The intrepid hunters assembled again--for the second year--to strike fear in the bellies of wild javelinas throughout the state of Arizona. There they stood, fearsome and impressive, like some Old West posse: uncle Dick, cousin Bryant, my dad--Jack, and my brother--Steve. And I as the humble chronicler of their exploits, with drawing pad, journal, camera, and video camera.
Apparently their reputation as ruthless javelina slaughterers had already spread across the land like wildfire. Such fear struck the javelinas of the land that for the second year running, there was not a one to be seen.
For
two days their keen hunters' eyes scoured the brush, from prickly pear to
saguaro, across hill and dale, from sunup to late afternoon. The wily javelinas,
however, had gone to ground, burrowing deep into the desert, as javelinas
are wont to do. Or perhaps they took shelter beneath the sparse waters flowing
through the land, breathing for two days straight only through hollow reeds.
Or did they gallop to the edge of the state and breathlessly await the end
of hunting season?
Meanwhile the squaws back at camp--aunt Karen, cousin Natalie, sister Julie, and my mom--Pat--allayed their fears about the dangerous and rigorous hunt by visiting the spa and shopping.
When the brave hunters returned Sunday afternoon, there was great mirth and
celebration as we shared bold tales of hunting in the wilds of Arizona, tracking
the elusive boars, and taking pot-shots at water bottles to keep the weapons
tuned. When the great hunters laid down that night, with bellies full of
beer (soda for Bryant) and hearts yearning for the next year's hunt, the
quiet javelinas gently slinked back out into the
night.
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