Trena Eiden

Gar was excited when I told him I’d drawn out for an antelope. Then when he went with me to get it, he wasn’t that excited anymore. 

I have that effect on people. I target shoot but haven’t hunted much because our offspring want to and I happily let them, but with antelope tag in hand, here I was. 

Gar, temporarily losing his mind asked, “Do you want to shoot the 30-06 or the 270?” 

Well, I don’t know. Which one is lightest and which one kicks the least? Bravery isn’t my greatest asset. 

You know how when you read a hunting story in a magazine, it always starts out, “We could see our breath as we stepped out of the cabin. Wood smoke was curling from the chimney and my hunter, Bob, and I, dressed in our orange Cabela’s vests, were looking forward to a great day of hunting.” 

This is not one of those stories. First of all, the vest I wore was a hand-me-down from one of my boys and it had been sized with a rubber band on numerous occasions at various places so was about as wrinkled as my knees.

We’d previously decided that when I got home from work on Friday, we’d go hunt, so Gar, the expert, and me, the “non expert at anything useful” gathered our packs. 

I mentioned, “I need a conservation stamp.” 

Gar nodded, I went to change clothes and we both promptly forgot. 

I’ll add here that the conservation stamp is a tax placed on hunters by the Wyoming Game and Fish to, I don’t know, build more housing in Jackson or maybe reinvent the cutthroat trout one more time. Not that I’m vexed about any of that. 

As we loaded our gear into the truck Gar asked, “Do you think you need to sight your gun in?” 

How would I know? My shoes match my incredibly stylish orange vest, that’s all I care about. I said, “Probably.” 

At the rifle range I shot twice at 50 yards and hit a tidge low and to the right, but perfectly on the tiny target so said I was good, mainly because I’m cheap and shells are a thousand bucks a box. Gar shot twice right by mine, so naturally agreed I was good. 

Only then did I remember the conservation stamp, so back to town we went before going to the prairie. 

On a hillside we spotted a few antelope so Gar stopped. I watched them a second too long as they meandered, then sensibly, began trotting, then running. I shot at the doe without a fawn, but was too high and missed. 

We continued curving around a few more roads when God took pity on me. There was a lone dry doe eating in the sagebrush. 

God obviously told her, “You could be the sacrifice today so you’ll need to walk slow. No slower. You’ll need to come to a stop. Then go slower.” 

I brought the 30-06 up and gave her a look while asking Gar to gaze through the range finder. A mere 222 yards. I pulled the bolt back, took the safety off and followed her sashaying along parallel to me. 

She was ignoring God about stopping, but she was moving slow so I’ll give her that. I had to reposition, then again, then one more time to follow her path. 

Pretty sure Gar, who was behind me, was gnashing his teeth and maybe tapping his fingers on his leg. 

Finally, I made the decision, snubbed the butt of the gun tightly to my shoulder and took the shot. Click. I hadn’t jerked the bolt back far enough to inject a shell. 

From the eyes in the back of my female head, I saw Gar’s jaw tighten. 

I could hear him think, “If I shoot my wife and bury her here, not a judge in the land would convict me.” 

I pulled the bolt back hard, lined the antelope back up in my crosshairs and pulled the trigger. She dropped like a rock, surprising me, Gar and God. 

Gar took a picture of me just before he started field dressing her. 

I sent it to our kids with the notation, “I brought my sherpa to gut it.”

 One son immediately fired back, “What?! Dad always makes us do our own.” 

I texted back, “Well, I don’t know what to tell you except I sleep with my sherpa guide and there are certain advantages that come with that. We’ll call them perks.”