As I got well into my teenage years, I went along on a hunt with my parents in South Africa. The most memorable conversations I have ever taken part in were while surrounded by the magic of an African campfire, and yet as I write this they become but figments of the imagination. Watching my dad in seventh heaven and being constantly surrounded by four proud professional hunters who openly proclaimed their greatest love, I inevitably craved that inexplicable thrill. I yearned to once again become acquainted with my forgotten passion, and the following autumn we became lifelong friends.
Opening day of whitetail deer season here in South Carolina was like the long-awaited, anticipated reunion with a friend previously oceans away. As I draped my blaze orange over my shoulders and loaded my gun, my thoughts pondered Dad's statement that on that day I would harvest my first deer. I could not ascertain the rationale my dad based this thought on, and looking back still cannot. Nevertheless, we settled into our stand, complete with new pine walls and a sturdy ladder, noticeably resembling the tree fort in which one spends one's earlier years playing "Cowboys and Indians." It offered ample room for catalyzing circulation after extended periods of inactivity; in fact, the only luxury it lacked was a refrigerator! I rested my favourite Browning .30-06 through the rectangular opening stenciled out for the barrel, my senses absorbing the aroma of nature in autumn. Nearly two hours elapsed as we were entertained by the comical antics of two orphaned fawns. The vivacity and vitality present seemed to vanish when they disappeared into the thicket.
Soon a small buck came out of the forest to my right, stepping out after a cautious glance to either side of the trail. I eased the rifle up as Dad asked me if I wanted to take him. I dreaded answering for fear my concentration essential to the hunt would be disturbed. The crosshairs fell on his shoulder as I took my shooting breath. This task proved to be daunting as I was breathing laboriously and without a patternable rhythm. I regained my equanimity and focused on the task before me. The answering "Boom!" of the shot unsettled me, though I automatically worked the bolt as if the gun was completely melted into me. The buck dropped where he stood. I kept the rifle on him after the shot, Peter Hathaway Capstick's words trouncing through my head, "It's the one you absolutely know is dead that gets up." Not that he would jump up and have a lunge at me, but I could not afford to take any chances.
Dad patted my back, saying, "You got 'im, Princess. He's yours. You got your deer!" He had to make a conscious effort not to extinguish my oxygen supply. It was quite humourous.
I really did get him. My dream that seemed so unattainable... so far away. Go away pesky thoughts! I must follow through with my responsibility of the hunt. "No, Dad. Shhh - be quiet. I have to make sure he's taken his last breath. So beautiful an animal deserves not to suffer."
"But Kim, he's"... Dad said.
I interrupted him yet again: "Let me follow through."
I had to be shoved out of the stand as this conversation continued for a ridiculously long while. Really, I was cast out of the stand just as a young sparrow learning to fly would have been. Although my buck didn't make the record book, my clocked walking speed to where he lay may have! I thwarted Dad's plans of pacing off the yardage, but it didn't seem to matter much. I knelt by the deer's side and whispered a prayer. I didn't absorb the actuality of my harvesting that deer until long after the hunt was concluded.
Another evening nearing dusk, while the sun burned a deep citrus shadow silhouetting the surrounding treeline, a doe ran across a well-trodden path funneling into the open; Dad's experience told him a buck would follow. As if on cue, antlers appeared when I raised the gun. I was on the buck's shoulder following him as he crossed, anticipating the instant he would pause to offer me a shot. There was no such moment. A hunter will get few chances at trophy deer; one might even be missed. Maybe that's why it's called hunting and not shopping'
There is something unexplainably humbling about the way nature will inevitably carry on always, as long as humans refrain from intervening. Every evening I spend in the wilderness is a constant reminder of that reality. More than a month passed without another sighting of that buck, or any other for that matter. As the season droned on, familiar deer were no longer seen, presumably taken by other hunters or unable to survive the unforgiving demands of winter, the unsurpassed cruelty of Mother Nature. Dad could sense that I was becoming discouraged as season progressed. He was faced with a tough decision; for he not only wanted to be there with me, but he also wished to give me every opportunity at a trophy deer, even if that meant hunting alone.
