Rick Bass (b. 1958)


The woods can be a bit strange.

It takes a long time to feel you belong

there and then you never again

really belong in town.







Halloween brings us all closer, in the valley. The Halloween party at the saloon is when we all, for the first time since last winter, realize why we are all up here‑all three dozen of us‑living in this cold, blue valley. Sometimes there are a few tourists through the valley in the high green grasses of summer, and the valley is opened up a little; people slip in and out of it; it's almost a regular place. But in October the snows come, and it closes down. It becomes our valley again, and the tourists and less hardy‑of‑heart people leave.


Everyone who's up here is here because of the silence. It is eternity up here. Some are on the run, and others are looking for something; some are incapable of living in a city, among people, while others simply love the wildness of new untouched country. But our lives are all close enough, our feelings, that when winter comes in October there's a feeling like a sigh, a sigh after the great full meal of summer, and at the Halloween party everyone shows up, and we don't bother with costumes because we all know one another so well, if not through direct contact then through word of mouth‑what Dick said Becky said about Don, and so forth‑knowing more in this manner, sometimes. And instead of costumes, all we do is strap horns on our heads‑moose antlers, or deer antlers, or even the high throwback of elk antlers‑and we have a big potluck supper and get drunk as hell, even those of us who do not drink, that one night a year, and we dance all night long, putting nickels in the jukebox (Elvis, the Doors, Marty Robbins) and clomping around in the bar as if it were a dance floor, tables and stools set outside in the falling snow to make room, and the men and women bang their antlers against each other in mock battle. Then around two or three in the morning we all drive home, or ski home, or snowshoe home, or ride back on horses‑however we got to the party is how we'll return.


It usually snows big on Halloween—a foot, a foot and a half.  Sometimes whoever drove down to the saloon will give the skiers a ride home by fastening a long rope to the back bumper, and we skiers will hold on to that rope, still wearing our antlers, too drunk or tired to take them off, and we’ll ride home that way, being pulled up the hill by the truck, gliding silently over the road's hard ice across the new snow, our heads tucked against the wind, against the falling snow . . .


Like children being let off at a bus stop, we'll let go of the rope when the truck passes our dark cabins. It would be nice to leave a lantern burning in the window, for coming home, but you don't ever go to sleep or leave with a lantern lit like that‑it can burn your cabin down in the night and leave you in the middle of winter with nothing. We come home to dark houses, all of us. The antlers feel natural after having been up there for so long. Sometimes we bump them against the door going in and knock them off. We wear them only once a year: only once a year do we become the hunted.


We believe in this small place, this valley. Many of us have come here from other places and have been running all our lives from other things, and I think that everyone who is up here has decided not to run anymore.


There is a woman rip here, Suzie, who has moved through the valley with a regularity, a rhythm, that is all her own and has nothing to do with our‑the men's‑pleadings or desires. Over the years, Suzie has been with all the men in this valley. All, that is, except for Randy. She won't have anything to do with Randy. He still wishes very much for his chance, but because he is a bowhunter‑‑ uses a strong compound bow and wicked, heart‑gleaming aluminum arrows with a whole spindle of razor blades at one end for the killing point‑she will have nothing to do with him.


Sometimes I wanted to defend Randy, even though I strongly disagreed with bowhunting. Bowhunting, it seemed to me, was wrong‑but Randy was just Randy, no better or worse than any of the rest of us who had dated Suzie. Bowhunting was just something he did, something he couldn't help; I didn't see why she had to take it so personally.


Wolves eviscerate their prey; it's a hard life. Dead's dead, isn't it? And isn't pain the same everywhere.


I would say that Suzie's boyfriends lasted, on the average, three months. Nobody ever left her. Even the most sworn bachelors among us enjoyed her company‑she worked at the bar every evening‑and it was always Suzie who left the men, who left us, though I thought it was odd and wonderful that she never left the valley.


