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Hunting Trip
CMF Short Fiction
By Matt Woody
Posted on Thursday, October 7 at 10:00 p.m.
It was finally here; this was the storm he had been anticipating for almost six weeks. He found it
ironic that this was the most invigorated he had felt in years. He couldn’t remember the last time he
had been this excited about anything. He checked the weather one more time to see if the Alberta
clipper and the moist pacific front were still on course to collide over central montana in three days.
The storm was setting up to dump two feet of snow in the plains and twice that in the mountains—
perfect weather to drive the elk down into the bottoms.
He could feel his heart pounding as he checked his list again. Everything was already loaded. He knew
he had to go now or never. He grinned as he thought to himself that he wasn’t getting any younger.
He loaded the horses in the trailer and started the truck. He ran back inside to triple check, he hated
to forget things. This was it.
He grabbed the pain killers he had been hoarding for weeks and reached into the desk drawer and
pulled out and envelope addressed to his boys. He sat the envelope on the table, inside were the
directions to where he was headed in case someone needed to find him. He opened the back door
and suddenly turned and walked back to the mantle. He reached up and took her photo down. He
carefully removed the frame and placed the photo between the pages of his Bible.
Now he was ready. He jumped in the truck put it in gear and pulled out the drive. The journey had
begun.
For twenty-seven years, he had been trying to draw a bull tag for The Breaks. It was one of the most
coveted tags in the state, heck the country. Anyone drawing it and willing to put in the effort was
almost guaranteed a 380-plus bull.
He had grown up down here; his family had homesteaded there; it was in his blood. His boys had
learned to hunt here. Every fall they made a ten day hunting trip down there on opening day. He was
going to miss that.
They made their traditional hunting trip early in the season because as soon as the fall rains came it
made this place inaccessible. The locals called it “gumbo,” a mixture of bentonite, topsoil and river
sediment that made any travel by vehicle all but impossible. Even four wheel drives with chains would
soon find there fenders filled and all movement stopped. What most people didn’t know was that it
drove the elk out of the jagged breaks into the river bottoms. His sons had said he was too sick to
make the trip and had cancelled the annual hunt. The fact that he had drawn the once in a lifetime
tag had not swayed their decision a bit.
The excitement of planning the hunt of a lifetime had lessened the agonizing pain that shot up from
his thigh. The cancer had spread. They had told him that even with chemotherapy he didn’t have
much of a chance. After seeing what the chemo had done to her, he had decided he wasn’t going to
go through that or put his boys through that again, either.
He thought about her more these days; it didn’t hurt as bad as it had, but there was still an
emptiness he knew would never go away. Thirty-four years she had been by his side. Now he was
alone. Thinking of her made the trip fly by and before he knew it the sign said “Musselshell Trail.”
He had been driving for three hours. He got out of the truck, and the pain from his leg shot through
his body. He knew he had sat to long. He limped around to check on the horses; everything seemed
in order. He took a pain pill and hopped back in and took a deep breath. This was it.
The Breaks had always been a special place ever since his grandfather had brought him here as a
boy; this had been the place he felt like he belonged. He drove until he reached Whiskey Ridge. He
knew if he pulled his truck into the bottom it would be there until spring. By 10:00 am he had the
horses loaded. He had to hurry now if he wanted to have camp set by dark. The trail was dry and
they made good time weaving their way through the steep canyons. By noon the pain in his leg was
unbearable. He got off Johnny and almost fell to the ground in agony. For a second he wondered if
he had made the right decision. Then, from the cottonwoods, came a lone bugle, and he knew he had
he walked down the trail for a couple miles with Johnny in tow.
He thought to himself that he hadn’t set a wall tent by himself in thirty years as he stacked the last
sod flap in place. He went inside and started a fire in the stove, went back outside and grained the
horses as the sunset lit up the river like a ribbon of fire. He went inside, fired up the lantern, took out
his Bible and her photo, and fell asleep.
The sound of light rain woke him to the smell of damp grass and canvas. For a second he
forgot where he was until he tried to roll off his cot. The pain shooting through his joints instantly
reminded him. He carefully got to his feet and stoked the fire and put on the coffee pot. He ate a
piece of toast and took two pills.
The smell of the brewing coffee and smoke brought him to life, and soon he was ready for the day.
As soon as he walked outside the tent, he was immediately greeted by the horses. Soon they were
fed and watered and his own breakfast was almost done. As soon he was done eating the rain
started to pick up and he heard a cow elk call in the distance. He smiled to himself; it was almost
time.
He hobbled the horses and turned them loose in the meadow above the camp just before lunch. He
went back down, pulled out his trusty camp chair and sat staring at the Missouri river through the
driving rain.
The cold jarred him awake. He had fallen asleep. Now the stove was almost out, the rain had changed
to snow, and the horses were sounding their disapproval at not being grained yet. After taking care
of the horses and bringing in wood for the night, he made himself a sandwich and lay down on his
cot.
He knew his little nap was going to make sleep difficult, so instead he just lay there, thinking.
Matt Woody is a sixth-generation Montanan who lives in Lewistown. He can be reached at
mattwoody59405@msn.com.