And so daughter went out on her own to show Dad how things were really done, and boy, did she ever! Wafts of the sweetly familiar country air engulfed me as I walked to the new tree stand. Hunting this site was like learning to walk all over again; the environment was foreign to me and I needed to adapt to it. My eyes lackadaisically traced the dreadfully high climb that awaited after crossing a web of barbed-wire fences. I made a mental note to enlist in the armed forces when I returned, because after tackling all that with gun in hand, I could take absolutely anything. A white flag of alarm was displayed when I disturbed a deer browsing whilst climbing the stand. I didn’t have much time to get situated, as ten turkeys walked under my stand practically the instant I was seated. I nearly quit breathing in an attempt to create silence so as not to spook them. Wing-flaps led me to believe they later roosted behind me.
I had become rather caught up in the "acrobatics" of a squirrel in a white oak tree ahead of me, so when I saw a doe cross to my left I was surprized. An eerie sixth sense diverted my attention again from the entertaining squirrel ( I was thinking how I had been like him a moment ago when climbing up the tree to the stand platform) and toward my right. A glistening nose as well as the flickering of an eartip materialized from the sea of pine trees. A fine set of antlers followed. I eased my gun up with the utmost care and caution (and I do not misuse these words) and peeked through the scope, desperately hoping the deer would not be staring my way. So far, so good: he hadn't seen me as of then. But wait! He was doing what the other elusive buck had done - keeping up a steady pace with no intentions of stopping for a chat. He intended to cross back into the woods, but for some reason paused to nibble on a solitary shoot of brome grass. Only the back of his shoulder was visible; the front was obscured by a cedar branch. This was my chance. It all came down to how well I handled the overwhelming rush of adrenaline, the thrilling primeval instinct convienently present, and the uncontrollable muscle twinges that accompanied the hunt. My calf and ankle muscles convulsed and tremored involuntarily, though I honestly needed no symptoms to confirm I was suffering from "buck fever" in its most elemental form. All right Kim. Yes those are antlers, but don't look at them! Concentrate on killing him clean. Take a deep breath and shoot. Not that deep - shoot now!
The ringing of my faithful .30-06 resounded in my ears as I instinctively followed through with my shot, working the bolt and keeping my aim. The buck had given up the ghost and dropped where he had so gracefully stood only seconds ago. I descended down the stand as carefully as my shaking limbs would allow me, repeating "Thank you, God, for letting me harvest this deer" after every rung. Creates quite a picture, doesn't it?
I came upon him and let the tears saturate his hide as I said a special prayer. I felt remorse for having taken the life of such a magnificent animal combined with the fulfilling gratification of having experienced the pure essence of nature and the hunt once again. I ran a quivering hand along the contours of my buck's antlers, awestruck once again by his very beauty and grace. Our state may not be known for the most monstrous of bucks, but massive memories and dreams are plentiful. I cannot explain what makes me hunt, but there is nothing in this world that even remotely compares to it. I went home that evening with the satisfaction of having honored the request of Genesis 27: 3: "Now therefore take, I pray thee, thy weapons... and go out to the field, and take me some venison."
I have unsurprisingly answered the horn of the hunter sounding within my soul for as long as I can recall. The mysterious workings of that age-old instinct within me demand not to be ignored. Leaves crunched beneath my feet as I stalked my first quarry at ten years of age: an Eastern gray squirrel. Being a young woman always up for a challenge, I refused Dad's shotgun and instead opted for the attractive metallic shimmer of the .22 mag rifle. My marksmanship was desirable and consequently our dear taxidermist opposed the task brought before her. The squirrel's head required trying work. However, she did manage to capture the splendor and beauty of that creature with admirable artistic flair. Though I still loved nature, I gave hunting a rest for nearly six years before I took it up again, this time stronger than ever.