Perched atop the large blue spruce in my front yard, a Spotted Towhee sang his early morning song, loud and proud.
Little breaths visible in the crisp, cold air. Across the adjacent road, a noisy gaggle of Canada Geese landed in the barren field, taking advantage of the green blades of grass that had sprouted up in the spring-like weather of the previous few days. Every now and then, a car would pass by, disrupting the early morning birdsong.
While my grandparents were busy getting my brother up-and-at-em for school, I was seated on my front porch with my rifle in its case leaned up against me, and a cold soda on the glass table on the other side of me. My grandpa had found a box of .243 rounds stashed away in his garage, so I spent my morning looking over each of the 14 remaining rounds in the box, silently reminiscing about the last time I had those rounds and that gun with me.
In my mind’s eye, I could see the misty plains through the window of my hunting guide’s truck as we ventured towards the southern side of the cattle ranch. It was just barely legal light, but the mist completely obscured anything ten or more feet away from us. Just as the mist began to burn off, a frantic herd of pronghorn does appeared just before us, desperately trying to find a way to cross the barbed wire fence that flanked either side of the road. I remembered the feeling of adrenaline that shot through me when I spotted my prey just feet ahead of us, especially when the pursuing buck showed up, and the does forced a path underneath the fence with him right on their asses.
That’s when me and Mike (my hunting guide) bolted out of the truck in hot pursuit of the animals, before Tom (Mike’s dad) had a chance to stop the truck. Together, fueled by “Buck Fever”, we scrambled under the fence where the pronghorn just had, then sprinted over to the edge of the ridge just as the buck disappeared below the draw. Mike and I dropped to the ground and lay prone in the prairie sage. While Mike located the pronghorn through his rangefinder, I desperately tried to aim my rifle through the prairie brush. Unfortunately, the brush was just too tall and the pronghorn were too far away for me to get a good shot. So, Mike and I agreed to go back to the truck, our shoulders slumped and heaving, but our hearts overwhelmed with euphoria.
“You ready to go?” my grandpa Lyle’s voice suddenly startled me out of my daydream.
“Uh, yeah! Yeah, I am!” I replied as I stood to my feet and gathered my things.
I carefully placed my rifle in the trunk of my Xterra, stuffing it between the backseat and a couple of blankets I kept back there. I shoved the box of rounds between a jug of windshield fluid and bottle of transmission oil I kept in the trunk as well. Finally, I sat shotgun with the heated seat on as high as it could go, while my grandpa took the driver’s seat and grandma sat in the backseat with my brother. My brother could’ve gone to Greeley with us for the day, but for some reason, he was more interested in hanging out with his friends at school than he was in riding horses and shooting guns.
After dropping my brother off at school, my grandparents and I ventured east then north across the plains I grew up on. On our way, my grandparents had the latest news on the radio, to get updates on the war between Russia and Ukraine going on across the pond. After some time, my grandpa asked, "What do you feel about this conflict as a young person?"
Not knowing how to initially respond, I asked back, "Well, what was it like being my age during the Vietnam war?"
My grandpa, understanding the message, sort of smirked as he began to think back to when he was a college student in the late 60's and early 70's. In 1968, my grandpa's draft number was called. Being the hippy(ish) rebel he was at the time, he wrote a scathing letter to the recruitment office letting the military know that he was against the war. But the military soon wrote back to let him know that being a conscientious objector to the war wasn't going to get him out of it, and they'd arrest him if he tried to dodge the draft. So, my grandpa finally dragged himself into the recruitment center to be evaluated and placed in a military position.
Luckily for my grandpa, he was rejected by the military for having a minor skin condition and a fractured toe. My grandpa's brother, Delton, was also rejected for the same skin condition. My grandpa's other brother, Gary, was allowed to stay home despite his number being called because he was working for Boeing as an intern physicist at the time.
One year after he was almost sent to fight a war he didn't believe in, my grandpa's mom passed away from cancer. In order to process and heal everything that was happening, my grandpa dropped out of college for a time and did a little traveling. One of his good friends was attending Texas State University at the time. While a few years had passed since the infamous sniper shootings that occurred at the university, the place was still rife with protests and riots from students over Vietnam and Civil Rights issues.