Suzie has sandy‑red hair, high cold cheeks, and fury‑blue eyes; she is short, no taller than anyone's shoulders. But because most of us had known her for so long‑and this is what the other men had told me after she'd left them‑it was fun, and even stirring, but it wasn't really that great. There wasn't a lot of heat in it for most of them‑nors the dizzying, lost feeling kind you get sometimes when you meet someone for the first time, or even glimpse them in passing, never to meet .... That kind of heat was missing, said most of the men, and it was just comfortable, they said‑comfortable.


When it was my turn to date Suzie, I'm proud to say that we stayed together for five months‑longer than she's ever stayed with anyone‑long enough for people to talk, and to kid her about it.


Our dates were simple enough; we'd go for long drives to the tops of snowy mountains and watch the valley.  We'd drive into town, too, seventy miles away down a one‑lane, rutted, cliff‑hanging road, just for dinner and a movie.  I could see how there was not heat and wild romance in it for some of the other men, but for me it was warm, and right, while it lasted.


When she left, I did not think I would ever eat again, drink again. It felt like my heart had been torn from my chest, like my lungs were on fire; every breath burned. I couldn't understand why she had to leave; I didn't know why she had to do that to me. I'd known it was coming, someday, but still it hurt. But I got over it; I lived. She's lovely. She's a nice girl. For a long time, I wished she would date Randy.


Besides being a bowhunter, Randy was a carpenter. He did odd jobs for people in the valley, usually fixing up old cabins rather than ever building any new ones. He kept his own schedule, and stopped working entirely in the fall so that he could hunt to his heart's content. He would roam the valley for days, exploring all of the wildest places, going all over the valley. He had hunted everywhere, had seen everything in the valley. We all hunted in the fall‑grouse, deer, elk, though we left the moose and bear alone because they were rarer and we liked seeing them‑but none of us were clever or stealthy enough to bowhunt. You had to get so close to the animal, with a bow.


Suzie didn't like any form of hunting. "That's what cattle are for," she'd say. "Cattle are like city people. Cattle expect, even deserve, what they've got coming. But wild animals are different. Wild animals enjoy life. They live in the woods on purpose. It's cruel to go in after them and kill them. It's cruel."


We'd all boo‑rah her and order more beers, and she wouldn't get angry, then‑she'd understand that it was just what everyone did up here, the men and the women alike, that we loved the animals, loved seeing them, but that for one or two months out of the year we loved to hunt them. She couldn't understand it, but she knew that was how it was.


Randy was so good at what he did that we were jealous, and we admired him for it, tipped our hats to his talent. He could crawl right up to within thirty yards of wild animals when they were feeding, or he could sit so still that they would walk right past him. And he was good with his bow‑he was deadly. The animal he shot would run a short way with the arrow stuck through it. An arrow wouldn't kill the way a bullet did, and the animal always ran at least a little way before dying--bleeding to death, or dying from trauma--and no one liked for that to happen, but the blood trail was easy to follow, especially in the snow. There was nothing that could be done about it; that was just the way bowhunting was. The men looked at it as being much fairer than hunting with a rifle, because you had to get so close to the animal to get a good shot‑thirty‑five, forty yards was the farthest away you could be‑but Suzie didn't see it that way.


She would serve Randy his drinks and would chat with him, would be polite, but her face was a mask, her smiles were stiff.


What Randy did to try to gain Suzie's favor was to build her things. Davey, the bartender, the man she was dating that summer‑didn't really mind. It wasn't as if there were any threat of Randy stealing her away, and besides, he liked the objects Randy built her; and, too, I think it might have seemed to add just the smallest bit of that white heat to Davey and Suzie’s relationship I can't say that for sure.


Randy built her a porch swing out of bright larch wood and stained it with tung oil. It was as pretty as a new truck; he brought it up to her at the bar one might, Having spent a week sanding it and getting it just right. We all gathered around, admiring it, running our hands over its smoothness. Suzie smiled a little‑a polite smile, which was, in a way, worse than if she had looked angry and said nothing, not even "thank you," and she and Davey took it home in the back of Davey's truck. This was in June.


Randy built her other things, too‑small things, things she could fit on her dresser; a little mahogany box for her earrings, of which she had several pairs, and a walking stick with a deer's antler for the grip. She said she did not want the walking stick, but would take the earring box.


