Friends Old, New, and Soon to Be,
For the Plains Indians of North America, the height of martial skill lay in approaching an enemy as closely as possible before touching him and then escaping, leaving both combatants unharmed save for the damaged pride that stood for shed blood.
They called it “counting coup” and I had reason to consider the notion as I watched an eight-point buck in dawn’s first light.
I heard his hooves rustling pine straw thirty seconds before legal shooting light, the light such that when I finally perceived him he seemed to be made only of glimmer and shadow, manifesting ten yards in front of where I sat wire-taut and still in the way of hunters and prey. He had winded me as I stalked in, and his blowing in the dark left me convinced mine would be a short and unsuccessful hunt. But I decided to sit, my back against the base of a longleaf pine, to watch the sun strike lines of dawnfire across the floor of the forest.
Now we stared at one another, each of us seeking to understand how this moment, of all possible intersections, had arrived. Almost close enough to touch, ours was a dreamlike interaction, a hunt I will talk about for years. He looked at me, took a few steps, then turned his head back to me. I contemplated the many meals he would provide my family. He took another tentative step away before turning broadside, now at fifteen yards, his eyes looking into mine, mine into his. We knew one another in the moment. I took a deep breath and centered my crosshairs just behind his front leg, knowing his consciousness would be gone even before his knees buckled, the best possible outcome when the stakes are life’s totality. I gently stroked the trigger, and exhaled a whispered “bang” as I watched him ease into a stand of twisting live oaks. I counted coup. I suppose he did too. We both left unharmed.
I will not lie and say I had no desire to kill him; that I, an avowed meat hunter, did not think about the antlers I would hold in my hand as I told his story over a meal made of him. I will not deny that I bit my lip and clenched my jaw in frustration as he slowly sauntered out of sight. But the piece of ground over which I am blessed with free reign and no tax responsibility comes with but one expectation: that I do not kill white-tail bucks. It is a tiny price to pay for unfettered access to land crowded with does and turkey and squealing wood ducks, where mornings bring greetings from the occasional bobwhite. And so, I count coup and my blessings and thank the people who make it possible.
I think counting more blessings than coup is a notion worth considering as we gather around holiday tables with people we love, with whom we may differ stridently or by whom we may feel hurt, a condition seemingly universal to the American experience these days. For at least a day, though we may mentally center our crosshairs, we lose nothing in keeping our metaphorical fingers off the trigger, foregoing the sharp words that surely, this time, would have finally made them see the error of their ways and the rightness of our own. Perhaps we can instead look at the people we love, people who love us, and at least for a day, get close enough to count our blessings instead of coup and all walk away unharmed.
Happy Thanksgiving. I am thankful that you are here each month. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Reach me at EAL@tombeckbe.com.
Yours,
Russell Worth Parker
Editor-in-Chief