My grandpa recalled sitting atop a hill overlooking the university and watching a line of heavily armed police officers spraying a crowd of rioting students with tear gas. Eventually, the wind carried the tear gas to my grandpa (who was a half mile away from the chaos). It was so potent that even my grandpa was forced to leave, and was caught in a minor stampede of distraught and terrified students. Thankfully, he was able to get to his car and escape before the riot became more widespread. But, it still messed with him, and he decided to return to the farm in North Dakota to clear his mind and run the combines.
Of course, on top of the Vietnam war, the threat of nuclear war was ever-present. My grandpa spent his whole childhood learning about nuclear bombs and being "evacuated" to the Garrison Dam to hide in during routine nuclear bomb drills his school had. My grandpa's family also had a room in the basement dedicated to hoarding emergency supplies, and they always had an extra steer or two for themselves in case things went south. But, beyond that, my grandpa admitted the wars didn't really impact his daily life all that much, especially since it was easy for him to just turn off the TV and the radio (or not tune into the radio/TV when the nightly news was on).
These days, things are much different, and my grandpa once again asked how I felt about current events.
"Well... Doomscrolling is certainly addicting even though I still refuse to return to social media... The news' just everywhere. Ya can't ever really escape it, unless you set all of your electronics on fire and go live in a bunker twenty feet underground." I began, struggling to put my feelings and thoughts into words, "I mean, just look!"
I nodded out my window to a farm with a Ukrainian flag mounted alongside their mailbox.
"I see..." my grandpa mumbled.
"And, if you open up Google, it will automatically pull up a long list of sensationalized headlines and pictures on current events." I continued, "Hell, I can't even watch a Youtube video about puppies without encountering several different livestreams of the war in Ukraine..."
"Yeah, it's crazy how connected we are these days." my grandpa commented, "Never in my whole life did I think it would be possible for each of us to carry around a miniature super-computer in our pockets, that instantly connects us to anything and anyone we want... Yet, here we are."
"Which is why it's so important to have self-control... But, even I don't have the discipline to meticulously curate my data and internet to block every news website imaginable. I'm just so glad I can no longer doomscroll on social media, and I don't have the desire to return to social media ever again. Instagram alone would've given me a heart attack by now." I sighed, "Yet, I'm still watching the situation in Ukraine like a hawk, even though if Putin and his cronies decide to nuke us, I'd rather just not know it till I'm incinerated."
My grandpa simply nodded. He, too, had to severely cut his social media/news consumption after having an actual heart attack. Apparently, the stress and anxiety caused by doomscrolling the news and social media is a major contributor to health issues, including heart attacks. Needless to say, I believe it!
"Well..." my grandpa muttered, "If it's any consolidation, just know that we aren't nearly as close to nuclear annihilation as we were when I was growing up, and even in the 90's. Even if Putin's crazy and egotistical enough to order a nuclear strike or strikes, I strongly doubt those who actually ready, aim, and fire the nukes will listen. I can remember several times Russia had the go-ahead to launch nukes as late as the 90's, but didn't. The nuclear technicians disobeyed. Plus, it's important to always remember that most journalists, news networks, and social media sites make mountains out of molehills to make money. They will purposefully put inflammatory words into the titles of their headlines to scare people into clicking on their articles or videos."
"I know. But, things are still scary and uncertain, even if we can logically conclude that nuclear war is highly unlikely to happen. Because, even without the sensationalism in journalism, it seems like World War Three is imminent. If so, what then?"
"Well, it would be tough for sure, but we'd get through it." my grandpa assured me, "In a way, we're already feeling the impacts of a possible World War. Gas prices are rising because we cut Russia and Belarus off. Covid also screwed a lot of things up in the supply chain. Things like computer chips and raw materials are very hard to come by. I mean, your mom's little Rav4 was bought by the dealership for $10,000, and it was several thousand bucks cheaper for her to purchase a brand new 4Runner than it would've been for her to purchase a used one. In times of war, the war effort will certainly be prioritized, which will cause even more inflation and shortages. However, beyond that, not a lot would actually change."
