LJ Idol Season 8 Week 5 Inconceivable
I married into a family of hunters almost 47 years ago.
My husband's father and several of his brothers and their wives were all avid hunters. Two of my sisters-in laws, a few years older than I, were already veteran hunters. They had both bagged deer of their own in past seasons. I wanted desperately to fit in and prove my hunting prowess and make my husband proud.
I remember the fall my hubby decided it was time for me to learn to join the pack.
He took me squirrel and bird hunting in September to introduce me to the woods. He trained me to literally walk in his footsteps behind him while slowly sneaking around the trees and streams.
I remember how hard it was to follow him. He would stop short and I'd bump into him and he would scold me for making too much noise. Apparently I sounded like an elephant in the woods when he was tracking so quietly and sniffing the air. Many times, I got whacked in the face with a springing tree branch that he had held for himself then let go. I had to be sharp and look out for myself but I was learning to be more aware and keep my head down.
White-tailed deer leave several different signs as evidence of where they have been. Both bucks and does leave behind trails, tracks, droppings and beds. Hubby instructed me in detail about the imprints on a wet leaf, and scratch marks on a tree.
I learned to shoot with a 20-gauge shotgun and target-practiced in the gravel pit for weeks before I got my hunting license. When November came, we'd pack our doughnuts and coffee and all meet out on the pole line under the power wires while it was barely dawn’s light. Grandpa couldn't travel too far or fast any more but he did like to take a perch on a rock in front of his red scout. From that vantagepoint, he would watch over the rolling hills while the boys circled into the woods in hopes of ‘spooking out’ a deer. Sometimes the deer would just meander out to feed on the last of the green fall grass.
There was that one year that my husband got his deer right in front of me. He had told me to stay in a certain spot and just keep watch through a little scrub of trees. He walked away off to my right. After about 10 minutes, I heard my husband vomiting or retching very badly. I was panicked and trying to decide whether I should stay still or go to him.
Suddenly, with a loud crash and flurry, a magnificent deer sprang forward about 20 feet in front of me. I was looking at it broadside like a movie in slow motion. The deer leaped like a graceful dancer into mid air with all four legs off the ground….
KAPOW!
The rifle shot was deafening and the deer caved and collapsed to the ground. My husband showed up all smiles and shouting something like, “Got the bastard!”
I was totally confused. I stammered, “ I heard you being sick. What happened? Are you okay?”
He looked at me like I was crazy.“ I wasn’t sick! I blatted at the deer. It made him hesitate so I could get a bead on him and make the shot.”
I was relieved in a sense, but in my heightened state of anxiety, I started to cry. Soon the rest of the hunting party were coming around and congratulating my husband on getting this fine 10 point buck with a clean single shot to the front shoulder that likely pierced its heart. I vaguely heard their voices shouting things like “Good kill!." " Nice shooting!” " Look at that rack!"
I was overwhelmed with sadness. I stood by silently looking down at the once vital, beautiful, exuberant stag and observed the steam rising from its nostrils as the last breath of air in its lungs escaped. I prayed he went to animal heaven.
That was probably thirty-some years ago. My husband continues to hunt every year and still gets his deer occasionally. I do appreciate the thrill of the hunt for him and try to be attentive when he shares his latest story of a sighting or a near miss. But after witnessing that extremely sudden life-to-death experience right in front of me, it became inconceivable that I could ever find joy in participating in the sport again myself.
My husband's father and several of his brothers and their wives were all avid hunters. Two of my sisters-in laws, a few years older than I, were already veteran hunters. They had both bagged deer of their own in past seasons. I wanted desperately to fit in and prove my hunting prowess and make my husband proud.
I remember the fall my hubby decided it was time for me to learn to join the pack.
He took me squirrel and bird hunting in September to introduce me to the woods. He trained me to literally walk in his footsteps behind him while slowly sneaking around the trees and streams.
I remember how hard it was to follow him. He would stop short and I'd bump into him and he would scold me for making too much noise. Apparently I sounded like an elephant in the woods when he was tracking so quietly and sniffing the air. Many times, I got whacked in the face with a springing tree branch that he had held for himself then let go. I had to be sharp and look out for myself but I was learning to be more aware and keep my head down.
White-tailed deer leave several different signs as evidence of where they have been. Both bucks and does leave behind trails, tracks, droppings and beds. Hubby instructed me in detail about the imprints on a wet leaf, and scratch marks on a tree.
I learned to shoot with a 20-gauge shotgun and target-practiced in the gravel pit for weeks before I got my hunting license. When November came, we'd pack our doughnuts and coffee and all meet out on the pole line under the power wires while it was barely dawn’s light. Grandpa couldn't travel too far or fast any more but he did like to take a perch on a rock in front of his red scout. From that vantagepoint, he would watch over the rolling hills while the boys circled into the woods in hopes of ‘spooking out’ a deer. Sometimes the deer would just meander out to feed on the last of the green fall grass.
There was that one year that my husband got his deer right in front of me. He had told me to stay in a certain spot and just keep watch through a little scrub of trees. He walked away off to my right. After about 10 minutes, I heard my husband vomiting or retching very badly. I was panicked and trying to decide whether I should stay still or go to him.
Suddenly, with a loud crash and flurry, a magnificent deer sprang forward about 20 feet in front of me. I was looking at it broadside like a movie in slow motion. The deer leaped like a graceful dancer into mid air with all four legs off the ground….
KAPOW!
The rifle shot was deafening and the deer caved and collapsed to the ground. My husband showed up all smiles and shouting something like, “Got the bastard!”
I was totally confused. I stammered, “ I heard you being sick. What happened? Are you okay?”
He looked at me like I was crazy.“ I wasn’t sick! I blatted at the deer. It made him hesitate so I could get a bead on him and make the shot.”
I was relieved in a sense, but in my heightened state of anxiety, I started to cry. Soon the rest of the hunting party were coming around and congratulating my husband on getting this fine 10 point buck with a clean single shot to the front shoulder that likely pierced its heart. I vaguely heard their voices shouting things like “Good kill!." " Nice shooting!” " Look at that rack!"
I was overwhelmed with sadness. I stood by silently looking down at the once vital, beautiful, exuberant stag and observed the steam rising from its nostrils as the last breath of air in its lungs escaped. I prayed he went to animal heaven.
That was probably thirty-some years ago. My husband continues to hunt every year and still gets his deer occasionally. I do appreciate the thrill of the hunt for him and try to be attentive when he shares his latest story of a sighting or a near miss. But after witnessing that extremely sudden life-to-death experience right in front of me, it became inconceivable that I could ever find joy in participating in the sport again myself.