Wednesday, December 13, 2017

The Thrill of the Hunt

I took my first deer the weekend before last. He died well, and I am glad to think that this creature caught a dignified, one-way trip to deerhalla at the barrel end of a shotgun, as opposed to the grill of car. The man who taught me how to hunt told me that you relive a good kill forever. I don't doubt it.

That I took life is not something I necessarily relish. Although I have killed many fish over nearly a quarter century, I've never felt particularly bad about it. They all ended up on a plate, excepting the few bluegills I accidentally killed as a small child, when I didn't exactly know what I was doing. This guy, on the other hand, I felt a little bad for. He never knew what hit him. But like I said, he died well. It was quick, and his skull will forever adorn my wall.
What was thrilling, though, was the process. He moved out of the thick brush at somewhere between 55 and 60 yards from where I perched, and what I kept remarking later to curious questioners was that I couldn't believe how fast the whole process was. Not just his death, which was mercifully quick thanks to one ounce of high velocity lead through his lungs. No, what startled me in retrospect was how all the time I spent at the range snapped into place with zero thought whatsoever. Without thinking it I knew he was walking away from where I was hiding. I knew that with a maximum effective range of 100 yards he would quickly pass out of reach. I knew, without thinking, that he had only a handful of steps until he reached my effective ethical range, where I would no longer risk a shot for fear of causing undue suffering. The entire time he was in view I had my front post on his chest cavity, lined without thinking, the butt of my gun pressing against my cheek without so much a thought. I think it was the best cheek-weld I've ever made. It just happened naturally. No thought, just action. Smooth. Quiet. Still.

Boom.

I barely heard the gun's report, even without ear protection, and I never felt the kick. He made three bounds, collapsed on his side, and continued to gallop for about six or seven more paces without actually travelling. Then he stopped moving. That's when I realized the adrenaline had been pumping hard. I was shaking as I climbed out of the stand, and I cautiously chambered a new slug as I approached him, fearing that  he might rise up at my approach. He didn't. He was still making slight movements when I finally stood over him, and as far as I could tell he breathed his last in front of me.

It was a strange feeling.

The field dressing, of course, is not for the squeamish, and the rest was that and hauling a warm corpse to the pickup truck so we could butcher him. We discovered that the round had passed through his lungs and ended it's traceable path against his opposite ribcage. I never figured out where it went, because it didn't pass through the other side. I guess it lost too much energy over the span between the tree stand and him, plus all the meat it pushed through. There was a pretty nice dent on the other side, but as far as we could tell the slug vanished, and the bits that remained are probably poisoning the coyotes that came for his organs. 

The next week at work I stared at that computer screen and the order slips and the ringing phone and my mind was stuck in those woods. I reached out and touched something primal that day, and part of the excitement once you've controlled for the pure adrenaline rush is that hunting is something men are naturally conditioned to do. Sitting in an office chair, staring at a screen... It will never be the same again, now that I've been to that place where I did what I was always meant to do. Even though I wrapped it in a modern veneer, and even though it's been upgraded with modern technology.

One of my coworkers recoiled when I told her.

You hunt? That's barbaric.

I am a barbarian.

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