A memory - Hunting granite

Former youth cautiously prowling through the forest trail. On the morning's poaching walk. Stalking any moving shadow.

Autumn winds blow the winter's warning clouds across the skies. Chasing a running summer in panic drafting on the “V” wings of the Canada Geese.

No stirs to catch the eye. Its too early in the morning. They are feeding. Its too early in the autumn. Its too warm for them to sit in the warm glow of the low angles of the sun rays. They are the elusive Partridge.

Partridge camouflage their true intent. Birds, yes they are. Poultry birds and species of chicken they plague the floor of the leaf strewn forest. Plotting man's ultimate downfall they haunt the ancient primate predator's desires.

Oh there are juicy clean poultry breasts yearning for the oven pan back home. Sitting for an hour and a half under the basting sheet of wax paper at 350ºF. Cooking slowly in a land which weather's measure is metric, but galley's toil is still in old British measure.

Oh there are racks of steak packages lying in marshal array in the retail food chain store butcher shop. These square packages of plastic and styrofoam trays each marketing a barbeque's feast. Careful eyes selecting the fatty, fat free protein soldiers on parade.

Yet today's hunt frustrates. No birds hop up their heads from behind shuddering shrubs crying “Kill me, Sir.”

No luck today. Slinging the .22 rim fire rifle onto the shoulder eyes pull back from the search to the skies in evening's blue red relief. Night closes in on the diving sun. Time calls to return home. The feet tread in boots along the rocky trail out onto the open margins of an open pasture the trail weaved on through the moss towards the near town.

This shouldered rifle frustrated by the day's futility wants a measure of some sort of target. Low lying on the rocky path shines the empty aluminum hulk which once held 12 ounces of beer. The unslung rifle butt shoved into the shoulder. Eyes peering through the rifle scope to point the barrel onto the useless beer container. It is now target.

A bullet leaves the barrel. One doesn't see the bullet. One feels the explosion transmitted into shoulder. That explosion of fire pushes the drop of lead down a small .223 tube of blued steel to a speed slightly faster than the speed of sound.

On a bright day using iron sights a shooter see the bullet leaving. In an optical sight, with the face cheeks feeling the pressure touch of the brisk cold fall breeze one must imagine the bullet traveling away to the target. Spinning to the right dropping the width of four fingers in the first football field. This distance was considerable shorter than that sport field, one tenth the measure.

The can feels the impact as the bullet crashes through its fragile skins. The tiny empty keg shakes down a few feet in reaction. Triumph. Can is dead.

Rifle re-slung on the shoulder. The journey now continues.

Youth has a low level of boredom. In the north, partridge isn't the only quarry. Delicious as the little birds are, they bring no market. Any hiking effort in this forest walks in the company of the search for gold. Yes gold.

This trail leads over a field of gravel. The construction name is aggregate. The geological term refers to beach cobble. The area is terraces of ancient lake beaches stepped by the storms of thousands of years ago in glacial times. Feet walk on trails of water smoothed stone deposited in gravel heaps by ancient glaciers.

In that cobble may be chunks of stones of all sorts. It was rather easy here to gather a rock collection for this was a naturally occurring rock collection. The poorly trained eye spotted a quartz granite stone which seemed to have a yellow speck on the surface. Youth experience said this rock was a like a can of gold. It held fortune more conquest than value.

Within the personal experience of the time, it was then my assessment that there may be a chunk of gold contained with that fist sized stone. Here lies the cruel joke. Youth assumes great wisdom.

Being a Boy Scout was parked at the door. Wanting to save weight on this hike, the rock hammer was left lying by the garage door. There was no point in carrying this compound stone another two miles to bust it open to find the gold. If it could somehow could be cracked open here this would save a fruitless burden.

Lifting the water lapped stone I felt that striking it on another would crack the stone. Well one stone cracked but not the stone in hand. Darn it, or words to that effect streamed into the forest air.

No partridge but a little nugget of native gold would be a good day's prize. Ideas clashed around until like the spinning one arm bandit hitting on three lemons. Using this useless gun, it would replace the forgotten hammer.

Carefully placing the hunted granite rock on an anvil of another rock, the mighty hunter paced a distance equal to that between the hunter and the can of beer. Lucky for that can. It confirmed the sighting of correct aim.

Rifle's sights change for a multitude of reasons from air temperature to simply the angle of light. But in turning at the target range there was the affirmed knowledge that the aim was true. It was a confidence beyond confident. The centre of the stone shape was the striking point.

Even a hair trigger can feel like the strongest lunking lever resisting pull as the whole body squares to focus the weapon on target. The finger muscles load up and the metal tab slides along its path relieving the hold of the hammer laying taut inside the sliding breech block.

There is a click sound that is heard and felt on every trigger pull. While thoughts are to be black in the needed concentration of holding the weapon on target, sometimes one cannot have that ultimate little revelation. One little thought popped into the skull which said, “You really think this is a good idea???”

Despite the speed of time, occasionally it slows imperceptibly. The bullet loosed from its cartridge, voided the barrel striking the stone. Good marksmanship demands good follow through. The gun must stayed aimed until the bullet strikes target.

Unlike the can the rock stayed put. It did not crack. Only a bullet rub on its surface. Achievement for the shooting. But disappointment for the smooth glob of granite sat laughing unbroken. The First Nations say there is spirit in the land. And this stone had a little hard devil with a treasure of gold inside, keeping it safe for a billion years.

That part done, stooping to pick it up and looking at the talc white strike on the granite surface there screamed a sharp pain on top of my head. The right hand felt along the scalp feeling a glint of liquid feeling a wound. A replay of what happened meant that the bullet ricocheted straight back, hitting the top of the head.

Forty years after the fingers still feel the place where the ragged lead tore my hair out on its bounce back path return volley from the stone. The little devil hit back. “Oh that... was stupid.”