儿子第一次打猎记(图)

儿子打到生平第一头鹿.




The Hunt

An almost true account of my first deer hunt.



Handing my bow to my father, I approached the truck. “Careful, those broadheads are pretty sharp,” I whispered. His only reply was a nod, slow and deliberate, for he was submerged in his own thoughts. The atmosphere was tense, almost choking, and the waves of anticipation and anxiety that were emitting from inside our minds were the most abrupt feelings we received.

The silence was the worst thing, present even though we were nowhere near our blind. No sound could be heard until you strained your ears to the limit, and even then, you could only detect the gusting wind and rustling grass.

I climbed in, the door opening smoothly on its oiled hinges. Our driver’s keys jingled, the minute sound shattering the silence, clear as a loudspeaker in a soundproofed room. Then, even more thunderously, the engine roared to life, louder than the cry of a jet taking off. Bracing myself for any further interruptions, I began to survey my surroundings.

The headlights were my main source of light, its brilliance splashing on the yellow prairie grass. Turning, I noticed several smudges of black on the horizon, which, after some study, turned out to be groves of trees. Behind them was the sky, highlighted against the engulfing darkness that it was steadily pushing back.

The truck stirred, grinding its tires into the earth and leaving a trail of flattened grass in its wake. Through the window, I watched the tall stalks that were standing until the last second and then shooting down like ducks at a carnival. The entire experience was like a cartoon animation.

The trees became more and more distinct, capturing all our attention until they were the only visible objects on a blurred background, shaper than the image on a new HDTV, yet giving off a soft, warm glow.

Cartoon turned to painting and painting to nightmare as one tree came closer and closer, rushing towards the truck in a head-on crash. Then, at the last second, the vehicle veered away, turning three hundred sixty degrees and coming to a dizzying halt.

The driver climbed out, immediately greeted by harsh criticism and angry arguments, but I remained inside, head still spinning from the scene. When I recovered from the experience, I climbed out and attempted to locate the blind.

After a few minutes, I stumbled upon one of its many legs. It was exceptionally well camouflaged, so well that you could not see it until you were at most ten feet away, unless you knew where it was beforehand and so would be able to pinpoint its exact location.

I looked around and saw my dad and Keith behind me, finally having settled the dispute. We entered the tent, scrambling through an unfastened zipper on the side. I sat on a water bucket near the very front, a good, reasonable, but uncomfortable perch. Both Keith and my dad then started to create apertures though a series of flaps, mesh, and Velcro. Then, they handed my bow back, and we all sat, waiting.

I again inspected my environment. Slightly to the right of our hideout were three trees, relieved of leaf and branch, barren to the core. Directly in front of that was a curious white object, which Keith told me to be the feeder. It was large, cylindrical, and supported on three sides by long, thin legs, tripod style. Behind them was a continuous line of trees, only about four hundred yards wide but probably over a mile long. There, I knew, hid the deer.

We sat, frequently peering through the openings in the blind in hope of catching sight of life, but repeatedly we were rejected, met by only the ever-present trees and grass.

The bow grew frigid in my hands, and my breath came out in smoky puffs. This regularly obscured my vision, but I dared not move to rub the fog off my glasses, for that would cause my jacket to howl in protest, and noise had to be prevented at all costs.

I could sense that the others were growing uneasy, too, but all that was put aside as Keith murmured, “There’s something out there…I can hear it…”

With that short comment, our senses were greatly heightened, and I found myself feverishly searching for any more detectable movement among the small patch of foliage.

I kept thinking that any moment, something, deer or not, would come bursting out of the cover. Every little puff of wind, every miniature shift of a branch, every diminutive rustle from the grass was exaggerated in my mind, making me imagine that I was only a tiny, insignificant figure in a world of giants.

Then, about an hour after the hunt began, Keith grew impatient and muttered, “Ok, there is either wrong with the feeder, or it’s going to go off way too late for us to hang around that long. I’m going to make a test run of the machine to try to attract the deer sooner.”

I nodded, silently, remorsely, and with that signal of approval, Keith dashed out of the tent and to the feeder. I had to marvel at the fact that he insisted so strongly that we remained silent when he alone was now creating a ruckus loud enough to stir a deaf person from a sound sleep.

He continued forward, stopping every once in a while to shake off any suspicion from the animals, then with one final step, he was at his destination. After fidgeting around with some levers, covers, and dials, he pulled a string, and a grrrrrrrrr sounded while Keith ran like there was a pack of wolves chasing him. Then, corn sprayed out in all directions for fifteen straight seconds, and the affair was over.

According to Keith, this was when the deer swarmed. I turned much more alert, and for the first time since we got here, I held my bow up at ready position.

