Toggle Background Color

Dear diary,

That’s a joke, you see? Growing up I was convinced you read my diary. You always seemed to just know. Really I should say, “Dear Granda.”

Even if I said, “Dear Granda,” this won’t be written to please you. I know you always said I have a talent for putting words together but equally you said I should include more car chases and shoot-outs. That’s what all your buddies want to read. That’s what you want to read. Car chases sell, Eimear! Adventure, excitement, guns! Well now I’m in Germany, the one place you said you never mastered, and I have a backpack stuffed with all the gear you taught me to use. It will be an adventure, and I’ll show you I am fully capable of all the things you say I gave up on. And more.

This will be a story for you. It’ll be a story for all your hunting pals. It’ll be a story for Conni, the “Wildhuter” of Hirschfelden. But it will be told as I see fit.



I don’t know if you ever met Conni but she was on the radio to me the second I got within the limits of the hunting reserve. Maybe it’s my situation coming through, what I’ve been through these past few years, my failure, but again it seemed just like you were reading my diary and you’re still the one in control. You’d set this all up. You knew I was coming, you readied the reserve and Conni for me, you said, “Let’s see how badly she let’s me down, as always. Let’s see how she ignores me and fucks up again,” and you were ready to pull one over me.

This isn’t to gripe, not at you, we’re long past that. I went my own way. And that’s something we’re past too. You know full well my dreams didn’t work out for me and you didn’t say a thing. Well, now I’m going to try what worked for you. I’m doing the things that make you tick. As I said, I’m not griping, but maybe there is a bit of bitterness.

Conni was onto me within seconds of my arriving. On the radio, phone, HunterMate, whatever you want to call it. A simple start, with a little bit of help from her.



— Locate a track
— Shoot an animal
— Harvest an animal

As if it was that simple.

The first thing I had to do was find a vantage point. Maps are great but if you can’t situate yourself in relation to the lay of the land, or even just landmarks, a map’s not going to do you much good. Luckily, just a few hundred meters ahead of me was a nice lookout point. It’d be perfect spot for me to climb to the top of, look out, then realise that what I’m doing is entirely fucking stupid and I have nothing to prove to you.



So that was the plan. Climb that little tower and realise this is all bullshit.

Of course you fucked that up. As you always do.

You see the little dip in front of me, right in that picture? I get to it and what do I see but the smallest little deer, standing right in my way. I can’t give up, can I? I can’t just let it go. No! I’m already feeling defeated by a miserable, rainy, foggy day and you make my first kill the easiest thing on the fucking planet.



I didn’t even think of getting my camera out, or my binoculars. There was no point. The stupid thing was standing, waiting, as if I was Abraham, the deer Isaac, and you were the god, but one who would never save anything or anyone from the slaughter. You expected me to do this. You put the deer there. And what I’m doing now is a test of my faith in you. I’ve lost faith in myself, and for a long time you and Granny were all I had. Now, like I’m seven again and you know everything about me, I have to find faith in you. This is why I’m here. I have to find something. You’re the last part of me that’s good.



There. I did it. I’m doing what you’ve always asked of me. Not killing, no. Using my skills. Listening to you.

Except this was too easy. This isn’t what you want to show me. This was the stage being set. The question being asked. Now, every time I bag a kill I’ll doubt it. ”That one doesn’t count. It wasn’t a true challenge. A real challenge...” Every time I think I’ve proven myself to you I’ll think back to this, my first ever kill, and just like this one I know it won’t have proven anything. It wasn’t a proper test.

That’s why I’m writing this, I guess. It’s the process, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll learn and find a way to be aware of what it is I’ve learned, over time, and maybe you’ll learn that I’m not idling but I am constantly, fucking constantly striving.

So I go on.

After I harvest the deer (it was fucking tiny, innocent, but you don’t care,) I continue with my plan to hit the lookout tower. You’ve trapped me.



I don’t know what I was thinking at the top of the tower. I don’t know if I was thinking. I read the little information sign at the top, favorite region, fallow deer, history, etc. but it was in one ear and out the other. I took this picture, almost on autopilot. Pretty view, take a picture, memories to cherish, and it’s only after looking back at it now, a few hours later, I realise how oblivious I was.



I kept walking, right into that forest. All those trees. Except it didn’t even occur to me, “Eimear, there’s a lot of fucking trees!” I thought I’d spot an animal, far enough away that I don’t spook it, then kablammo! It’s dead. I’m done.

No. It didn’t occur to me that this would actually be difficult. That if I’d spent more than ten seconds going through the most basic of performative actions I’d realise this wasn’t just a view for a picture, but something that would ready me for what was to come.

I did keep in mind that I was walking into the wind so my scent was being blown behind me not to alert any animals. I’m not completely stupid. Maybe I had no choice but to walk into the forest? I just wasn’t aware.

