Page 1 of Mountain Man's Valentine
1
Valoria
The chocolate is not stale. It’s not old. It’saged.
That’s what I tell myself as I pull a dark chocolate caramel out of the ziplock bag I prepared for my trip.
The chocolate isn’t forgotten. It’s not sad or lonely. It’s with me.
And it tastes justfine.
But I can’t be distracted by that right now. I have a more important task at hand.
I spot a bullseye on a tree about twenty feet away. There’s a rustling of leaves and the crunch of boots on the ground’s cold frost to my left. But again, I cannot allow myself to become distracted, so I steady my gaze on the bullseye.
This is my next target, but I have to act fast.
Spotting a tree on its side, the thick, wide trunkperfectfor me to hide behind, I steady my footing to pace down a few dew-and-moss covered rocks. The stream just past the rocks has turned to solid ice, and I slow down as I cross it, the crests and waves frozen against the rocks. It’s a bit slippery, but I have the right boots to traverse this terrain.
I am prepared. I amready. And this ain’t my first rodeo.
The footsteps off to my left slow down and come to a stop. I can sense a presence near me, closer than it was before.
It’s probably somedude.
There aren’t many women out here, and that’s fine. It’s not exactly a group activity, which is the way I like it.
That’s the whole reason I like it. I like the solitude. Especially on this day, of all the days of the year.
It’s no coincidence that this event is held on February 14th every year.
I nestle my back against the tree trunk and steady my rifle in my hands, balancing it in my palms and putting the butt against my thigh. I haven’t taken a shot yet - not this year, and certainly not last year, because I was too new and too afraid - butthisis my target.
The bullseye just over my shoulder ismine.
The wind whips through the air, shaking a dusting of snow off the high tree branches overhead. The trees out here in the mountains of Northern California are majestic, but when I look up for a moment to take in their beauty, I can’t see to the tops of them. They’re blending in with the sky, the misty grey clouds and cold converging together to make the air and ground bright grey and white.
And Iloveit.
Quickly pushing a stray lock of hair away from my face and back into the big hood of my coat, I check the marker on my paintball gun to make sure it’s off. Ican’tlet any opponents know my position, and I know there is at least one nearby.
Shoving the baggie of chocolates into my pocket, I swallow the last of the rich bite and turn around against the tree, and steady my rifle on the wide trunk. It’s dry, which makes sense because it has no roots. It could have been chopped down or taken down by a storm years ago, judging from the way new branches are sprouting out of it.
It’s amazing how nature will find a way to persevere, how new life will form, even when it looks like all hope is gone.
My rifle is propped up between two new leafless branches growing from the old, dying tree, and I close one eye and peer through the narrow viewer.
I have only one shot to get this right. This game is about discipline and accuracy. This is not a pump and pray game. I can’t take a bunch of shots and pray that one of them hits. We’re only allowed one shot per bullseye, and this is my first.
I put my finger on the trigger and line up my shot. I bite down on my bottom lip. A gust of wind throws my rifle off a few degrees and I curse silently to myself when I hear the rustling to my left start up again, and get closer.
I’m wasting time. I have to get this shot in.
Quickly adjusting my grip, I line up with the target and squeeze the trigger.
One quick pop rings through the air, and a bright pink splatter of paint appears on the target. I can see it clear as day in the greyness surrounding me, through the skeletal tree branches and rustling of old snow dusting the earth.
Bullseye.