Some nights I would lie awake in my cabin and think about how Suzie was with Davey, and then I would feel sorry for Davey, because she would be leaving him eventually. I'd lie there on my side and look out my bedroom window at the northern lights flashing above the snowy mountains, and their strange light would be reflected on the river that ran past my cabin, so that the light seemed to be coming from beneath the water as well. On nights like those I'd feel like my heart was never going to heal‑in fact, I was certain that it never would. I didn't love Suzie anymore‑didn't think I did, anyway‑but I wanted to love someone, and to be loved. Life, on those nights, seemed shorter than anything in the world, and so important, so precious, that it terrified me.


Perhaps Suzie was right about the bowhunting, and about all hunters.


In the evenings, back when we'd been together, Suzie and I would sit out on the back porch after she got in from work‑still plenty of daylight left, the sun not setting until very late‑and we'd watch large herds of deer, their antlers covered with summer velvet, wade out into the cool shadows of the river to bathe, like ladies. The sun would finally set, and those deer's bodies would take on the dark shapes of the shadows, still out in the shallows of the rapids, splashing and bathing. Later, well into the night, Suzie and I would sit in the same chair, wrapped up in a single blanket, and nap. Shooting stars would shriek and howl over the mountains as if taunting us.


This past July, Randy, who lives along a field up on the side of the mountains at the north end of the valley up against the brief foothills, began practicing; standing out in the field at various marked distances‑ten, twenty, thirty, forty yards‑and shooting arrow after arrow into the bull's‑eye target that was stapled to bales of hay. It was unusual to drive past in July and not see him out there in the field, practicing‑even in the middle of the day, shirtless, perspiring, his cheeks flushed. He lived by himself, and there was probably nothing else to do. The bowhunting season began in the late August, months before the regular gun season.


Too many people up here, I think, just get comfortable and lazy and lose their real passions‑for whatever it is they used to get excited about. I've been up here only a few years; so maybe, I have no right to say that; but it's what I feel.


It made Suzie furious to see Randy out practicing like that. She circulated a petition in the valley, requesting that bowhunting be banned.


But we‑the other men, the other hunters‑would have been doing the same thing, hunting the giant elk with bows for the thrill of it, luring them in with calls and rattles, right in to us, hidden in the bushes, the bulls wanting to fight, squealing madly and rushing in, tearing at trees and brush with their great dark antlers. If we could have gotten them in that close before killing them, we would have, and it would be a thing we would remember longer than any other thing.


We just weren't good enough. We couldn't sign Suzie's petition. Not even Davey could sign it.


"It's wrong!" she'd say.


"It's personal choice." Davey would say. "If you use the meat, and apologize to the spirit right before you do it and right after‑if you give thanks‑it's okay. It's a man's choice, honey," he'd say‑and if there was one thing Suzie hated, it was that man‑woman stuff.


"He's trying to prove something," she said.


"He's just doing something he cares about, dear." Davey said.


"He's trying to prove his manhood‑to me, to all of us," she said. "He's dangerous.


"No," said Davey, "that's not it. He likes it and hates it both. It fascinates him is all."


"It's sick," Suzie said. "He's dangerous."


I could see that Suzie would not be with Davey much longer. She moved from man to man almost with the seasons. There was a wildness, a flightiness, about her‑some sort of combination of strength and terror‑that made her desirable. To me, anyway, though I can only guess for the others.


I'd been out bowhunting with Randy once to see how it was done. I saw him shoot an elk, a huge bull, and I saw the arrow go in behind the bull's shoulder where the heart and lungs were hidden‑and I saw, too, the way the bull looked around in wild‑eyed surprise, and then went galloping off through the timber, seemingly uninjured, running hard. For a long time Randy and I sat there, listening to the clack‑clack of the aluminum arrow banging against trees as the elk ran away with it.


"We sit and wait," Randy said. "We just wait." He was confident and did not seem at all shaky, though I was. It was a record bull, a beautiful bull. We sat there and waited. I did not believe we would ever see that bull again. I studied Randy's cool face, tiger‑striped and frightening with the camouflage painted on it, and he seemed so cold, so icy.