"Are you sure, though? I mean, what if they have to reinstate the draft in the case of WWIII? What if my medication is hard to come by as a result of the war? What if the war comes to our shores, Pearl-Harbor style, this time between us and Russia? What if China sides with Rus-"
"That's enough 'What ifs' for a week, Maya!" my grandpa chuckled, "Don't let those silly little questions run away from you. We're not even close to needing to think about those questions. But, to answer a few: Just remember we live in the richest, most prosperous country in the world, in the richest, most prosperous times humanity has ever experienced. If World War Three becomes a reality, I think the government would do its best to keep us safe and healthy. They'll need a safe and healthy population to lead and aid the war effort, after all. That includes you and me."
"Plus," my grandpa continued, "If I remember correctly, all of your medication is sourced and manufactured right here, in the States. I don't think there will be a lot of people with CF on the front lines, so your medication won't be disrupted. Things like gas and certain foods may be rationed, meaning a certain amount of gas and wheat may be allotted to each person per month. We may also see the price of computers and electronics spike even more, and cyber attacks would likely become more widespread and common. But, by in large, things will be easier for us today than they were back during both World Wars because of technology and globalization. Beyond that, it seems that even China is peeling themselves away from Russia. If Russia decides to start World War Three, they may very well be facing the world alone."
"But, as I said, you don't need to worry about any of this right now, because, well, right now, we are just fine." my grandpa smiled, "And, I suspect we'll be just fine next week, and the week after, and the week after that. Even if the world ends tomorrow, guess what? We're promised everlasting life in Christ-"
"I'm not scared of death." I interrupted my grandpa, "I'm scared of the dying part. I've already felt some pretty excruciating pain. The last thing I want to go through is a slow and painful death by nuclear fire."
"Well, I don't think anyone wants to experience that, which is why nuclear war is so unlikely." my grandpa pointed out, "I doubt even Putin- as unhinged as he is- will actually go nuclear anytime soon. His higher-ups will take him out before he has a chance to send a nuclear warhead our way."
"I can only hope..." I trailed off, feeling the anxiety and dread rise up my throat.
As though he was cued, I suddenly saw a fluffy pronghorn buck plod up to the crest of a knoll near the highway. He'd shed his horns by then, leaving behind two long spikes protruding from his skull. Soon, the keratin on his winter spikes would begin to grow out over the spring and summer, forming a new set of sleek, pronged horns that they're known for. The buck stood tall and proud on his little hill as we drove by. Almost instantly, my mind went from freaking out about the shit going down in Europe, to thinking about how thrilling it was to see, stalk, and hunt the pronghorn.
Not long after, we merged off the highway and onto barren country roads, where a Bald Eagle greeted us. He was perched on a barbed-wire fence post, watching us closely through golden eyes as we approached then sped by him. In the rear-view mirror, I watched the eagle spread his great wings and make his way to a barren oak tree across the road. Perhaps, it was my grandpa Bob perched on that fencepost, reminding me that he was watching over me.
It wasn't long before we were driving alongside the cornfield where grandpa Lyle and I raced horses one summer day. Unfortunately for me, I was stuck on the back of Apache; my great-uncle's lazy packhorse and the same horse that bucked seven-year-old me after he'd been spooked. So, my grandpa (who was riding a much more spirited horse called Smudge) won that competition by a long shot. Of course, I was racing a packhorse against a barrel horse. Therefore, I was bound to lose. Still, I had too much fun posting Apache's trot while watching Smudge with my grandpa galloping far ahead of me. Those adventures were the highlights of my middle school years. Riding nearly-feral horses has always been in my blood, as have things like hunting, fishing, working with cattle, and just living and working with nature and the animals in general. If only I had the health and stamina to make a living off that.
