First Blood

The gun went off. It felt like the first time that a manmade sound had disrupted this part of nature. Everything stood still for what seemed like ten minutes. Then, slowly, everything outside of the narrow little area between my sights began to move back into real time speed. The rest of the deer scattered away and bounded over the fence, the sound of the crows in the sycamore trees came back with a rush, the dry winter air assailed my chapped lips and tweaked my nostrils. The doe I had shot, put its head up toward the bleak sky as its knees slowly buckled. Then, as quickly as it had happened it was over.
Ten minutes earlier, I had returned from a full day of goose hunting with my friend Tucker. After an unsuccessful day in the Maryland marshes and Harford County corn fields, my feet were wet, my hands were stinging, and my cheeks were blistered from the cold. The sun was at its last stand, dimly glowing through the hazy sky, and I could taste the snow that would assuredly fall by the end of the night. Nothing sounded better to both Tucker and me than a cup of hot chocolate. But before the warmth, we had to break down the guns and give them a once over; just to wipe off the frost and the mud. So we sat in the garage, with a clear view to the south, overlooking the dry pasture. The few shoots of green grass that was surviving winter would soon be gone. So I knew that the solitary deer I saw grazing was desperate enough to forage this late in the day.
The fifteen year old Remington I held had not been mine during the hunt. For some reason, Tucker was cleaning my 12 gauge Beretta. As I looked down to begin, I heard Tucker's tinkering stop. I heard him hoarsely call my name with an urgency that seemed out of place after such a long day. I looked up to where his eyes gazed. The lone deer was gone. In its place, stood a herd of about fifteen whitetail, casually picking through the field. There was a ten point buck in front, with his doe close behind him. Without a word, Tucker and I rose from our seats and grabbed our guns. I tossed Tucker a case of 12 gauge slugs and picked up some 20 gauges of the ground for myself. Tucker went east, slowly following the herd around the field. I snuck around the house, for I knew where they would go. Their customary path led to the woods by the quarry. I crested the hill when I herd Tucker's first shot. I knew, they would be coming fast, so I stood tall, blending in with the evergreen trees. The wind was in my favor as well, though I doubted that would be a factor during their flight. The buck was in the lead, and it didn't look like Tucker had hit his mark. I fired, probably too soon, and the slug buried itself in the grey fence-post, just ahead of the herd. They all came to a dead stop. The ricochet clearly confused their awareness. I slowly pumped the shotgun as I stepped onto the second rail of the fence. With this little bit of hight, I was able to get a clear shot of the doe. She stood, quivering, a hair away from her mate. I aimed and didn't hesitate. The muzzle erupted in a flash that cut through the twilight. The slug traveled 85 yards through, about six feet off the ground, down the steady line, and buried itself into the thick fur covering the doe's shoulder. It was the last year of deer season and I had taken down my first deer.
For me this was a right of passage in every way possible. I had suffered: any longer in that winter chill and I would have never been able to pull the trigger. I had put my skills to use: I had not only known where the deer would travel, but I had put the slug exactly where I was taught, in the shoulder so it could hit the heart. I had accomplished: the doe that hung on the maple tree behind my house was proof of that. I had been trying all season to bad my first deer. Already, most of my friends had plenty of kills under their belt and I was beginning to worry if I would ever be able to pull it off.
I had always respected the prey. The deer population in my state is considered a problem due to overcrowding. But having them around constantly had given me an insight into their lifestyle and taught me how they are simple animals that graze in herds and stay in a relatively small area for all their lives. Like me, they are rooted to their home and depend on its resources in the strictest agrarian sense. When they sense danger (usually through their powerful sense of hearing), their first instinct is to run. However, if they are backed into a corner, they use their powerful necks to lift their hard heads (antlers of not) to defend their territory and their families. When they stand, every sinew quivers with a harnessed electricity that can erupt, in a moment, in a burst of physical prowess that can enable them to lead a ten foot high fence from a standstill, bound through an obstacle course of multi-flora, or sprint through the forest with an ease and ability that rivals and olympic runner. They are almost human. They are the closest embodiment of the word "grace" than any other animal I have ever known. Their eyes speak of the wisdom of untouched nature and their endearments to each other is surely true love. Perhaps that is why they have always been hunted. Perhaps man seeks something in the deer that he can never fully attain. But that is the thrill of the hunt; not knowing or caring weather the game is bagged, but enjoying the chase.
That is how it is for me. However, I needed that kill to fully realize the empowering potential of the hunt. The dark blood that dripped down the rough fur looked like beads of red water on rubber. And as I ran my fingers through the warm liquid, I knew that I could never again forget the smell of a fresh kill.
The gutting and butchering of the deer was a ritualistic experience for me. I pierced the skin behind the tendons of the hind legs and strung a rope through them, binding the legs together and lifting the body a few feet off the ground as it swung, suspended from the tree. It was dark now, and my truck's headlights cast the deer in a pale eery light that made me think of an Indian sacrifice. The gory details of pulling out the entrails and yanking the skin away from the meat like tearing saran wrap off a frozen dinner were almost surreal as my hands shook with a sense of power and accomplishment. The bits of hair and the musty smell stuck to my skin and clothes, but I didn't mind. I felt like a savage tribe in some corner of the world who wore the ears or scalps of its enemies like a badge of courage.
Through the blood and hair and smell are long gone now, the experience lingers in my mind. The patience, the precision, and the power of my accomplishment had made me a man. Though I had no father to pat me on the back, I felt the wings of nature enfold me and welcome me home as a part of the whole. One link in the circle of life, one step in the food chain. I am forever connected after that night.