It was a cold November morning, and the first day of Texas’s White Tail deer hunting season in 1994. My dad woke me up from my bunk in the back of PeeWee’s truck. We were in the Hill Country at our property between Kerrville and Junction. It’s a sparse piece of land with no running water, no electricity, and no permanent structure. My dad bought it in August of 1990 so that his kids would have access to the beauty that is the Texas Hill Country.
That Saturday morning I rose before dawn and as my dad’s coffee was perculating on the old Coleman stove I felt something that I had never experienced. It was a feeling of communion with the earth, with myself, and with my dad. It was just us. He served his coffee, and used the warm water to make me some hot chocolate. I started to say something in my city voice that’s loud, brash, and unaware of the range of sound at the top of a hill. Dad caught me quickly, “Shut up boy! Do you wanna scare all the deer away before you even pull out your rifle?” After having a couple pop-tarts we quickly and quietly moved down the road to our hunting spot, “the canyon”.
Our little piece of earth has a unique jewel that is known to us and everyone who we know as “the canyon”. “The rock” is a formation that overlooks this intersection of two large hills that becomes a rushing river when it rains. When it’s dry it serves as a prime spot to watch the sun go down, but also to hunt the many beautiful animals that live there. We walked from our hilltop camp to the rock and our movements were slow, deliberate, and quite. As we moved through the darkness of the waning moonlight I was able to show my dad that I did pay attention to him by imitating his stealth-like movements. My dad is a master at guerilla warfare, and it is one of the things that I cherish the most because it taught me to hunt. The walk to the rock was slow and deliberate. We were careful not to rustle too many leaves or step on loose rocks because we did not want to scare away any animals that may be crossing our paths. The 1/2 mile walk through the morning shade felt like it took ages, but when we got to our spot it was well worth it.
The sun began to rise over the hill to the east, where we were looking and waiting to the first of the deer to make their way down to the salt block we set out the night before. Underneath the cedar tree, my dad an I sat and waited for the deer to come out, for the sun to rise, but I was mostly waiting for it warm up a little. On that rock at the edge of the canyon there is no shelter to hide from the wind that seemed to blow so cold it reverberated throughout my bones. At one point my dad leaned over and whispered, “hey stop all that teeth chattering, you’re going to scare away all the deer!”
We watched the hills. I was on the left, and he was on the right. I looked into the “football field” and he watched the fence line. It was about 8am when we heard the deer, a doe and a young buck, plodding through the canyon’s crevice. I kept watching to my left to see what would happen; if the deer would show himself. After a few minutes the hooves on the rocks could not be heard, and then my dad tapped me on the arm. Silently he motioned for me to look at the salt block. Sure enough, there he was a big beautiful white-tail deer walking up from the bed toward the salt block. We sat and tracked its movements from bush to bush. Then it made itself known. He stepped out from behind a large cedar bush and moved toward the salt block.
I started to feel my chest tighten, my breathing started to elevate, and my heart pounded so hard I was afraid it could be heard. My dad put his hand on my shoulder, leaned in, and said, “you can take that shot. Aim, breath, and squeeze the trigger, like I taught you.” With that he nodded his head and gave the signal to fire when ready. I watched the deer through the scope of PeeWee’s .243cal as he streched his neck to get to the salt block. I steadied my position and aimed my rifle. Took three deep breaths; letting them out slowly. The last breath I exhaled only partially to slow my blood and heart rhythm. With that I slowly began to squeeze the trigger, and I heard my dad say softly, “Take the shot, you got it son.”
I fired. The shot was loud and startling, but by the time I could refocus my attention to my target it had jumped up and fell out of sight. My first kill took only one shot. I turned to my dad in excitement. All the nervousness they say you get just before you fire came to me after I shot. I began to shake and could not help but want to run down and see what I had just done. I turned to my left, and I saw my dad’s face. He was looking at me and smiling when he said, “That’s my boy, I’m proud of you son.” We sat and waited for a few minute to make sure the area was clear of any other firing and possibly other deer. I was ecstatic with my accomplishment, but even more that I was able to make my dad proud by taking my first kill the way he taught me to.
There’s more to this story, but I think I’ve bored you (whoever you are) with enough of my first hunting story. Tune in again to hear about how my dad taught me to gut an animal.
Chronicle of Higher Education