Finally, a narrow, dusty road led us to our final destination. Elk sheds lined the entirety of my great uncle's front yard fence, and a mailbox sat atop a mound of sunbleached antlers and deer skulls. Mounted above every door to his house and barn were more bull elk skulls, and a few skulls from recent hunts were left out in the garden to naturally rot. Parked in the driveway was my great uncle's pickup truck, packed up and ready to head for the shooting range.
My grandpa parked the Xterra and all three of us stepped outside, just in time to be greeted by my great aunt and uncle, who were both elated to see us. We haven't seen each other since before the pandemic. Frankly, I didn't expect either of them to live through it. Yet, thanks to God, we were reunited once again. Fully vaccinated and immune, ready and able to gather together after two full years worth in bullshit.
After greeting each other and catching up, great uncle Courtney took my rifle off my hands and asked, "So, when was the last time you shot this thing?"
"Not since I killed that pronghorn." I admitted truthfully.
"Well! We're gonna change that today. How many rounds ya got?"
"Fourteen. Counted them this morning. I don't plan on shooting more than I have to. This ammo's only getting more expensive and hard to come by."
"That, it is!" my great uncle agreed, "Thankfully, your rifle should still be sighted in just fine. Your aim, however..."
I grinned, "I bet I can still get more bullseyes than you."
"Ha! We'll see about that!" my great uncle laughed, accepting my challenge.
"You wanna bet?" I smirked.
"Uhhh, I don't think we'll have time for that." I great uncle said as he carried my rifle to the back of his pickup.
"Uh-huh..." I murmured doubtfully, knowing I could easily win the challenge (my great uncle obviously knew too), "Sure we don't. Sure we don't..."
Before long, we (great uncle Courtney, great aunt Sharon, my grandparents, and myself) were on the road again, this time heading towards my great uncle's favorite gun range in the middle of Colorado's Great Plains.
While the adults talked about boring things only Boomers like to talk about, I let my mind wander once again, taking me back to the wide open wilderness. My mind was on pronghorn that day. I was out on the plains, shooting my .243, in cool (though not cold) weather. Riding in the backseat of my great uncle's pickup truck again brought me back to the first time I hunted a pronghorn. The fall of 2017 was a rough one for me. I was fighting a nasty Pseudomonas infection, and was set to fly out to Portland in a couple weeks, when a mix of sheer stubborn will and cabin fever got me out of bed just long enough to go shoot my first pronghorn.
By then, I'd applied and received lifetime permission from CPW to shoot from a vehicle and have my hunting buddies tag and butcher my kills for me. So, I was basically going to be able to sit in my great uncle's heated truck the whole hunt if I wanted to. But, I was so desperate to be "normal" for a little bit that I ended up spending a good chunk of that morning hunting on foot. At least, until I got cold and tired, which was often. Thankfully, the hunt only lasted three hours, most of which I spent seated in the truck with a pair of binoculars, only going out to try for a shot. By the time I had a doe down, I was absolutely spent, even with the adrenaline of a thousand energy drinks pumping through my veins. While my great uncle, his son, and my grandpa butchered my pronghorn for me, I sat in the pickup on a heated seat, sheltered from the wind and cold outside.
Looking back, I wish I had the energy to chase the pronghorn on foot, like I did the following fall. But, I must admit, it was a miracle I mustered up the energy and strength I did to go hunting in October of 2017 at all. And, it was something I needed to do, not just for food, but to boost my morale; to give me the courage I needed to fly to Oregon to enroll in a scientific study to fend off my lung infection with phage viruses. If I could shoot a pronghorn despite being sicker than an elderly pug with a collapsed lung, then I could inhale a couple vials of phage viruses from a Georgian sewer for a few weeks and probably be okay. At least, that's what I told myself.
Thank God I was right.
