Field and Stream - - GIANT - —David E. Pet­zal

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.

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