Inspired by the contest over at Her Outdoors blog.  There’s still time to get your entries in!

In my mind’s eye, I still see myself that January morning… a tall, gangly, 12-year-old kid.  I’m standing by a logging road, swallowed up in a tan, hunting coat, about three sizes too big, wearing high-water blue jeans that only half cover green, rubber boots (uninsulated, by the way, and guaranteed to freeze a youngster’s feet).  Under my arm is my Christmas present, a used Revelation 20ga, pump shotgun, complete with “deer-slayer” barrel and a magazine stuffed full of 3-inch magnum buckshot. 

Through this hazy fog of memory, I can also still hear the cry of the hounds echoing through the North Carolina hardwood swamps, heading up toward my stand at the edge, where swamp turns to sandhill, and the oaks and catclaw briars give way to pines and sandspurs.  I remember the breathless wait as the baying and barking drew closer, and the anticipation and selfish hope that somehow that deer would evade all of the other standers as it flew from the pursuing dogs.  With 20 or 30 other hunters on this drive, the odds that this deer would come to me instead of anyone else were slim.  All season long, I had stood in similar anticipation as the chase got closer and closer, only to be foiled by the boom of a distant shotgun and the sudden silence of the hounds.  But so far, this time, there had been no “boom.”  This time they just kept coming, and coming. 

200 yards up the road, I saw my father step out of the brush, quickly shoulder his shotgun, and then lower it just as quickly.  He stared intently at something, then turned his gaze to me!  As I tried to figure out what was going on, something began to thrash through the bushes across from me, and then it appeared… a deer!  It was running hard, parallel to my position, and I remember bringing up my gun even as I was checking for antlers.  We couldn’t shoot does back then, so I had only seconds to determine if this was a buck.  I saw the blur of brownish-white flashing above his ears, and my body went into autopilot as I somehow aimed and fired, sending the charge of #3 buckshot 50 yards, directly behind the shoulder of my first deer! 

The little buck, reacting to the blast and trying to evade the shot even as the pellets penetrated his heart and lungs, cut a somersault and dropped still on the ground.  He neither thrashed nor struggled, but was dead where he fell.  A part of me breathed a sigh of relief at the quickness of it, and at the fact that all that time spent practicing had paid off… a quick, clean kill.  It’s what every sportsman wants and works for.

Shaking so hard I could barely pump the shotgun, I chambered an unnecessary follow-up round and stalked up to my prize.  I remember the odd, happy exhileration, pride mingling with dread and some sort of sadness for what I’d done.  While a lot of time and effort had gone into preparing me for the shot, no one had prepared me for the result… this beautiful animal laying dead on the ground… dead by MY hand!  It was a stark confirmation of what I’d been taught… the irrevocable decision to pull the trigger.  You can’t call it back. 

Not that I wanted to.  I had done it!  I had faced the trial and passed the test!  There on the ground was the proof that I was a deer hunter now, not just another kid in camp! 

I stepped up to my deer, and suddenly the thrill was replaced by an icy hand gripping my stomach.  My throat went taut and I could feel the warm blood drain from my face.  Panic raced through my heart, and a wave of dizziness nearly shook me from my feet. 

No horns.

There were no antlers on this deer’s head! 

I stood staring at what I had done, frozen to the spot.  From the corner of my vision, I saw my dad walking up to me.  He was saying something, but at first I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my ears.  Finally, the words came through.  “Did you get him,” he was calling excitedly? 

I turned to him, white-faced and nearly in tears.  “He had horns when I shot him,” I cried!  “He did!”

That phrase has since become a family joke.

While examining the deer, I had noticed the two bloody holes on the top of his head.  In my naivete, I figured they must have been buckshot wounds.  A couple of stray pellets must have hit there.  My dad raced over, as fast as he could with bum knees, and together we took a closer inspection.  One quick look between the hind legs confirmed that, indeed, this was a male deer.  But even so, club rules and State law require the deer to have visible antlers.  The club was even more strict, and imposed a fine on anyone who shot a deer with antlers less than six inches long.  Things weren’t looking good.

I replayed the shot in my mind (an image that I can still summon today), and I was absolutely certain that there were antlers on this deer.  Was it possible that the bloody holes were where I’d shot them off?  I began to backtrack a few steps, to where the deer was when I fired.  The ground was scuffed where his head had hit the ground as he flipped.  There, protruding through the pine duff and sand, was the end of an antler!  I pulled it out… a perfectly formed, eight-inch spike!  The butt end of it was still bloody.  Relief ran through me again, and it felt like I was going to explode with happiness.

I searched in vain for the other antler, but one was all I needed.  That made my deer legal and accepted, both by the State of North Carolina, and by the folks back at the hunting club!  I was beaming, and when I looked at my dad his smile that day was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen or felt.  The pride fairly radiated from him, and even from several yards apart I could feel the embrace of it nearly taking my breath away. 

As we stood there smiling at each other, one of the club’s old-timers pulled up in his truck.  Tom “Turkey” we all called him, a grandfatherly man, stepped out and came to see what we were out there grinning about.  He got the story, and laughed himself nearly to tears when I got to the part about telling my dad, “he had horns when I shot him!”

When he was finished chuckling at the scene, he reached into his pocket and drew out a silver dollar.  He shook my hand and placed the coin in my sweaty hand.  “Congratulations, boy,” he said.  “I carry one of these for every young man’s first deer.  I hope it’s something you’ll always remember.”

On my desk now, partially buried under “important” papers and other accumulated stuff, I still keep that single antler.  The silver dollar was stolen years ago along with a coin collection.  But more important than either of those objects, I keep the memory of that day, and my father’s proud smile. 

 

 

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