I was no sooner back down the tower when Conni, the Wildhuter, was onto me again. Telling me about the tracks she’d seen earlier that day and how I could follow them. I had to think back to all you taught me, knowing it’d take practice, practical experience, to remember what I’d forgotten, and even learn the things you couldn’t beat into my thick skull.



I tried to remember how you told me to follow the footprints, the general direction of the animal, and to gauge whether they’re sprinting, walking or anything in between.



Off I went, following the trail of what I think were some deer.

It wasn’t two minutes before I got into the real nitty gritty of what it means to be a hunter: poo. There was some deer shit right in front of me which of course meant it was time to get my hands dirty (this is a figure of speech. I did not touch the poo.)



The crap was ancient. This was you pulling the strings again. Set me up for an easy kill, get someone to do your bidding and set me up with easy tracks, set me along a path, and then fuck me over with some old shite. I could be tracking that deer for a day, going in circles, never finding it. But you’re not going to get me that way. I’d spotted a little camp while I was walking and decided to check that out before heading deeper into where the animals might be. I wasn’t going to follow your tracks.



It was a pretty little red hut, somewhere to sleep and restock if I need it, looking after myself being very much important, ignoring your rubbish almost as important. And what do you know, from ignoring the kind of psychic bullshit you pull? I heard an animal right close by. A red fox screeching.



Off I go. I follow the direction of its cries, into the wooded area. I’m down low, creeping along, just waiting to get to some high ground so I can see far enough to get a shot. This is when my troubles begin. I keep inching forward, always getting to the next little rise, and there’s always more in my way.



It’s occurring to me this might not be as easy as I thought it would be. I’ll never get a clear view, into the distance, with my sights straight on something. At best I’ll have a bit of a gap, hopefully with me downwind of what I think might be out there, and I have to bring the animal in close.

It was into my bag I went and out with the caller. This one makes a sound like an injured jackrabbit, hopefully well enough that it’ll bring a predator like the red fox in for what it thinks is an easy meal.



I had my little bit of a gap in front of me, my binoculars at the ready for spotting, my choice of rifle, shotgun or pistol ready to hit the little bastard with, and I start blowing on this ridiculous piece of wood that somehow mimics an injured animal.



I blow and I blow and I blow. Then I remember something, you’re not supposed to shoot tiny animals with big guns or big animals with tiny guns. I have no idea what gun I’ll shoot this fox with. I don’t think I can get him in close enough for the pistol or shotgun, and if I could the shotgun would destroy him, while the pistol seems like I’d need a perfect shot. The rifle has the scope but if your buddies taking my kills out of the reserve see I’ve blown open a tiny fox with an oversized rifle they’ll laugh me out of it. I won’t have shown anything, proven anything, or found anything in myself other than I’m completely unprepared for this.

I should probably check up on all this, there is phone signal here, but instead I’m blowing on that caller and as I go on and on, determined to show I can do more than kill the deer you gifted to me, I realise nothing’s coming. I’ve ruined my chance all with my own initiative. Story of my life.

Eventually, I give up. I decide it’s back to the basics, and if you really are pulling the cosmic strings, I’d better do what Conni says and find some tracks to follow.

Part of all this is recovery for me. Something to set my head straight. I’ve tried so many different things that didn’t work I might as well try your way. I justified it in small ways to myself, as well. I liked being out on hunts with you even if I didn’t want to shoot anything. I liked the peace, quiet and nature. I thought I’d find that here, at the least. I didn’t.



There are birds screeching flying overhead. There’s what seems like a thrum to the air around me. There’s my big stupid feet making far too much noise. As I’m walking and walking, thinking this is not at all what I expected, or wanted, I come across a fucking road. It was engines I’ve been hearing. That really showed me. I’m not away from it all, I’m not in the wilderness, my phone signal should have confirmed all that. But then it does go quiet, eerily, and I feel like an eejit all over again as there’s an opening and closing of noise and silence and I can’t find any comfort in where I am.

I’m beginning to realise I really have no clue what I’m about, what I’m doing, and I have to keep going. For the first time since I arrived here my thoughts aren’t with you, about what you do to me, but about what I can do for myself.

I keep on going. Just keep on fucking going, and I find nothing. I see no tracks, I hear no animals. I do see a big rocky hill, and checking my map I realise there’s another watchtower on it.



As I get closer I see the hill is more of a bastard than a hill, and really a mini mountain. Still, I try to find my way up. I scramble up what looks like climbable terrain, only to get so far I come to unclimbable terrain. I keep circling around passages I can’t make it up before I look at the map again. There’s a path leading up to it, but it’d mean going a long way out of my way. Which is when Conni messages me again. Apparently she also saw tracks around here.



I have no idea how fresh they are but they’re for a red fox. I figure I heard a red fox earlier, so maybe all this is some kind of sign from a trickster god.

I keep following them.



It’s definitely a trickster if I’m expected to follow him up the mountain I couldn’t get up before, taking me further and further in a loop, eventually leading me to a realisation I’m fecking useless.



