Went for a run while we were in Montrose. A Saturday. I meant to just run
around the park, but on the first lap I passed a wood stile over the
barbwire fence into the pasture. Who could resist that? I crossed the
stile into the meadow, up the dirt road deeply rutted by the pickup truck
hauling feed to the herd even when it's muddy, through the open gate into
the next pasture, then the next, then above the irrigated fields to the
scrub flats, then the juniper/pinon forest, then hills, through the barbwire
gate to public land, to the top of the ridge. There I am at the top of the
ridge, looking back on the Uncompahgre River Valley below and the smaller
valley on the other side, thinking to myself: what could be finer than a
cool blue day like this, leftover fall colors, October, deer hunting
season...
October. Deer hunting season. I'm running through the forest in tan
shorts, mostly brown hair, no shirt, sun-tanned torso. What's wrong with
this picture? I thought about it. I hadn't seen any hunters on the way up.
Had we seen any deer around here? No more than a hundred. Shots fired?
Just a few in the distance. How good was I feeling about this? What should
I do? I could kick rocks and make noise while I ran, as long as I didn't
sound like a clumsy deer approaching. Don't breathe loudly or cough, don't
want it to sound like a buck snort. I could sing or whistle, but that is
contrary to my nature when I'm out in the woods. I want to pass quietly and
participate in the wilderness, not send it scurrying away ahead of my
approach.
I returned by the route I came, and survived the adventure, but undeterred,
I ran the same route the next day, dressed exactly the same, ......with the
addition of the newly acquired day-glo orange stocking cap.
