Captured

The mountain meadow was unusually quiet for a fall afternoon. Papa jumped off the horse to inspect the deer tracks. Even the wind paused when he surveyed the area for signs of the passing deer. He carefully rubbed his fingers over the tracks; mindful not to wipe away the markings. Lifting his head, he smelled the air and then pointed toward a dense grove of Cottonwood trees about thirty yards away.

"Over there," he whispered. The horse shifted as he jumped back into the battered saddle.

Quietly, I sat behind him, hoping for a few words to explain what he saw. The coarse texture of his blue jeans rubbed in the saddle, and they created the only noise that I could hear. The morning over, I had hoped we would already have encountered our targets.

"Uh, Papa."

"Shhh...no sound, boy."

We rode through the foot-high grass, edging ever closer to the shadowy depths of the coniferous forest. Every muscle in Papa's body felt relaxed, while my heart was beating furiously, but I knew that he was waiting and listening. My eyes strained to see through the pockets of darkness, searching for any movement. It only took a few moments for us to break through the shroud of hanging branches, but in those moments something shifted in the air. Papa sat straight up in the saddle and turned. I couldn't see what caught his attention, but he swiftly turned Cameo, his trusted quarter-horse, and we began to move again.


The early, morning light barely broke through the densest part of the canopy, but it was enough to see the littered floor of the forest. Bright, rust-colored leaves lay scattered about on the ground, covering up a hint of an old walking path. Beyond where we rode, the trail forked, and we had to choose to go deeper into the woods, or take the trail that wrapped around the border of the meadow. It felt like we sat there for several moments, and in that time Papa seemed to be listening to sounds I could not hear. Finally, he seemed to decide on a path. With a small tug on Cameo's reigns, we began to trot toward the sounds of moving water.

After several moments of silent riding, I heard a series of splashes. Papa tapped on Cameo's flanks, and we trotted toward the rocky banks of the river. The water seemed to be flowing high for this time of year, and, yet, it was calm. The water flowed evenly down slope as it moved out of sight. The ridgeline we had come over earlier in the morning lay just behind the edge of the river, and I could see what looked like a beaver dam upstream. The grass, branches, and mud of nature's engineer had slowed the river's furious flow.


I almost missed the deer at first because the scenery had captured so much of my attention, but then I saw her. The deer we were tracking was bent over, drinking water from the opposite riverbank. At either side of her were fawns, their fur was a creamy caramel brown, but their bodies were not yet half the size of their mother. Her ears twitched as we rode near the water. Papa motioned for me to dismount, and I tried to be as silent as I could.

My first shot. He would be at my side, but I would need to do it myself. With one fluid movement, he reached into the saddlebag, and I knew it was time. I grabbed the camera from his outstretched hands, and I captured the first frame of the roll.