In 2018, I was much healthier, but still not exactly healthy, when compared to "normal" people. Still, I was too jittery to spend a lot of time in the truck at a time. So, me and my hunting guide spent a lot of time on foot, charging up steep plateaus on all-fours like wild animals, and sliding down steep draws on our asses, all while trying to maintain our stealth so we didn't spook the pronghorn away. Of course, no hunt is complete without a few (harmless) mishaps and misadventures. Still, being skewered by cacti needles, spooking pronghorn, nearly falling ass-over-teakettle down a plateau, trying to stay warm in the middle of 30-mile-per-hour snow squalls without shelter, and nearly getting the truck stuck in some mud, only made the hunt more fun than it already was.
"Maya!" my great uncle's voice startled me out of my daydreaming, "Whatcha up to these days in college? What classes are ya taking this semester?"
"Oh, uhhh, I'm taking Literature and Career Counselling." I replied, a little dazed.
"Nice. How you likin' Literature?"
"Eh, it's alright. It's not hard at all, and I really liked one book we read. I'm not much of a fiction reader though, so it's a little tough to read through our current books without my eyes glazing over."
"Ah, that's okay. Y'know I wasn't much of a reader either, but way back in the dinosaur days, I had a professor who knew how to get me to read. Ever since then, I've loved it." My great uncle reminisced, "I can give you a few book suggestions if ya like. I just finished reading "Where the Crawdads Sing", and I might have to read it again it was so good."
"Hmmm, I'll think about that. I have a lot of memoirs I have yet to read." I admitted.
"Speaking of which, aren't you writing a memoir?" my great aunt Sharon asked.
"Yeah... Kind of. I haven't touched it much for a couple years." I admitted, "Writing a book is much harder than I thought."
"Well, I'm sure it'll pay off when you eventually get it published." my great aunt smiled, "I could help you with marketing whenever you get it published. Plus, I wanna read what ya have to say!"
"So do I!" my great uncle shouted, "I will be the first one in line to get that book. I hope you write a lot about hunting in it!"
"Oh, I will." I nodded.
We suddenly veered off the gravel road we'd been driving on for a few miles, then went through a gate that opened up to the gun range. Each range was surrounded by huge mounds of dirt, ranging from 10 yards to 100 yards in length. For my .243, we first stopped at the 100 yard range to sight it in. If it was still properly sighted in at 300 yards, then my shots would be a little high on the target if I aimed for the bullseye.
As soon as the pickup truck was parked, I stepped outside and instantly went into "safety first" mode. Or, "Sergeant Nibbe" as my grandparents affectionally call me. My great uncle, who spent his entire life as a game warden and hunting/range instructor, also became super strict. Every move I made was under my great uncle's intense supervision. If I made just one little mistake, he'd call me out on it.
However, because of how seriously I took gun safety, I didn't hear him give me one hint of scrutiny as I got set up to shoot. We were the only ones at the 100 yard range that morning, but even then I kept my head on a swivel for any possible guests. Especially when I jogged down to the end of the 100 yard range to put up a target.
Unlike gun ranges close to the city, this rural range didn't have any rangemasters supervising it. It was up to us (the shooters) to coordinate with other shooters to avoid any dire accidents. Thankfully, my great uncle knew that range very well, and was very good at coordinating with other shooters and taking on the role of rangemaster if/when needed. After all, that's just what he's always done, and he's loved every second he's spent teaching others about hunter's safety and the great outdoors. In exchange, the owners of the shooting range will reload empty shells for my great uncle for free, and occasionally give him some wild game if they have extra. I certainly feel blessed to have been taught all things hunting, fishing, shooting, and horsemanship under my great uncle Courtney's wings. Especially since everyone else in my family, besides my uncles and cousins in Minnesota, are city slickers. And, as a kid, I was unfortunately too sick and skittish for Scouting or something similar.
But, things are different now. So, so, so much different, in the best way possible.
After stapling a target to the plywood backboard, I jogged back to the shelter from which I'd shoot. My great uncle already had everything we needed to get the party started, set out on a table. All I had to do was put on some hearing protection (my glasses were sufficient eye protection), get into position, and do what I do best.
