REPORTS TO THE OTHER WORLD
I talk with a friend of mine who died years ago. I don’t do it all the time, and I don’t do it a lot, but I do it nonetheless. He was about as good a friend as I have ever had, and taught me as much about hunting as anyone ever has. He killed himself as we were both entering middle age, before cancer could do it for him.
The irony is that while we were both alive, we spoke very little. Neither of us believed in conversation, and we were born less than an hour apart. This seemed to give us some sort of weird telepathic bond that let thoughts pass between us without words. We once drove all the way from Forsyth, Montana, to Bozeman— about four hours— and the only words that passed between us the whole time were piss call?
Now, I consider myself his eyes and ears on Earth. Most hunts, at evening, I report what’s going on. I have no idea if he hears me, but I hope so. It will have to do until we can speak face-to-face again.