Which I am. I am fecking useless. You might not be able to see, the pictures are all low resolution if I’m going to back them up on the cloud from a forest wireless signal—albeit far from from 4G—but it is there in all its pixelated glory, an orange blurry bastard running past me just below that pine straight ahead. I didn’t hear it or see it, I had no clue it was there until it had me well sussed out and was sprinting away from me.

In that instant I didn’t know whether to say fuck it and throw in the towel, to go for a rest and a smoke in one of the sleeping areas, and type this up for you, or to be boneheaded and keep chasing after it. I decided to continue on after it. Except it wasn’t boneheadedness, it was something small beginning to form.



I followed its tracks, and when the damage of its trail showed it had slowed from a run, to a trot, to a walk, out came my caller. There was a clear area just ahead of me, the wind was in front of me, and I was crouched down. If the fox got curious, popped up and stayed still for just a few moments I could better it.

It didn’t pop up.

That didn’t stop me.

I inched forward.



Then I saw what you see. Or some version of what you see. What you saw when you did stuff like this. It isn’t beers with the boys, it isn’t shooting or killing, it’s not even the chase, although it is some kind of chase. It’s chasing this view.

Things being picturesque isn’t what I mean but rather some kind of beauty, something real and true, and solely yours, the moment that’s only yours. I’d been so thoroughly beaten by the fox, then picked myself up, then focused on finding it again that I didn’t see what was coming. When I realised what was before me I just stopped. When I finally saw what was out there: it was all of it. It was a bit of sense to the world where I wasn’t worried about anything. I wasn’t cursing you for tricking me. I wasn’t trying to best anyone. I was simply doing my thing, and I had to keep doing my thing if I wanted more moments like this: the world opening up for me.

The view isn’t important, my realisation wasn’t important. Spirituality sounds like absolute bollocks so I won’t say that. It isn’t even spiritual. It’s human.

I didn’t know at that point if I would catch the fox or not. I just knew all I was doing represented continuing on for something like this event to happen again.



I was back in the brush.

You were running from me.

It really was just you and me.



You were heading towards the trees.

I didn’t care about making a trophy of you, at that point. I wasn’t really thinking about a kill. It was just a story that didn’t really need to be told. I was creating, for me, out of all of this. I still haven’t quite got around to how I justify shooting you. Ending your life. My Granda shot animals, his friends shot animals, I was there while he shot some of the animals, I ate some of the animals, some of the animals are mounted in his lodge. I don’t think about it, at best. That’s my superiority. I am hunting you. I get to kill you. I do know it doesn’t feel unjust. If I think about it I think of what my former friends would say, what other people would say, other humans. “What would people think?” You just keep trotting away from me. You and me just are, just is. I don’t know what it is. I know I’m not making sense, maybe that’s what I have to figure out. There’s more to this.

We were among the trees and I was following your tracks. I went into the woods. I went, what felt like, went into you.

I heard the bleat of a deer. A bleating from nearby. I could ignore it and keep following you, but you’re a speedy bastard.

I didn’t quite give up on you, I just took a moment. I moved maybe fifty feet from the last of your tracks I’d spotted. I had my deer caller out and was going at it. I could always go back to you but this seemed like a confluence of moments.

I called a few more times on the deer lure. There was no real ledge, no vantage point to spot a herd, no clear ground to get a shot across. Still, a doe, without me realising, had walked close to the right of me.



It was as innocent looking as the deer I’d shot just those few hours before but this seemed more honest. This wasn’t a gift to me, by my Granda delivering through some scheme, this was my own. This was my doing. My making.

I tracked the deer from behind some bushes into a little space next to a tree. I wasn’t certain on my shot, but I still took it.

As I walked to where the deer was, to find her blood trail to begin tracking my bleeding quarry, I didn’t know how far this would take me. My first real shoot.

I hoped I didn’t merely wound it. I feared it would continue on for days or weeks, with me never finding it, in pain. That I would never find my results.

Walking up to where it stood I saw the body in the ground. It had dropped instantly. The shot I wasn’t sure on must have been perfect.



Now it’s getting dark, and I’m writing this up, to you. I don’t even know who the you I’m addressing is any more. It started off with you, Granda. There was a bit of me in that you and some of your buddies too. Then in my hunt, there was frustration, annoyance, a steadiness growing. Then there was you the fox who brought me so much even if you’re now so far away. There was the you of serendipity in the doe appearing. There was the mostly-chance of my shot being true.

Now, I’m addressing all the yous, but especially you, Granda. I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know what you want from me or want for me. I do know, for a while, there was just me in existence. Purely, solely me, with all of you not mattering. I’m not sure if hunting is yet something I’m comfortable with, all I know is it has given me something I didn’t have. You could never give it to me, but you could help me get some way there.

I’ll rest, for now, then I’ll continue on.