow. And then what.
 Blood.
Rewind....push play.
Tears filled my eyes, I blinked to remove them so I could see my site, but I was shaking now. Shaking so hard my arrow fell from the rest and the cow jumped at the sound. "No"  I moaned. A short, defeated moan. They jolted and ran in the opposite direction, crashing into everything possible along the way to make it as notable as it could be that they were leaving, and I was there. The whole forest heard it. I know it did. There was once again, the cutting silence I had been afraid of. I once again sat, knees pressed to the ground, defeated. I lay my bow down and unhooked my pack. It leapt from my back and lay behind me, smashed, wet, and relieved to be free of me.
"I'm sorry" were my next words. I'm not sure who I said them too. Maybe the universe, maybe the elk, maybe myself, maybe Kenneth, maybe my son.
"I'm so sorry."
I was praying. I was begging forgiveness for my failure. For all of my failures.
"I was just a few feet away." At first I was talking about the elk, but quickly realized where I had let myself go with this. I began hyperventalating again, being strangled to death by anxiety like a robber demanding the till in a robbery.
"4 FEET" I told every tree in a 20 mile radius.......
"4 FUCKING FEET"
"I WAS 4 FEET AWAY"
 I screamed a long painful scream....... Birds flew from trees to flee my scene that was unfolding.
I pounded the ground and screamed over and over again ;
"Nooooooooooooooo"
"I'm so sorry"
"Baby, I'm so sorry"
"Mommy is so sorry"
"4 FEET"
"Baby no." 
I dug my fingers into the soil, grasping for root. Grasping for something to hold onto while I, once again, lost my mind.
I hated this day.
I hated how far I let myself destruct.
I screamed until I had no voice left. I screamed until I couldn't breathe and my voice was an echo of the sound of my heart breaking, once again. I squeaked my apologies, and caught my breath on an inhale, just to squeak more out again. I apologized over and over for the part I played in the death of my son. I apologized for the hurt everyone was feeling and my inability to soothe it, at all. I apologized for not saving him. I apologized for losing myself and letting everyone down. I apologized for falling short, very short, in my attempts to mother Weston. I apologized for my vacancy and my level of crazy that surpassed all else. I apologized for apologizing. I apologized for being alive. I apologized for being dead inside. I apologized that it wasn't me, and I didn't have a choice. I apologized for letting him ride his bike without a helmet. It was out of character, one of very few times it had happened. But I did that. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not knowing how to handle the pain. I'm sorry for erasing myself in order to focus on everyone else. I apologize for not recognizing the importance of grieving in due time. I'm sorry I couldn't love this better. I tried. I failed. I'm sorry for not walking around the truck before he pulled forward, I counted kids. He was up the road, I checked, I swear to God I checked. I'm sorry for yelling at the woman behind me on the street while I held my son. I know she was just concerned. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry to the children that were inside of the truck that day, forever changed, forever older. I'm sorry for the loss of innocence and the loss of control. I'm sorry for the loss. I'm sorry for the lost feeling everyone feels when they are around me. Like they don't know where to hold onto, or what to say. Please don't try. Tell me how you feel. Don't ask how I do. I'm sorry I'm stubborn. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry.
My voice was gone. The air was still. It was dark again. The moon illuminated the tears on my cheeks and tiny diamonds reflected off of them and gleamed in my stinging eyes. I picked up my pack and followed the tracks leading to the East. Leading back to my truck. Back to reality. Elk bugled in the background reminding me that tomorrow was a new day, and the world moved on. Past my grief, it moved on.
I found my truck and drove home. I watched the moon drag across the spattering of stars in the night sky. They reminded me of my tears glimmering on my cheeks. Stars will forever be, Heaven's tears. Heaven's words, unspoken. Heaven's words that need to be said.

"How was it?" He asked as I climbed into bed. I had showered, and erased the signs of my day.

"Really good," I tried to say enthusiastically, but it only squeaked out. I cleared my throat and tried again.
"Good" I forced, sounding like an 80 year old man.

He rolled away from me, "Going again tomorrow?" he asked, unconvinced by my conviction.

"Yep."

It was dark again.