We make our way up the stairs, huddle in the entrance, and exchange greetings. It’s my first foray into the world of deer hunting having recently completed my gun safety course. I’m not sure I even want to do this, but as the oldest sibling, I feel duty bound to complete this rite of passage until I can pass on the torch to one of my younger siblings.
“What ya got in the bag?”, Rogie asks (pronounced “raw-jee”), eyeing my green rolling backpack suspiciously.
“Books and magazines”, I respond hesitantly as I watch everyone exchange knowing glances. I’ve already committed a faux pas this morning in choosing to don purple sparkly eyeshadow to go with my camo and blaze orange ensemble.
“Ri, who do you think you’re going to see out there?”, my dad asked, chuckling as he watched me in the bathroom mirror, rubbing eyeshadow over my eyelids.
“I like it”, I responded stubbornly.
As they move on to discussions about who will take what stand, I take in my surroundings. While it’s very much a shack, it’s cozy in the way a shack is, standing alone against the elements. A stove sits in the middle to heat the room. Off to the left is a small kitchen with an old-timey metal fridge, a bathroom down the hallway, followed by a room with bunks. To the right is a table that fills most of the room, with benches on either side where everyone gathers to eat. A battered green couch is tucked into the corner with another bedroom just beyond it. On the wall is a dry erase board where the kids play games like Hangman. On the opposite side is a corkboard full of polaroid pictures of hunting seasons past.
Once everyone has their stand locations picked out, I hop on the back of the four-wheeler with my dad, and he drives me to one of the trails not too far from the shack. He points to the left and tells me it’s only a short distance down the trail before I’ll see the deer stand off to the right.
“I’m supposed to go down there by myself?”, I ask in horror.
He assures me I’ll be fine and hands me a flashlight, telling me to walk quietly in case there are any deer on the trail.
I have zero desire to run into a deer while walking in the dark, but I keep that thought to myself as I nervously hop off the four-wheeler, backpack and rifle strapped to my back, flashlight in hand, and start making my way down the trail.
Crunch. Whoosh. Snap.
Every noise in the woods makes me jump. I’m terrified a deer is going to step out onto the trail in front of me. Despite my dad’s confidence, I know I won’t be able to shoot on the fly. I can’t even properly close my left eye despite my best efforts. Even if I manage to come across a deer, I’ll be forced to waste precious minutes positioning my hat over my eye just so I can aim and shoot.
“DAY-OOOOOOHHH!”, I shout into the darkness, hoping to scare off any woodsy creature with a rousing rendition of the Banana Boat song.
“Come Mister tally man, tally me banana, daylight come and we want to go home”, I sing softly to distract myself as I continue to make my way down the trail. In addition to worrying about any wildlife that may cross my path, my overactive imagination is now picturing a serial killer following me deep into the woods where he will club me over the head, steal my gun, and bury my body.
After a few minutes of walking, I see my stand up in a tree to the right, just like my dad said it would be. I hurriedly scale the rungs, hoping to get as far off the ground as possible in case a bear, or serial killer is still lurking in the woods.
I reach the top and crawl onto the small platform. I gently place my gun and backpack in opposite corners, relieved to be at my destination. I take in the landscape around me and settle in as I watch the sun rise. I spend most of the morning reading my Harry Potter book, glancing up periodically to see if there are any deer in the distance. After a couple hours pass, I am stiff and cold. I pull out heat packs and shove them into my mittens, stomping my feet on the floor to stop my toes from going numb. After a while, I’m so cold I can’t even concentrate on my book, and I’m certain that no deer is going to come waltzing into the field given all of the noise I’ve been making.
I decide to head back to camp, hoping it’s close to 10:00 a.m. when everyone is supposed to do our first check-in. I half walk, half jog trying to regain the feeling in my limbs and am relieved once I reach the shack. I open the door, look up at the clock on the wall, and am disappointed to see it is only 8:00 a.m. I know I should turn around and go back to my stand, but the warmth of the fire draws me back in. I toss my coat on the bench, flop on the green couch, and spend the next couple hours munching on beef jerky and reading my book. At 9:45, I can hear the sound of a four-wheeler in the distance. I toss my book back in my backpack, grab my coat and head outside. I run a few laps around the shack, hoping my cheeks turn red so it looks like I’ve been sitting outside for the last two hours. I stand on the deck and wave as my dad makes his way up.
“When did you get back?”, he asks as he pulls up and shuts off the four-wheeler.
“Just now”, I lied. “I didn’t see anything”. (I’m not thrilled that I lied. This particular version of a lie – the desperate to please variety – is something I still think about today.)
