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Field Ethos
Guest
By Kyle Wright
Twenty-some-odd years ago, my brother answered the call of the Lord and moved to South America to preach the good news to the people of Peru. He landed in Lima and got right to work.
Lima, Peru, is a far cry from the small town where we were raised in southcentral Oklahoma. Unless the price of a barrel of oil soars, our hometown’s population rarely rises above 5,000 people. We didn’t grow up in the sticks, necessarily—the street that ran in front of our house was paved, even if the one that ran beside it wasn’t—but there was a section of woods just a block south of the house that offered all manner of adventure, and our childhoods were spent in the outdoors. My brother left the simplicity of that life for sprawling, stinking Lima, Peru, where some 11 million people elbow each other for personal space.
Which meant that he was constantly on the lookout for ways to escape the city’s clutches. It was at an appointment with the attorney that was handling his visa application that the subject of hunting came up. Stories were swapped, photos were shared, and soon after, my brother was invited to the attorney’s home to admire his trophy room. In the center of that room was the full body mount of what my brother described as a very whitetail-looking deer. Lining the walls were the taxidermied rear ends of the same. My brother’s good graces and his limited Spanish vocabulary prevented him from asking why. The two got along famously and by the end of the night, a hunting trip to the Peruvian Andes had been planned.
They drove north and east out of the city and into the Andes, stopping for supplies at what amounted to a convenience store. My brother turned his nose up at the prepackaged junk food, thinking that he would soon be eating his fill of fresh venison. He did buy four bottles of water there, and that’s probably what saved his life. The hunting party also picked up a passenger at the convenience store, a woman that, judging by her attitude and her attire, had no particular interest in outdoor pursuits.
They arrived at the village that would serve as their hunting camp just as the sun set. For the next three nights, my brother slept on the ground in a hut next to his attorney friend and the dude’s side piece. Every morning, the two men would mount their horses and climb the mountain, rifles slung over their shoulders. They’d ride along the ridgelines, scanning for the flick of an ear or the flash of an antler. But they never saw a deer. Still, there are worse ways to spend a long weekend.
On the final day of the hunt, having just finished the last of his water, my brother was stretched out on a rock shelf, basking in the sun and drinking deep draughts of pure mountain air. On the brink of sleep, he was jarred awake by shouting coming from an adjacent ridge. His hunting companion was yelling a word in Spanish that my brother’s sluggish mind struggled to translate.
“Disparar, disparar!”
When his mind finally translated the word “Shoot!” my brother came fully awake. He jumped to his feet and snatched up his rifle, searching for a deer below him. Instead, the sun above his him was suddenly blotted out by the swooping shadow of a wingspan.
“Disparar, disparar, disparar!”
My brother lowered his rifle and watched in awe as an enormous bird swept over his head. He may not have known much about life in Peru, but he knew better than to shoot an endangered, Andean condor.
The post En Peligro de Extinción appeared first on Field Ethos.
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Twenty-some-odd years ago, my brother answered the call of the Lord and moved to South America to preach the good news to the people of Peru. He landed in Lima and got right to work.
Lima, Peru, is a far cry from the small town where we were raised in southcentral Oklahoma. Unless the price of a barrel of oil soars, our hometown’s population rarely rises above 5,000 people. We didn’t grow up in the sticks, necessarily—the street that ran in front of our house was paved, even if the one that ran beside it wasn’t—but there was a section of woods just a block south of the house that offered all manner of adventure, and our childhoods were spent in the outdoors. My brother left the simplicity of that life for sprawling, stinking Lima, Peru, where some 11 million people elbow each other for personal space.
Which meant that he was constantly on the lookout for ways to escape the city’s clutches. It was at an appointment with the attorney that was handling his visa application that the subject of hunting came up. Stories were swapped, photos were shared, and soon after, my brother was invited to the attorney’s home to admire his trophy room. In the center of that room was the full body mount of what my brother described as a very whitetail-looking deer. Lining the walls were the taxidermied rear ends of the same. My brother’s good graces and his limited Spanish vocabulary prevented him from asking why. The two got along famously and by the end of the night, a hunting trip to the Peruvian Andes had been planned.
Going Native
They drove north and east out of the city and into the Andes, stopping for supplies at what amounted to a convenience store. My brother turned his nose up at the prepackaged junk food, thinking that he would soon be eating his fill of fresh venison. He did buy four bottles of water there, and that’s probably what saved his life. The hunting party also picked up a passenger at the convenience store, a woman that, judging by her attitude and her attire, had no particular interest in outdoor pursuits.
They arrived at the village that would serve as their hunting camp just as the sun set. For the next three nights, my brother slept on the ground in a hut next to his attorney friend and the dude’s side piece. Every morning, the two men would mount their horses and climb the mountain, rifles slung over their shoulders. They’d ride along the ridgelines, scanning for the flick of an ear or the flash of an antler. But they never saw a deer. Still, there are worse ways to spend a long weekend.
Flight of the Condor
On the final day of the hunt, having just finished the last of his water, my brother was stretched out on a rock shelf, basking in the sun and drinking deep draughts of pure mountain air. On the brink of sleep, he was jarred awake by shouting coming from an adjacent ridge. His hunting companion was yelling a word in Spanish that my brother’s sluggish mind struggled to translate.
“Disparar, disparar!”
When his mind finally translated the word “Shoot!” my brother came fully awake. He jumped to his feet and snatched up his rifle, searching for a deer below him. Instead, the sun above his him was suddenly blotted out by the swooping shadow of a wingspan.
“Disparar, disparar, disparar!”
My brother lowered his rifle and watched in awe as an enormous bird swept over his head. He may not have known much about life in Peru, but he knew better than to shoot an endangered, Andean condor.
The post En Peligro de Extinción appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
