Housatonic — My deer stand sat about 15 feet off the ground: a sheet of plywood, a plastic lawn chair, and a tattered tarp roof all wedged among three hemlock trees. The tree’s medium branches made for an easy climb, even for a big, earth-bound guy like me.
This, the Wednesday of Deer Week, clattered and moaned with strong winds; large, tired limbs crashed down and brush crackled.
Deer on a day like this are especially alert, edgy and wary, so much so I started second-guessing myself, thinking I might be on a fool’s errand, how I might have been better off in my recliner with a good book and a coffee.
At that moment, as in a trite story where too many coincidences make a story a fairy tale, three deer crunched up in a copse some 30 yards away, heads high and alert, nervous tails quickly twitching.
Again, as if following a script, a buck stuck his head and neck out of the thicket, clear of any branches.
I never used to hunt without careful preparation and practice, so, confident in my shooting skills and given the relative proximity of the deer, I followed one of the first rules of hunting: If you’re confident in your shot, don’t hesitate.
I leveled and aimed the Winchester 1200 and let a rifled slug fly.
All three deer bolted downhill, west, away from the stand. Practiced or not, I didn’t want to shoot at a fleeing target through a tangle of branches. I’d been in the woods enough to find dead deer that had been wounded and not carefully tracked. This suffering and waste disgusted me.
I’d simply wasted my chance; I’d done everything correctly, putting myself in a position for a clean shot. I’d blown it. Better luck next time.
As I packed up my gear, I noticed one deer had fled a short way, stumbled and collapsed.
Scrambling to the ground, I got to the deer in time to hear its death rattle, to watch it bleed and kick away its last ounce of life.
I hadn’t killed a deer in a decade. Maybe my attitude had changed, maybe not. It could have been just one of a number of things. As I dressed the deer, its heart, its guts, its blood became mine.
From my time in the ambulance squad, I had seen people die just as this deer had died.
After I’d stopped at a friend’s house to hang the carcass, I brought the Winchester in, carefully cleaned the barrel and oiled the whole piece; I slid it into its soft storage bag.
Except for checking the gun’s condition, for satisfyingly hefting it a time or two, I had neither hauled into the stand nor shot it with lethal purpose since.