Unfortunately, the rest of the group didn’t see anything either. So, after replenishing my snacks, I’m forced to head back to the stand to finish out the rest of the morning. At noon, we reconvene over a pot of chili and saltine crackers and decide that I’ll move to a new spot in the afternoon. Since this spot is a little further away, I am delighted to discover that I’ll get to drive the red three-wheeler. I figure if it gets terribly boring, I can at least take a ride to pass time.
The new spot isn’t much to look at; it’s a makeshift stand with a plastic chair overlooking a small ridge. The sun has come out, raising the temperature considerably. I settle into my chair and pull out my NSYNC magazine, lost in the world of Justin Timberlake and boy bands everywhere. It’s becoming pretty evident that deer hunting mostly consists of a lot of sitting around. Just as I start to think about heading back, I hear something in the woods. Terrified, I grab the gun, suppressing the urge to break out in the Banana Boat song again.
Across the way, a doe makes her way down the ridge, her gangly limbs navigating the steep descent. I can feel my heart thudding against my chest as I lift the gun to my shoulder, watching her sniff at the ground below. I tug my hat down to cover my eye and point the gun at the deer, aiming for the heart. I pull the trigger and feel the gun kick into my shoulder. The deer jumps about a foot in the air and runs off into the woods. I’m certain that I’ve missed until I scramble to the bottom of the ridge and see a small trail of blood heading in the same direction as the deer. I have no idea what to do next.
So, I run.
I run all the way back to the three-wheeler and start driving toward the shack, hoping to run into someone so they can help me. After a few minutes of driving around aimlessly, I spot Uncle Rogie coming towards me on the four-wheeler and wave him down.
“I shot a deer!" I shout breathlessly as he pulls up next to me. “I don’t know what to do”.
We head back to my stand, and I point out the trail of blood. We follow the trail a few feet into the woods and find her, lying on the trail, a bullet wound in her right side. I stare at her lifeless body, feeling awful about what I have done. Her eyes are wide open, staring at me. I look away as my uncle pulls out his knife and kneels down to field dress the deer.
“Right through the heart!”, he exclaims, congratulating me on my good shot.
I smile half-heartedly, feeling slightly queasy as he holds the bloody organ in his hand.
We drag the deer out of the woods, and my uncle straps her to his four-wheeler. Even this act – the awkward, one-way nature of it – drives home the newly altered reality. I ride behind him on the way back to the shack, watching her bounce on the back. I feel a mixture of excitement and shame. Excitement about being able to tell my dad I got my first deer, while also feeling awful about killing an animal. My uncle just seems excited, so I keep my sad thoughts to myself.
That evening, the rest of the family joins us at the shack for a dinner of venison and polenta. Rogie puts the heart in a Ziploc baggie, showing it to anyone who walks in the door, commenting on my expert shooting skills.
“Guess I’m going to have to start taking hunting lessons from Maria now”, he jokes, as he grabs my NSYNC magazine and rolling backpack, pretending to head out the door.
I blush as everyone laughs. After dinner, we head out back of the shack where my deer hangs upside down on a meat pole waiting to be skinned. My mom has me stand next to it posing for a photo that will make the family Christmas card - me, my siblings, and a dead animal. Happy Holidays!
Despite what seemed like a successful first hunting season, I eventually decided I wasn’t meant to be a hunter. I stuck it out for another season once my sister joined us. As usual, I spent most of my time reading, not seeing any deer.
They gave us walkie talkies so we could check in with each other from our stands (this being the pre-cell phone era). One afternoon, a shot echoed in the distance.
“Ria, was that you?" I heard Julie’s voice on the walkie talkie.
“No.” I responded distractedly, trying to finish up the last page of a chapter. “At least I don’t think I shot.”
Needless to say, I still haven’t lived that one down.
But I feel like my short-lived deer hunting stint planted the seeds for the start of some important life lessons. For me hunting was a humbling experience, one that challenged me to recognize my humanity and place in the world. The act of shooting a living creature was startling. It made me feel queasy. But I like to think of it as an important kind of queasy. The kind that forces you to be intentional and serves as a reminder for how to live life well and in balance with the natural world. The kind that reminds you of your humanness.
Nowadays, I mostly observe deer (and still enjoy an occasional venison steak). I like to watch their subtle body language, the way they cock their ears or swish their tails to send messages to one another. I wouldn’t mind a few more opportunities to sit quietly in the woods, reading, taking a break from the hustle and bustle of daily life. The deer never seem too worried about what comes next. Maybe we shouldn’t be either. Some days, it just feels better to sit tight and enjoy the break.
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