Not two minutes later, there was an eruptive crunching sound towards the right of our blind, and our heads all snapped towards it in unison. Then, unbelievably, a doe appeared from the brush surrounding us, not five feet from our tent.

My mouth dropped, but there was no time to stand gaping. I drew back, my arms suffering under the task of trying to pull while both sitting and pointing down. Then, with one final protest from my back, I at last had it dragged to full length. I waited, quietly watching the deer while remorsely hoping that it wouldn’t notice us. My father reached to scratch his back, but stopped immediately after I shot him a beyond-murderous glance.

Now, the doe was broadside, noiselessly grazing, perfect for a shot. Holding my breath, I aimed for the vitals and fired.

The arrow was off with a zzzzip, but it missed, a whoosh resonating through the air. Startled, the deer darted away ten yards or so, but miraculously turned back towards the intoxicating food. However, it was now periodically turning its head toward us, so I when I loaded my second arrow, I moved excruciatingly slowly. Again, I drew, aimed, and fired, and again it missed and went high.

“Which dot are you using?” Keith asked.

“The green one.”

“Which is…?”

“The top.”

“Well, then, aim lower. You are about the most fortunate person on Earth right now – first your doe didn’t skirt, and now it doesn’t even move. Probably thought it was a large mosquito or something. Moreover, when it looked at you, it knew you were there, but it still didn’t run. Must be because it’s the beginning of the season and they aren’t so skittish yet. Oh, and by the way, if you miss this one, we’ll just have to wait and watch until the deer are gone, then retrieve the arrows. That could be another hour before another doe comes.”

My peers’ eyes boring into me, I lifted the bow, drew back and aimed for the stomach. Filled with deadly determination, I fingered the release. “One pull is all it takes,” I thought, “Just one stretch of a muscle, and it’s over.” Tensing, I pulled. Praying feverently, I watched the familiar scene unfold. The arrow plowed through the air, and for a split second, it was too high still, but the energy it initially had dropped, and with a solid thud, I knew I hit home.

The doe darted away from us, the arrow protruding from its side. A shout sprang to my throat, but I held it back at the last second, remembering Keith’s words: “When you hit a deer, one of two things will happen – either it’ll drop where you hit it, or it’ll run away. When the latter happens, you have to wait and stay silent for a while, because if the deer gets spooked, it’ll run for a mile or more even with an arrow sticking out from its lungs.”

Knowing that, I held my breath, even though I couldn’t acknowledge how long “a while” was. Keith eventually reported that he was going to retrieve my arrows and find the blood trail, telling us to wait.

We watched him rummage around in the brush, scouting the general area. After only half a minute, he had located the first projectile. He then altered his direction and rushed after the second, which took him somewhat longer.

He disappeared into the distance then, searching for the blood trail. My dad and I exchanged a silent high five then remained still. By now, we were used to the prolonged silence, and we talked only if necessary and in whispers.

Keith eventually came back with a negative report and invited us to come and try our luck.

The main “trail” was simple, a strait line cut clearly through the grass. Fifty yards more, though, and it became much more complicated. The trail split into multiple directions, and I took the bottom one. After that, it twisted, turned, and split to the point where I simply had no idea how to have even a fraction of hope. Finally, I just tagged behind Keith.

From there, the trail led us from prairie to tree cover, and with that came reduced light, which took its toll. We lost the trail momentarily and were prepared to give up, but I hit upon the first blood mark – an oak leaf with three bright drops on it. It was highlighted along with several others like it against the brown dirt and yellow-and-green foliage.

The path twisted and turned, and thrice we ran around in circles trying to find the right path. This took us over barbed wire, through the trees and back into the sun, to a clearing.

After another hour or so of constant arguing, running, and sweating, Keith said, “What’s over there?” pointing to his left. “Over there” was the doe, lying in a bedding position in a clearing, its side smothered with blood and foaming. I halted and took some pictures, and then we all helped in dragging the deer away to the valley from which we were first hunting.

Keith phoned the guide, and minutes later, he came, rocking in his white, dirt-spattered pickup, headlights flashing, wheels grinding, gears groaning. The three men then heaved the doe into the pickup, and I again climbed in.

As we drove off, I contemplated on the recent occurrences: the frigid cold, the troubling feeder, and most of all the death of a living creature. I had never liked to see suffering, and this kind of shock was relatively new to me, even though I fished rather frequently and saw the deaths of many fish. Somehow, I thought that the life of a deer was worth more than one of a carp or bass. Even so, I was still revolted when I see my father cut a peggy into pieces while it was still live, and watch it flop on the deck with half its body cut off.

We drove on, the truck rumbling though dirt paths, highways, and wilderness alike, and my mind drifted, and eventually, almost reluctantly, it moved on, and I put my sorrow behind me as we drove north to the future.