Yesterday on Easter, I thought of a story told to me years ago by my dear friend and blood brother who lives in Colorado. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if the story is about hope or despair.
A man wakes up before the sun to go hunting for elk in the high Colorado mountains. Leaving his truck at the trailhead to wait like some faithful pet, he hikes by moonlight and is miles into the wilderness by the time the sun crests over the eastern rim. He carries a backpack – with water, food, maps, cell phone, binoculars, first aid – and his bow and arrows.
It is midafternoon when the first elk comes into view.
Exhaling, pausing, then drawing the arrow back, the hunter releases: kill shot. The elk staggers and collapses.
The hunter knows he must work quickly. Knife in hand, he deftly skins, guts and butchers the elk, whose blood continues to spill out onto the rocky ground. With the daylight sneaking off to the west, the hunter – stained with blood – will soon be hiking out in the dark.