Wild food
theplanis totryshootingsomemid-
afternoonsquirrel,thenlaterinthe
eveningtryforsomedeer.“Butfirst,”
hesays,retrievinghisrifle, “want
tohavea go?”
I takeit hesitantlyandcradleit
inmyarms,gentlycaressingitsneck
asyoumighta baby.Suchanelegant,
formidablething,I think,asI raiseit
tomyshoulderandsquintthrough
thescope.Theworldaroundme
disappears;I amnowalone.And
I wonderwhois morealone,the
sniperorthewriter,asI gripmyfinger
aroundthecoldtriggerandtakeaim
at a tree.I pulldownanda bomb-like
crackripsthroughthewood.Bolt
actionsspeaklouderthanwords.Custodians
“Youreadyfortherealthing?”Tim
asksasI handit back.Childishly,it’s
beena bitofa thrillbutI admitthat
ideallyI’dprefernottokillanything.
“Ifonlyit werethatsimple,”hesays
beforemakingoffintothewood.
I followthisintriguingman
throughthepricklyforest.Patrick
walksbesideus,shotgunbarrelsheld
aloft,earsalerttosquirrelscamper.
Thesunwinksat usthroughthetrees,
glisteningdewliesonthetipsofthe
highgrasslikelittlecrowns— I feelat
easeforthefirsttime.Bang! Patrick
firesthroughthetreesanda terrified
squirrelscurriesupintothecanopy.
I catchupwithTimandpress
himforanswers;whatdidhemean
by“Ifonlyit werethatsimple?”.
“Sachin,”hesays,“We’vealready
killedtheseanimals,eversincewe
becamecustodiansofthenatural
worldallthosethousandsofyears
ago.It’sjustmyjobtomakesurethey
dieintherightorder.”
Heplucksa stalkofhollyfromthe
earth.“Iftherearetoomanydeer,
theeffectswillripplethroughthe
ecosystem.They’lleatalltheholly
andthentherewon’tbeanytreesHeadingthroughthe
woodsinsearchofsome
ethicallysourcedwildfood
the air is fi lled with the chitter-
chatter of birds and it doesn’t smell
like car exhausts or rotting sewers.
A local farmer tips his cap at
me as he rolls past in a tractor. He
mumbles something in gibberish
but from his smile I believe he is
thanking me for coming to help.
“A pleasure,” I say with a nod.
I’ve arrived in the country.
“He’s there,” Patrick says, and
I follow his gaze to a sunless area
under an oak tree not far away. Tim
Weston is perched on the tailgate
of his pickup, sniper rifl e slung
over his back like an archer’s bow.
“That’s our guide,” says Patrick.
“The deer hunter,” I murmur
back. After we exchange
pleasantries, Tim explains that
Patrick Galbraith takes a shot at a squirrel
Sachin checks out an infrared scope
NG TIMES & COUNTRY MAGAZINE • 21