A barbed wire divides subdivision streets and the Wild West in an area just north of Cheyenne city limits. I cross the wire slowly, lifting one leg at a time, careful not to snag my new Levis. I follow my future father in-law; we leave a trail of footprints in the snow. After ten minutes and two small hills, he quietly announced that we are in the right place. With his boots, he makes a circle in the snow and we sit cross-legged, waiting to awaken my warrior spirit, waiting for the coyote.
I stare at the surrounding hills, caressing each dip and rise with my gaze, waiting. My future father in-law blows air through a commercially made coyote call. I lock the bolt forward and chamber a round. I adjust my body, resting my face close enough to the scope so the entire circle is bathed in light. Cradling the barrel is a stand my future father in-law fashioned out of two sticks. I softly swing the crosshairs back and forth over the landscape.
This is not hunting in the “hunter gather” sense, but hunting purely to dull an emotional aversion to killing humans. This is training for Afghanistan.
We wait in the snow for close to an hour then follow our footsteps back to the house, unchanged.
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