Many Plains tribes kept “winter counts,” pictographs of significant events strung together on buffalo hides and serving as a physical record of the year, a document of experience. This entry serves as the first in a series of winter counts.
4:30 A.M. Pitch black. Deep winter. Nothing but darkness and cold. Jack Ballard and I are making time up the trail before first light for an end-of-the-season deer hunt. The light from my headlamp swings back and forth, making me dizzy. I turn it off and move silently up the canyon. We’re aiming for a spot about three miles up and across the river. We want to get there before legal shooting light. Neither one of us is talking, just breathing and moving as rapid as we can. My breathing labors as we move up canyon. The gurgling sounds of the Stillwater racing down the canyon fill my ears. I’m finding my rthymn. Sweat starts forming under my hat.
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