The Hunting Story, Part One

This is a piece I’m working on about my hunting experience.  I’m not quite done with it, but I decided to post it here as a short series. 

The blast of the rifle’s report shook me to the core, ripping through my body like a bolt of lightning, ingniting every nerve and every cell.  “Oh, shit!  I forgot my ear protection!  Damned novice!”  The shock flew me to my feet, adrenaline pumping through veins filled with excitement and something similar to fear, but not fear.  The veteran to my left, a man I’ve known for about a year, shouted, “Get that gun back on your shoulder!  Get ready to shoot again!  He might not be dead!”  To say that Brent can be excitable is something of an understatement – his passion often precedes him, but I was pretty sure – that buck was dead.  Anyway, I was already on my feet and had lost all ability to take aim again quickly.  I was sure of the shot, although surprised beyond belief that I had actually taken it.  I regained my composure and my position and got my sites back on the 4-point white-tail I had been watching on and off for three hours.  I saw his legs twitching, black hoofs pawing at the air.  Please die, I willed him.  Do not suffer.  The air was wet and heavy in early November, no snow yet on the ground, the grey days of winter getting an early start.  Wthin seconds no movement remained; the deer didn’t move, Brent didn’t move and I didn’t move.  The only sound was my own breathing, the tears streaming down my face as silent as the now slain animal.  All the animals in the woods surrounding Brent’s property on Blacktail Mountain had gone silent.  As the tears continued to flow, they smelled of salt, of longing and loss all the doubt I’d been carrying around for years.  And something else – something strange and wonderful and barely remembered – they smelled of strength.