After a couple of hours we got up and began to follow the blood trail. There wasn't much of it at all, at first‑just a drop or two, drops in the dry leaves, already turning brown and cracking, drops that I would never have seen‑but after about a quarter of a mile, farther down the hill, we began to see more of it, until it looked as if entire buckets of blood had been lost. We found two places where the bull had lain down beneath a tree to die, but had then gotten up and moved on again. We found him by the creek, a half‑mile away, down in the shadows, but with his huge antlers rising into a patch of sun and gleaming. He looked like a monster from another world: even after his death, he looked noble. The creek made a beautiful trickling sound. It was very quiet. But as we got closer, as large as he was, the bull looked like someone's pet. He looked friendly. The green‑and‑black arrow sticking out of him looked as if it had hurt his feelings more than anything; it did not look as if such a small arrow could kill such a large and strong animal.


We sat down beside the elk and admired him, studied him. Randy, who because of the scent did not smoke during the hunting season‑not until he had his elk‑pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it.


"I'm not sure why I do it," he admitted, reading my mind. "I feel kind of bad about it each time I see one like this, but I keep doing it." He shrugged, I listened to the sound of the creek. "I know it's cruel, but I can't help it. I have to do it," he said.


"What do you think it must feel like?" Suzie had asked me at the bar. "What do you think it must feel like to run around with an arrow in your heart, knowing you're going to die for it?" She was furious and righteous, red‑faced, and I told her I didn't know. I paid for my drink and left, confused because she was right. The animal had to be feeling pain‑serious, continuous pain. It was just the way it was.


In July, Suzie left Davey, as I'd predicted. It was gentle and kind‑‑amicable we all had a party down at the saloon to celebrate. We roasted a whole deer that Holger Jennings had hit with his truck the night before while coming back from town with supplies, and we stayed out in front of the saloon and ate steaming fresh meat on paper plates with barbecue sauce and crisp apples from Idaho, and watched the lazy little river that followed the road that ran through town. We didn't dance or play loud music or anything‑it was too mellow. There were children and dogs. This was back when Don Terlinde was still alive, and he played his accordion a sad, sweet sound. We drank beer and told stories.


All this time, I'd been uncertain about whether it was right or wrong to hunt if you used the meat and said those prayers. And I'm still not entirely convinced, one way or the other. But I do have a better picture of what it's like now to be the elk or deer. And I understand Suzie a little better, too: I no longer think of her as cruel for hurting Randy's proud heart, for singling out, among all the other men in the valley, only Randy to shun, to avoid.


She wasn't cruel. She was just frightened. Fright‑sometimes plain fright, even more than terror‑is every bit as bad as pain, and maybe worse.


What I am getting at is that Suzie went home with me that night after the party: she had made her rounds through the men of the valley, had sampled them all (except for Randy and a few of the more ancient ones), and now she was choosing to come back to me.


"I've got to go somewhere," she said. "I hate being alone. I can't stand to be alone." She slipped her hand in mine as we were walking home. Randy was still sitting on the picnic table with Davey when we left, eating slices of venison. The sun still hadn't quite set. Ducks flew down the river.


"I guess that's as close to `I love you,' as I'll get," I said.


"I'm serious," she said, twisting my hand. "You don't understand. It's horrible, I can't stand it. It's not like other people's loneliness. It's worse."


"Why?" I asked.


"No reason," Suzie said. "I'm just scared, is all. Jumpy. Spooky. Some people are that way. I can't help it."


"It's okay," I said. ,


We walked down the road like that, holding hands, walking slowly in the dusk. It was about three miles down the gravel road to my cabin. Suzie knew the way. We heard owls as we walked along the river and saw lots of deer. Once, for no reason, I turned and looked back, but I saw nothing, saw no one.


If Randy can have such white‑hot passion for a thing‑bowhunting‑he can, I understand full well, have just as much heat in his hate. It spooks me the way he doesn't bring Suzie presents anymore in the old, hopeful way. The flat looks he gives the could mean anything: they rattle me.


