Twenty minutes later I went back out, my hair dry, my nerves steadying despite no reason to, a willingness settling over me. I repositioned on the patio using the picnic bench and sat with the gun pointed up the mountain. Brent said he thought the buck had moved and it did appear that he was in a different position, but the shot was still not sure. His head was completely behind a tree, the antlers coming out from each side in perfect unison. Later, I moved over to my left and realized he had moved! Both Brent and I were there with our sights on him the whole time and neither one of us actually saw him move. I was now offered a side view of his neck and I knew then that I would attempt the kill. I was warm now and though I should be shaking from all that booze from the day before, a calmness descended and my hands were steady. I breathed deep and squeezed the trigger. Smoke from the gun went straight up my nostrils, and burned.
We hiked up the steep slope, a gentle rain falling through the thick woods. Twigs and limbs pulled at my feet and my knee ligament tightened, reminding me that it still wasn’t healed, that these things take time. “You gotta be careful coming up on him. He could kick you right in the head and you would be one hurtin’ critter. You just gotta really be careful.” I was heeding the warning, staying just behind Brent as he approached the fallen animal. The deer’s back was to me, his head uphill and out of sight until I drew closer. The blood was red at the back of his neck and I knew when I saw it, there would be no more movement. We walked to the other side of him and Brent raised his head. The jugular I had been aiming for sprouted a fountain of the most brilliant red, rich against the moss and wet pine needles. I stood there with my mouth open, momentarily unable to move or even think. My shot was sure. He had not lived long. Thank you. Brent immediately began the gutting process, having mercifully delivered me from this task, but not willing to let me leave the vicinity. I thought I would be disgusted by this part of hunting, but I was only fascinated. Brent sunk his forearms into the deer and pulled out the liver. It was healthy, strong, a good filter for the blood, eliminating toxins and chemicals and keeping the entire organism healthy. The heart was larger than I thought it would be and, it, too, looked healthy and strong.
Hi, Angela,
I won’t deny that this story is so very hard for me to read. I know it is because of my cultural conditioning, though. It makes me wonder how I would react and if I would turn and run with repulsion or also be fascinated.
It’s funny, but everything is so absolutely foreign to me in what you write here. I actually thought you wrote, “Brent sunk his teeth into the deer and pulled out the liver” and wondered “Is that what they do, like a horror film?”. Then I reread it and of course it made more sense.
As hard as it is to read, your writing is so beautiful, Angela. I can see what this meant to you.
I will be waiting for Part Five!
Love, O
Angela,
I’m impressed and heartened to know that you took the buck swiftly with that one sure shot. I could never hunt. Which is why I think you are onto something here. Writing about hunting from a woman’s perspective may have been done before; I wouldn’t know because I’ve never read any hunting mags or NRA publications. But I would venture to guess that it has not been approached in this way: showing the tender apprehension and calm determination of a mystical mountain mama. I find myself loving it in spite of hating the concept of hunting. This series of yours is a winner.
Olivia, I understand. Glad you went back and re-read – that would be way too weird!
Lydia, Thank you so much. I hope I’m conveying what a spiritual experience it was.
Loving this, Angela. I love more than anything how well you’re balancing the two stories — both of them so important. I really think you’re onto something here. Keep writing, please!
love, c
Thanks, Claudia!
Thanks Angela,
I am right with you . . . we are basically “self-domesticated” animals.
We did at one time live in the wild and it was survival of the fittest.
we are walking away from our reality and spirituality way to fast and will probably be our down fall . . . in the end, the few that make it, will be living in the “wild” again!
Keep up the great writing and keep letting that wild women come out!
This is powerful stuff, Angela.
I’m not a hunter, nor do I see myself becoming one. That’s not the point, though: here, I can read what it is like to be in the position of the hunter, and to know what goes through one’s mind.
As others here have mentioned, there is an additional fascination in that you are not a hugely experienced hunter, and you are a woman well able to express herself and tell us what was going on within you in those moments.
Thanks again, Angela, for sharing your words with us.