Alone

Night is quiet. The dark is lonely, empty, void of the suburbia grind. Gravel flirts with passing tires. Strangers seek the salvation of public land. Lights dot the heads of waterfowl hunters. The only movement visible to the eye. Boots meet grass, stiffened in winters ice, sharp snapping with each step. I among a remanent seeking salvation among the tundra of winters cold. 

Artwork by Chloe Nostrant

Decoys neatly organized await. Purposefully awaiting orders. Straps dig into shoulder. The Ithaca covered. Resting quiet, awaiting break of day. My “X” on the map a small pocket of marsh. A simple walk, on a good day. 

Wisps of breath flirt under the canopy of stars. I trek forward. Drawing near the marsh. The weight of hope over shoulder and clutched in hand. Forward I move. I move in slow purposeful steps. Boots meet ice. I pause, my mind races. Twenty yards to my desired goal. I ease forward inch by slow inch. My heart rate elevates. The wisps of breath turn to plumes. 

Fifteen yards. A simple walk, a short distance. Words I repeated. Feeble attempts to calm nerves and slow my breathing. My hearts clicks, pacing like a metronome. Reality clutches tight her grip. 

Fear echos over splintering ice. I pause. Fifteen yards from warmth. Fifteen yards away from my spot, no mans land. Ice splits into a spider-web. I turn, my car stares back. Night engulfs me. I am alone. 

Desperation plays out like a symphony. I am the solo act. My weight presses down, a small shelf of ice yields, slips under. Water leaps over polyester waders. I am the target of natures strength. Bagged decoys move in one motion from shoulder to ice. My gear falls aside and forward. My right hip bounces off the ice. Echos of ice crack around me. My right leg leaks water. Frost molds over my right forearm. 

I work my way forward. Yard by slow yard I slide like a fat seal over ice. My gear pushed ahead. Ice builds on my beard and eyelashes. Water moves quicker into my right boot. I near the shore line. My gear caught in a thicket of crusted grasses and brambles. 

Legs shaking, desperate for heat, hands fumble with zippers. I strip off my waders. My pants soaked to the knees I toss them aside. Under ink skies I shake. Cold, wet, desperate for warmth I shake. I crawl into my car. I wait for the engine to warm, craving heat, the time reads 4:53am. 

Time moves slowly. Patient and with purpose it ticks away. My body wrapped in a blanket. Feet and hands come back to life. To the east day breaks over a distant horizon. No ducks will be had this morning. I sit. I welcome the heat. An hour later my eyes open. I am dry. 

I check my gear, count my decoys and pack up. 

Clad in motley tones of camo I stick out. Hipster baristas call out strangers names. Eyes  stare at me. Unsure, and concerned looks noticeably appear over those dressed in their autumn beige and knee high boots. Here to, I am alone. I am not sure why I am here. Maybe it it a sense of comfort. A place of calm. A place far from frozen waters and cracking ice. My name is called. In silence I eat my biscuits and gravy, alone, happy, and thinking of what tomorrow’s hunt may bring.