It's like I can't see him.


Sometimes I'm afraid to go into the woods.


But I do anyway. I go hunting in the fall and cut wood in the fall and winter, fish in the spring, and go for walks in the summer, walks and drives up to the tops of the high snowy mountains‑and there are times when I feel someone or something is just behind me, following at a distance, and I'll turn around, frightened and angry both, and I won't see anything, but still, later on into the walk, I'll feel it again.


But I feel other things, too: I feel my happiness with Suzie. I feel the sun on my face and on my shoulders. I like the way we sit on the porch again, the way we used to, with drinks in hand, and watch the end of day, watch the deer come slipping down into the river.


I'm frightened, but it feels delicious.


This year at the Halloween party, it dumped on us: it began snowing the day before and continued on through the night and all through Halloween day and then Halloween night, snowing harder than ever. The roof over the saloon groaned that night under the load of new snow, but we had the party anyway and kept dancing, all of us leaping around and waltzing, drinking, proposing toasts, and arm‑wrestling, then leaping up again and dancing some more, with all the antlers from all the animals in the valley strapped to our heads‑everyone. It looked pagan. We all whooped and danced. Davey and Suzie danced in each other's arms, swirled and pirouetted: she was so light and so free, and I watched them and grinned. Randy sat on the porch and drank beers and watched, too, and smiled. It was a polite smile.


All of the rest of us drank and stomped around. We shook our heads at each other and pretended we were deer, pretended we were elk.


We ran out of beer around three in the morning, and we all started gathering up our skis, rounding up rides, people with trucks who could take us home. The rumble of trucks being warmed up began, and the beams of headlights crisscrossed the road in all directions, showing us just how hard it really was snowing. The flakes were as large as the biggest goose feathers. Because Randy and I lived up the same road, Davey drove us home, and Suzie took hold of the tow rope and skied with us.


Davey drove slowly because it was hard to see the road in such a storm.


Suzie had had a lot to drink‑we all had‑and she held on to the rope with both hands, her deer antlers slightly askew, and she began to ask Randy some questions about his hunting‑not razzing him, as I thought she would, but simply questioning him‑things she'd been wondering for a long time, I supposed, but had been too angry to ask. We watched the brake lights in front of us, watched the snow spiraling into our faces and concentrated on holding on to the rope. As usual, we all seemed to have forgotten the antlers that were on our heads.


"What's it like?" Suzie kept wanting to know. "I mean, what's it really like?"


We were sliding through the night, holding on to the rope, being pulled through the night. The snow was striking our faces, caking our eyebrows, and it was so cold that it was hard to speak.


"You're a real asshole, you know?" Suzie said, when Randy wouldn't answer. "You're too cold‑blooded for me," she said. "You scare me, mister."


Randy just stared straight ahead, his face hard and flat and blank, and he held on to the rope.


I'd had way too much to drink. We all had. We slid over some rough spots in the road.


"Suzie, honey." I started to say‑I have no idea what I was going to say after that‑something to defend Randy, I think‑but then I stopped, because Randy turned and looked at me, for just a second, with fury, terrible fury, which I could feel as well as see, even in my drunkenness. But then the mask, the polite mask, came back down over him, and we continued down the road in silence, the antlers on our heads bobbing and weaving, a fine target for anyone who might not have understood that we weren't wild animals.




Questions for Study


1.  In what ways does the introductory quotation from poet Jim Harrison help in our understanding of the story?

2.  What are the implications of the annual Halloween party? What emo­tions or feelings does it allow the valley's residents to express? How does it prepare us for the story that follows?

3.  What kind of attitudes and values help define the narrator? In what ways does he seem to differ from the other men in the valley? What attracts him to Suzie? What does the narrator come to learn during the course of the story?

4.  How is Suzie characterized? Why does she react so negatively to Randy? What attracts her to the narrator?

5.  In what ways is Randy different? What seems to motivate his behav­ior? What is the significance of his final look of "terrible fury"?

6.  How would you state the story's theme?