I sat down at the cinderblock table, where I first took my rifle out of its case and immediately opened up the chamber to check for any rounds. As I expected, the rifle wasn't loaded. Still, to be as safe as possible, I stuck my finger into the chamber to just make extra sure there wasn't anything hiding in the barrel that shouldn't be there, then I checked to make sure the gun's safety was on (it was) and took out the magazine.
The magazine could hold six rounds, but I only loaded in three. Like I mentioned to my great uncle, the Winchester 100-grain .243 rounds I had were very hard to come by, and were ridiculously expensive. When I shot my pronghorn in 2018, a box of 24 rounds never went for more than $10. Now, they were no less than $25. If I were to switch to different rounds, I would have to completely re-sight-in my rifle and get used to the trajectory of a new round. That wasn't something I was desperate enough to do, yet. I had hoped the ammo prices would go down in a couple years after ammo prices spiked thanks (or no thanks) to covid. Now, with World War Three on our asses, I feared ammo would only get harder to find and more expensive.
I promised myself I wouldn't use more than six rounds that day, though I hoped I only needed three to get my rifle properly sighted in. At 100 yards, if I aimed at the bullseye, I would expect the rounds to be a few inches above the center of the target if my gun was still sighted in for 300 yards. If it was sighted in at 300 yards, I'd have to point the crosshairs on the target a few inches below the bullseye.
I announced, as loudly as I could, "Range is hot!" as I flicked off the safety and searched for the target through my scope. My great uncle was at the table next to me with his range finder, so he could let me know in real time if I hit the target. My grandpa stood on the other side of me, watching over my shoulder as I watched through the scope.
As I found the center of the target with my crosshairs, I transitioned into a sort of meditative state. My vision through both eyes tunneled through the scope. My breathing became very slow and controlled. My heartrate plummeted. When everything felt just right, I squeezed the trigger fully, allowing the rifle to almost startle me when it went off. Just as I hoped, the bullet hit the target a couple inches directly above the bullseye. If the target was 300 yards away, I would've hit the bullseye, just a little to the right. Had I been aiming at a pronghorn, it would be dead.
I inhaled as I pulled the bolt back and ejected the empty round. The lovely scent of gunpowder filled the air, much stronger than I remembered it smelling. I could almost taste it. It was then I realized that the gun didn't kick nearly as hard as I remembered it kicking. Last time I shot a rifle of a lower caliber (which was in Nebraska), my shoulder was sore from my bones getting the brunt of the kick. Now, I had a layer of muscle and fat that I didn't use to have, protecting my shoulder bone from taking the full impact of the rifle's kick.
When I inhaled and exhaled a second time, purposefully taking in a huge breath, I didn't cough or wheeze when I let it out. My lungs filled up with air and exhaled it with ease, clean and clear as ever.
"Keep a'goin'!" my great uncle shouted.
I obeyed. I slid the bolt forward, loading a new round, and stared down the target through my scope yet again. At this point, my heart was beating a million miles a second. I was jittery from the excitement. I wasn't hunting anything except for a paper target stapled to a plywood board a hundred yards away, but my instincts were in overdrive, as though it was a pronghorn standing broadside downrange.
With my finger pressing on the trigger, I did my best to slow things down again. I fought to control my breath and slow down my heart rate. I struggled to ward off the shakes-n-shivers. The rifle then fired a second time. While I was still on target, my aim was a little more off. This time, a few inches above and to the left of the bullseye. Still, had I been aiming at game, I would've been eating well that evening.
"Good job!" my great uncle exclaimed, "Don't forget to squeeze, though! Fire one more time!"
Again, I pulled the bolt back to eject the empty shell, then slid it forward loading in the third round. This time, I managed to regain a little more control over my body. With my breathing slowing down, I could count between heartbeats again, and for a brief moment, I stopped shivering. The rifle fired a third time, sending a round still above the bullseye, but a little less to the left than my second shot.
Finally, I pulled the bolt back to eject the final round, then let the gun rest on its side, chamber open and smoking a little.
"Atta girl!" my great uncle congratulated me, "You've still got impeccable aim!"
"Damn right, I do!" I boasted, high-fiving my great uncle and then my grandpa.