Jungling

The stealthy hunter was jungling. His eyes twitching like a cat’s, and the machete in his hand like a tiger’s claw. Jungling was a new sport, he invented it himself. It’s what you call going roaming in the woods and chopping till the blisters bleed your hands dry and the insects are biting and stinging and you almost wish you could throw yourself into the fifth stream you’ve crossed this afternoon.

But he was not swimming, oh no, he was jungling. He was jungling in a delta, through the thorns and trees and bushes and webs. His garden was at the top of the hill, base camp, along a trail he had jungled himself earlier that year. The paving stones and patio made a nicer floor than the mud of a dammed creek-bed, but resting and swinging gently in the hammocks could wait.

He was jungling. Part of the hunt is the stalking of prey, part of the kill is the swipe and the slash, but often times the quarry is dead before the hunter even sets foot on the trail. This is because an idea in the head is worth more than a fat herd of deer surprised by a crazy man dropping out of a tree on them with an ax. Preparing the ground, knowing the terrain, and studying the tracks weeks and months in advance give the hunter what he needs to bring down his prey.

He wasn’t hunting though, our friend with the blade, and such thoughts were not of such relevance. His quarry were small trees, cut down in a single swipe, and paths, hidden among all the brush. Onward he chopped, and none could stay him in his burning quest.