Goat Mountain by David Vann Page A

Tom had once wounded a spike, a story remembered by each of us as we passed, a story as always with a lesson but a lesson unclear. Don’t shoot a buck with no fork in its horns. Illegal, and not good for continuing the population, to shoot the young ones, but something beyond that, too. Some pact made to follow code and rules even if we have no idea where they come from. In other states, it was legal to shoot does, the female deer, something we considered outrageous. Who can say what rules they follow and why? How much of what feels inviolable is only random, with no ground to it at all?
    We emerged from that area of shame and the switchbacks appeared above us, bare jagged scar cut into the hillside, denuded of trees. As exposed as a quarry, white and blinding in the sun, a furnace emanating heat. And we could see there’d been a slump during the winter, part of the road caved away in the middle of the Z, but we didn’t stop or even slow. My father accelerated, in fact, and we rode up on the side of that steep hill, the pickup tilting at a crazy angle and I could feel the beginning of the fall, the roll to the side, but we were going so fast the momentum carried us through and my father yanked us back onto flat road and hit the brakes in a cloud of white dust, our tires sliding. The drop-off to our right, bare slope ahead, the road kinking up to the left. My father just making that turn, the front tires grabbing and pulling us upward.
    My father sped again, and this obviously was not a hunt but only a punishment. He hit a dip so fast my feet were in the air and only one hand clinging to the rear slider window of the cab, my rifle in the other hand flung skyward, and I heard one of the men hit his head on the roof, Tom probably. My grandfather too heavy and my father clinging to the wheel.
    A lurching sharp turn to the right at the next switchback, and we had two tires in the air from the tilt, then grabbing again, and shot into trees, cool shade, flying along over uneven ground, bucking and sliding, pinecones and twigs popping and flung in our wake. The ride of the damned, last ride into hell, trying to outrun the devil, and I shouted in excitement, exhilarated. I glanced behind for what might follow. I kept that rifle in my hand, and my eyes teared from the wind.
    My father always controlled, never one to do this, to just stomp on the gas and go. The pure thrill and adrenaline. A gift from the dead man. A new freedom. The landscape become a kaleidoscope, rolling and exploding on all sides, without orientation. Branches whipping at us, the treetops spinning overhead, the furrows and lumps of land coming at us like waves, rise after rise and this mountainside endless, born from itself again and again and we were riding it, finally.
    My father did not let up. He tore along all the way back to camp, came to a sliding stop in the pine needles just before table and stream, and our cloud of dust followed us in, washed over us and seemed a kind of blessing.
    The passenger cab door opened and Tom and my grandfather were out, but my father waited a while, and I waited with him. It seemed too soon to move. The air cool in here, the reassuring sound of the spring in the basin and running lower alongside us, the breeze in the pines. Always a breeze here, even when there was a breeze nowhere else. Safe ground. And we would rest now. We’d have lunch and lie down for naps, and all would be renewed and begin again. This was the promise of camp.
    My father finally opened his door and stepped out. He looked lost. His eyes searching mine and his mouth loose. His finger had been on that trigger. He had killed that man. I believe now that’s how he felt, nothing less than that. The sins of the son visited upon the father. And nothing he could do to go back and change a thing.
    I thought my father might say something, but he only walked away to the table to wait for Tom and the food. Reduced to habit. Sitting at the bench