Deer Hunting

It all started when a chipmunk scurried for cover as the sound of hooves shuffling through the September leaves became closer and riddled my ears with excitement. This was not the sound of a large squirrel burying a nut for the cold winter months, but the smooth steps of a deer. Cautiously maneuvering its way through the thick woods line, a deer walked towards the feeding field. Anxious overtook me, knowing the first deer with a precise nose could catch the slight breeze with my scent. Many birds scattered the field from the incoming sounds and the deer stepped into the open field ready to feed. My heart started to accelerate and my muscles tightened when I saw the antlers above the deer’s ears. I began to enjoy moments like this from past

I was three years old camping with family in the middle of the woods near a stream. My dad, grandpa, uncle, and I had been on a cement bridge just wide enough to stand on. They were testing my new pellet gun on a near rock sticking out of the water. Almost every shot was hitting and it was now my turn. I lifted the gun, looked down the sights and shot. A big splash of water shot into the air, missing the rock by a foot. My dad reloaded the gun and I continued to miss the motionless rock. I remember the feeling of embarrassment; I was the only one not able to hit what I wanted. Embarrassment led me to realize everything happens for a reason, and the steps taken towards a goal will help in any specific outcome. After a few years of practice, my father took me on my first real

Blood was splattered on grass and sticks leading to the woods. My cousin, Ryan and I followed the path of the deer, while my shoulder was aching from the recoil of the rifle smashing my recently broken clavicle. To make matters worse, devil’s club, a plant with hundreds of sharp spikes, stabbed the sides of our arms every other step. Alaskan terrain was unforgiving; I slipped and twisted my ankle by stepping onto a wet stone as Ryan’s right arm was bleeding from the devilish plants. In the worst spot possible, we saw the deer lay limp at the bottom of the tall mountain next to a full stream of salmon. I was so excited, this was my first Alaskan black-tailed buck I have ever seen or shot. The easy work was already done and the difficult part was the trudge back up the wet, slippery slope. In the process of dragging the deer to camp, I could already taste the amazing tenderloins. Passion for the kill and the meals that soon followed was all I needed to get through the aches and pains of dragging the deer for what seemed like miles. Hard work in the woods allows for an amazing meal, like the wild boar I shot the next year in