The lone hunt

He debated waiting until morning but there weren’t many days left in the season and he wanted to get out there. Dad had talked about it for months, and he knew what bucks were left would be on the move.

He’d gone hunting with dad before but tonight was the first time he would carry his own gun. It was one of dad’s rifles, and he was excited to handle it himself. The two had spent several hours target practicing. He felt comfortable holding the cold steel in his hands and maneuvering out to the deer blind with it strapped across his back.

The late November sky would dim its lights in a hurry, so he decided they would start walking to the blind around 3:30. Earlier in the week, afternoon highs had reached close to 70 degrees, but not today. Now it was chilly, and it would feel down right cold once the sun disappeared. He pulled the camouflage stocking hat lower over his ears and eased out of the truck’s cab to begin his trek across the field.

Dad’s gun felt light on his back and his steps were quick as he tromped through the dead grass. The dry weeds crunched louder under dad’s heavier step. Draped across one shoulder, were the trusty pair of sheds dad had taught him to use. The faded white antlers were tied together with a piece of rope—the same ones that had brought in some monsters for dad in years past. The pace of his breathing grew faster as he caught sight of the blind 50 years away. Tonight was the night. If the timing was right, if it was a buck, he was going to take a shot. He could not wait to take his first buck, but dad had often reminded him to not get in a hurry. It would happen. The hunt, the chase, was half the fun.

He turned to steal a quick glance to the small circle of mature trees where he and dad had set up a corn feeder. Two game cameras were still secured to a couple of the trees, and he made a mental note to grab the flash drives from them on his way home. Deer had trafficked this spot frequently this fall but it had been a few days since he had checked the cameras. From his seat in the deer blind, he could see the feeder and pick out a few kernels of corn remaining on the ground below.

The blind wasn’t much relief from the cool, damp air. He sat hunched over in the small chair peering through the opening in the canvas with the binoculars mom and dad had given him for Christmas last year. Nothing yet. He had to be patient. Dad had always been strict about no talking during a hunt but tonight he softly whispered, and dad didn’t seem to mind.

“Do you think we’ll see anything?”

“I’m sure something will come along. Just sit back and enjoy it for a few minutes.”

“I really want to take a shot tonight, but if he’s not big, I should probably wait.”

“There’s plenty of deer out there, son. If you wait, you will kick yourself later for not trying. This is what it’s all about. If it feels right, take the shot.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe you should just tell me what to do.”

“You’ll know what to do, son.”

Thirty minutes passed. Dusk was on its way. Nothing, not even a stray critter crossed their sight line. He rattled the sheds in the methodical yet sporadic way dad had demonstrated. He counted the seconds under his breath and waited. Two more times with the horns and then he sat in silence. Then … a faint crack. His head darted in the direction of the feeder. There he was … it was a buck who had stumbled across the familiar path he and dad had mapped out earlier that fall. The buck snorted and looked toward the blind.

“Quiet, son. He’s not going anywhere.”

He froze and waited with the sheds in his hands, anticipating the perfect time to rattle a little more. He wanted to call him in closer but it was best to give the deer a few minutes. When the buck looked away, he clanked together the sheds one more time, just for a couple seconds. The deer turned his way again and stepped forward with curiosity.

The boy set the sheds on the ground and reached for dad’s rifle. He recounted the steps in his head. Position on the shoulder, load the shell, safety off, sight him in with the scope. The buck continued moving in his direction at a cautious pace. He counted only seven points, but his body looked to be a decent size. He watched the animal through the scope. At less than 30 yards away, he suddenly realized how close the buck had become. Did he have a shot? Was it the right angle? Was another bigger buck following him? Should he wait?

He took a dry swallow that almost made him cough. His heart raced. His palms were sweaty and his finger felt slippery on the trigger. The deer had stopped now and gazed across the field away from the blind. What do I do? he thought to himself. Was this right? He stared at the deer’s body and studied where to aim until his eyes were blurry and he had to blink to refocus.

“Decide son, take the shot if you want him.”

This was taking too long. He should wait. He couldn’t decide what to do. Maybe it wasn’t right. That buck wasn’t going to stand there forever. Just a couple more minutes of legal shooting time for the day.

A loud crack of sticks and brush sounded from the trees alongside the field and the deer swung his seven points to stare directly at the boy. He stopped breathing, heard the pulse of his heartbeat in his ears and pulled the trigger. The deer startled and took out in a dead run across the field. 

“That a way, son. I think you got a good shot! Hold on. Watch him as long as you can. Hold steady.”

The deer ran across the field in a mad sprint away from the cover of the brush and trees. He watched the buck’s antlers hover over the dead grass he had waded through hours before. And then, he disappeared. Had the buck dropped? Or, had he run out of sight? Was he even hit?

“Now, son. Let’s go. It will be dark soon. Don’t forget your sheds.”

The boy’s ears were still ringing from the shot. He slung the horns back over his shoulder, flipped on the rifle’s safety and emerged from the blind. They walked with fervor in the direction of the racing buck. It was too dark to see a blood trail. They may not find him. All they could do was move toward the memory of the deer’s path.

The truck was in sight. The last recollection of his position was here, but no buck.

“What do I do, dad?”

“Take a breath, son. If he was headed this direction, anticipate his position.”

The boy rubbed his eyes and looked ahead. At the edge of the field, at the foot of a grove of brush and trees laid a tan mass.

“Don’t run, son. Easy.”

He took long, fast steps. He could see his breath and felt the sting of cold touch his cheeks. He wiped his nose and looked up at the sky for those last few rays of light. There he was. 

“Slow, bud. That’s it. You got him! See your shot? Oh, son. You got him!”

Dad’s voice sounded like a whisper, low and reserved. The boy slowly knelt by the buck and touched the brown fur. The red blotch of blood pooled just below the heart. The fur was soft and warm. The deer’s eyes were open. His hands shook as he stroked the deer’s side, and blinked back tears brimming in his eyes.

“Thank you,” the boy said under his breath.

Dad’s voice was faraway: “Nice shot, son. Proud of ya.”

The boy stayed with the deer a couple of minutes. Looking down at the dead animal, he felt alone, and the adrenaline of the moment was beginning to fade. It would take him a while to gut the deer and hoist him onto the tailgate, but he could do it. He dug a small flashlight out of his pocket and looked up at the brightness of the moon as he made his solo walk back to the truck.