Discuss this article and read comments
CMF Short Fiction
By Matt Woody
Posted on Thursday, October 7 at 10:00 p.m.
It was finally here; this was the storm he had been anticipating for almost six weeks. He found it
ironic that this was the most invigorated he had felt in years. He couldn’t remember the last time he
had been this excited about anything. He checked the weather one more time to see if the Alberta
clipper and the moist pacific front were still on course to collide over central montana in three days.
The storm was setting up to dump two feet of snow in the plains and twice that in the mountains—
perfect weather to drive the elk down into the bottoms.
He could feel his heart pounding as he checked his list again. Everything was already loaded. He knew
he had to go now or never. He grinned as he thought to himself that he wasn’t getting any younger.
He loaded the horses in the trailer and started the truck. He ran back inside to triple check, he hated
to forget things. This was it.
He grabbed the pain killers he had been hoarding for weeks and reached into the desk drawer and
pulled out and envelope addressed to his boys. He sat the envelope on the table, inside were the
directions to where he was headed in case someone needed to find him. He opened the back door
and suddenly turned and walked back to the mantle. He reached up and took her photo down. He
carefully removed the frame and placed the photo between the pages of his Bible.
Now he was ready. He jumped in the truck put it in gear and pulled out the drive. The journey had
begun.
For twenty-seven years, he had been trying to draw a bull tag for The Breaks. It was one of the most
coveted tags in the state, heck the country. Anyone drawing it and willing to put in the effort was
almost guaranteed a 380-plus bull.
He had grown up down here; his family had homesteaded there; it was in his blood. His boys had
learned to hunt here. Every fall they made a ten day hunting trip down there on opening day. He was
going to miss that.
They made their traditional hunting trip early in the season because as soon as the fall rains came it
made this place inaccessible. The locals called it “gumbo,” a mixture of bentonite, topsoil and river
sediment that made any travel by vehicle all but impossible. Even four wheel drives with chains would
soon find there fenders filled and all movement stopped. What most people didn’t know was that it
drove the elk out of the jagged breaks into the river bottoms. His sons had said he was too sick to
make the trip and had cancelled the annual hunt. The fact that he had drawn the once in a lifetime
tag had not swayed their decision a bit.
The excitement of planning the hunt of a lifetime had lessened the agonizing pain that shot up from
his thigh. The cancer had spread. They had told him that even with chemotherapy he didn’t have
much of a chance. After seeing what the chemo had done to her, he had decided he wasn’t going to
go through that or put his boys through that again, either.
He thought about her more these days; it didn’t hurt as bad as it had, but there was still an
emptiness he knew would never go away. Thirty-four years she had been by his side. Now he was
alone. Thinking of her made the trip fly by and before he knew it the sign said “Musselshell Trail.”
He had been driving for three hours. He got out of the truck, and the pain from his leg shot through
his body. He knew he had sat to long. He limped around to check on the horses; everything seemed
in order. He took a pain pill and hopped back in and took a deep breath. This was it.
The Breaks had always been a special place ever since his grandfather had brought him here as a
boy; this had been the place he felt like he belonged. He drove until he reached Whiskey Ridge. He
knew if he pulled his truck into the bottom it would be there until spring. By 10:00 am he had the
horses loaded. He had to hurry now if he wanted to have camp set by dark. The trail was dry and
they made good time weaving their way through the steep canyons. By noon the pain in his leg was
unbearable. He got off Johnny and almost fell to the ground in agony. For a second he wondered if
he had made the right decision. Then, from the cottonwoods, came a lone bugle, and he knew he had
he walked down the trail for a couple miles with Johnny in tow.
He thought to himself that he hadn’t set a wall tent by himself in thirty years as he stacked the last
sod flap in place. He went inside and started a fire in the stove, went back outside and grained the
horses as the sunset lit up the river like a ribbon of fire. He went inside, fired up the lantern, took out
his Bible and her photo, and fell asleep.
The sound of light rain woke him to the smell of damp grass and canvas. For a second he
forgot where he was until he tried to roll off his cot. The pain shooting through his joints instantly
reminded him. He carefully got to his feet and stoked the fire and put on the coffee pot. He ate a
piece of toast and took two pills.
The smell of the brewing coffee and smoke brought him to life, and soon he was ready for the day.
As soon as he walked outside the tent, he was immediately greeted by the horses. Soon they were
fed and watered and his own breakfast was almost done. As soon he was done eating the rain
started to pick up and he heard a cow elk call in the distance. He smiled to himself; it was almost
time.
He hobbled the horses and turned them loose in the meadow above the camp just before lunch. He
went back down, pulled out his trusty camp chair and sat staring at the Missouri river through the
driving rain.
The cold jarred him awake. He had fallen asleep. Now the stove was almost out, the rain had changed
to snow, and the horses were sounding their disapproval at not being grained yet. After taking care
of the horses and bringing in wood for the night, he made himself a sandwich and lay down on his
cot.
He knew his little nap was going to make sleep difficult, so instead he just lay there, thinking.
Matt Woody is a sixth-generation Montanan who lives in Lewistown. He can be reached at
mattwoody59405@msn.com.
Discuss this article and read comments