The wildly various stories in Running After Antelope are connected and illuminated by a singular passion: the author's attempt to run down a pronghorn antelope. His pursuit-odd, funny, and inspired-is juxtaposed with stories about sibling rivalry, falling in love, and working as a journalist in war-torn countries. Scott Carrier provides a most unique record of a most unique life. "Surreal and surprising, funny and unsettling, Carrier's ebullient work defies common sense and annihilates the commonplace." -- -- Kirkus Reviews Scott Carrier started working as an independent writer and producer for NPR's "All Things Considered" in 1983. Since 1994 he has been a contributor to Ira Glass's "This American Life." His writing has appeared in Harper's , Esquire , and Rolling Stone . He lives in Salt Lake City with his family. Running After Antelope By Scott Carrier Counterpoint Press Copyright © 2002 Scott Carrier All right reserved. ISBN: 9781582431796 Chapter One 1963     The hunt begins at dawn, my brother pulling me out of bedonto the floor.     "Come on, come on."     I'm tying my shoes and he's out the door. Outside the fog is liftingoff the grass. I'm looking for my brother but I can't even see the carin the driveway. Then he comes running from the backyard. I jumpand run and catch up with him across the street in the Mander's yard,and he says, "Some animals sleep in the daytime and go out at nightto eat. If we hurry we can catch them before they go back in theground."     I believe him. I have no idea how he knows these things, but hedoes. He goes out and runs through our neighbors' yards and catcheswild animals with his bare hands?mainly lizards, turtles and snakes.He wraps them in his shirt and brings them back to the cages in thebasement so he can study them for science. He is seven years old. I amsix.     I'm running along behind him, and when I lose him in the fog Ifollow the tracks he leaves in the dew on the grass. I catch up to him,and he's down on his hands and knees crawling through the juniperbushes in front of the Goochs' house. He says, "There's a garter snakein here. I saw it. It went right in front of me." He's crawling aroundbreaking branches and I hear the front door open and there's ourneighbor, Daisy Gooch, in her bathrobe. She looks ten feet tall and900 years old and says, "What is going on out here?"     I say, "There's a snake in your bush."     She says, "There's no snake in my bush. You boys get out of herenow," and she starts for us with her broom. We take off running. Wedon't need to run that far; it's not like she's going to come after us, butwe keep running anyway. We jump the fence at Finn Gerholdt'shouse and we're on the golf course, heading toward the gully. Mybrother says, "I think I figured out a way to run and not get tired. It'sall in how you breathe. Yesterday I ran over to the gully and down tothe river and back, and I didn't get out of breath. I think I can run asfar as I want."     "Like the Indians," I say.     "Yeah, like the Indians."     We have everything we need. The wilderness is unfolding in frontof us. Chapter Two little league haiku     It was between plays. The coach was talking to the offense inthe huddle, drawing on his sketch board, reprimanding somebody forscrewing up on the last play. We were standing around waiting. Wewere the defense, and we had no coach. We had three or four formationswe'd run, but we never made a call until the last minute. I rememberbecause I made the calls. I was the Monster Man, the freesafety, the captain of the defense, and I'd often call one formation asthe offense broke huddle and then stand back and wait until everyonewas set, the quarterback going through his count, and then callanother formation, just so everything would change shape rightbefore the ball was snapped. This added the elements of surprise andchaos to our attack. It made the offense respect and fear us, and oftentheir plays crumbled under the disorder we caused.     The coach was in the offensive huddle, the sun was going down,and the practice was coasting to an end. We, the Highland MightyMite defense, were standing around quietly, minds empty, like twelve-year-olddesperadoes waiting for a train. I was standing there spacingout with everyone else, and then I had this new feeling: I was consciousof being inside a shell, and looking out at the world like myuniform and even my body were just protective packaging. I was inlove with the air, the smell of the grass, the warm light in the cottonwoodtrees at the edge of the field. I remember looking out at BruceSeymour, our big defensive end who had already reached puberty. Hehad his helmet tipped up, and his hair was all sweaty, and he was gnawingon his mouthpiece. He turned and looked at me, and I wanted tosay to him, "Do you feel it?" But I didn't know what "it" was.     I called a huddle and said, "We're going to do something differentthis time. We're going to line up in a six-thr