Conversing with classmates in
middle school, hunting was defined by “treestands,” “30/06s,” and “deer.” My background was different. I learned to shoot with a 20-gauge, behind a
dog with a nose for birds and a Dad with an aim for them.
The author with his first deer. Photo by Chris Reilly |
Dad had long-since split from traditional
deer hunting. Maybe it was my birth, and
the convenience that bird hunting afforded for the infant-toting parent. Whatever the reason, we lacked roots in the
sport, and hunted from the ground, against goliath oaks in the woods of the
subdividing property. A 12-guage—a
carry-over from pheasant hunting—full-choked and loaded with buck-shot was the
weapon of choice. We saw deer on several
occasions, a bobcat once; but none ever came close. Still, when the sun receded behind the black
curtain of pines on a distant ridgeline, the shadows that emerged were enough
to suggest a mystery worth coming back to solve.
Two years later, Dad promised to take me to
a friend’s local farm. There were
40-acres, lots of deer, clover fields, and a tripod stand; and we were invited
to hunt. I was allowed any deer I had a
chance at. It would be my first; and the
friend was more than willing to chip in.
Five hours into the third Saturday in
November, my alarm clock barked, and I was up, open-eyed, adrenaline fighting
off drowsiness. Backpack, clothes, food,
hat…license—everything was where it was piled the night before, under my
tireless, opening-day eyes.
We braked for deer crossing secondary roads
for almost an hour before slowing, turning, bouncing, and parking. Backlit three-pronged pine crowns were my
only perception of place. I was sweating
slightly from the heat in the car and the layers on my body, which were
promptly misted with a metallic-smelling liquid. I was given the padded case of Dad’s Ruger
.243 and a cartridge to load.
“Watch the safety.”
Away from the truck, we marched through the
new moon sky, through tall grass, me in the rear, stumbling, head down. We were swallowed by trees, but the sky
opened up again, and my hands were touched by a cold ladder. At the top was a cylindrical dome.
Following directions, I unloaded, climbed
to the top, and reported when I was seated.
Dad took a seat in the brush below.
Only one seat sat up top.
Communication ended for several hours,
while the sun peeked out from under the horizon, birds came alive, a breeze
lit, and rabbits and chipmunks zig-zagged the lush field of clover that emerged
below my perch.
When my eyes had consumed all of the
literature engraved on the barrel, scope, stock, and butt of the rifle, I
pointed its lens to the field edges, simulating shots in my head.
I found new reading material in the tags of
the canvas covering when two brown figures emerged at the field edge. I stuck my head out the side window, angled
to the ground.
“Two does…over there!”
Dad nodded in approval.
I slipped the barrel out the window as
practiced. I settled the scope on the
lead deer, my heart ricocheting about my rib cage, breath spewing out in
gusts. With confidence, as much as I
could bear, I squeezed the trigger. The
deer rolled, and the other bounded away.
Relief swept in, and suddenly it was very
cold. The rifle’s barrel rattled in my
hand against the frame of the stand. I
had to wait several minutes for my knees to regain the strength needed to
descend the ladder.
On the ground I got a proud high-five, and
the indispensable “watch your safety.”
We took a walk towards the animal, down a lane of clover. It was further than it seemed from the
stand—maybe 80 yards.
We had another round of high fives, after
making sure the deer, now realized to be carrying small bony buttons atop his head, was totally expired. But the congratulations didn’t last
long. We had work to do—I had work to do.
The pride felt at having taken my first
deer was not completely different from other firsts, but not without a certain
feeling of remorse. It’s a
mind-expanding experience, when such a large animal is taken for your own
sustenance, one filled with a sense of control and participation in the greater
scheme of life, and the understanding that death is a significant part of it. It’s a mature endowment of practical
sufficiency, a rite of passage—one that I will never forget. □
Originally published in the Rural Virginian
Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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