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I use a single shot, 20 gauge shotgun. That means the critters have by far the upper hand, which is absolutely fine by me. If I ever get a deer tag here, I might use a crossbow. I petitioned the Department of Wildlife to legalize crossbows during gun season, and it passed.
I'd be honored to show interested folks "the ropes", but anyone whose interested has to know what I mean by "the ropes". For me, hunting is very spiritual and sacred, for want of better words. I enjoy it very much, but I'm also always aware of the solemn fact that I am ending lives. No whooping and hollering, no macho contest. If I ever kill something and don't feel sadness and shame mixed with the excitement and pride, that will be the day I stop hunting.
Ok, I've been sitting here writing, and re-writing, this email, trying to better convey what hunting means to me. I'm giving up, and instead, I'm posting a write up I did a few days after I killed my first deer, two autumns ago when I was back in Maine for the year staying with my folks. I know it's long, but if anyone's interested, here it is.
Since I'm in Maine for the year, I got a Maine hunting license. Last winter was very severe, so I wasn't expecting much. I roamed around quite a lot in October, thoroughly enjoying the lovely autumn colors and scents, and only a bit disappointed that I only harvested two grouse. On the other hand, since I was used to shooting tiny quail in Nevada, ruffed grouses seemed huge by comparison.
While out "grousing", I kept a lookout for signs of deer. This is in an area around a small cedar swamp about a third of a mile from my folk's house. I know the area well from many years of hiking and exploring. There are plenty of deer trails in the area. Now, when I say "plenty", it's very relative. The deer are big in Maine, but they are also very scarce, when compared to most other states. For example, you can harvest six deer, of either sex, in North Carolina. You can only shoot one buck in a season in Maine (for does, you need to enter a lottery, and only for certain regions). Further, the success rate is only about 15% in a good year. And this was not a good year. I really didn't have much hope at all, but thought it would be fun to try. Scarce though deer are in Maine, they are even scarcer in the Mojave. There, you need to enter a lottery even for bucks, and I haven't been able to snag a license yet. My "gun of choice" is a single-shot, 20-gauge shotgun. I just can't carry anything heavy, and I like the versatility of being able to hunt different kinds of game at the same time. I has a 12-gauge back when I was in North Carolina, but it packed too much of a whallop. I read several articles that said you really don't need a 12-gauge, even for deer. So, I "traded down" for a smaller gun. Because there is so much brush around here, I decided not to use slugs, but # 3 buckshot.
Anyway, I poked around the swamp several times, found a few trails, found a few scrapes, and found a few rubs. I decided on several different places I would sit. I don't have a stand. I just sit on a cushion with my back against a tree. Deer season opened at the start of November. It only runs one month. On the first day, I got up at 4:00, and sat in the dark in the freezing cold (literally - it was about 28 degrees) for several hours. I stuck several of those air-activated heat packs on strategic locations of my body. A barred owl gave a haunting wail from a tree about 30 feet away. If it hadn't ended the wail with a few obvious hoots, I wouldn't have known what made the sound, and I might have been a bit worried.
I watched the stars disappear, and the sun slowly poke through the gloomy clouds. I heard bluejays and ravens wake up. Plentiful red squirrels and chipmunks were luckily used to me being around the area, and didn't start scolding. A grouse walked within 10 feet of me. Tempting, but I was determined. By 8:00, I was tired, sore, and freezing. I went home, happy to have been out, but also disappointed. I figured that I'd have better luck finding a needle in a haystack.
Over the next several days, I sat outside in the afternoon on several occasions, trying a few different locations near the swamp. There's even less of a chance of seeing a deer in the afternoon here, but it was so much easier than mornings. I saw plenty of songbirds and woodpeckers, red squirrels and chipmunks. It was altogether wonderful, but completely deerless. I tried another morning jaunt (with even more strategically-placed heat packs), and actually heard a deer quite close by. Unfortunately, it was still pitch black at the time. Even more unfortunately, what I heard was the deer snorting in alarm at my scent, and bounding away. I was pretty sure it was a buck, just because it sounded very loud and big.
Two days ago, I decided to set up a spot to sit near where I'd heard this deer, on a beech-covered hill that I'd been intrigued with before. From the top, I had a view of an intersection between two old logging roads, one of which had a puddle extending across it. There were fresh deer tracks along both routes. That night, I debated about whether I was actually going to go sit out there in the morning or not. I'd already cancelled on three previous mornings. It was too cold, too hard to get there, too uncomfortable, too unlikely. It was my Mom who convinced me to go, right before bedtime. I decided that this would be my last attempt at the swamp. After this, I was going to try hunting on my folk's land. I wasn't looking forward to this, because their land is very steep. I wasn't looking forward to climbing a small mountain at 5 in the morning, but I thought that, perhaps, deer had been pushed out of the swamp area by me and other hunters, though I'd only seen evidence that hunters had been around the swamp one time this year. There are always lots of deer trails and even deer beds on my folk's land. But, very hard to get to.
At 3:00 on the morning, I woke up, and thought about turning off the alarm (set for 4), and staying in bed. It was only 27 degrees outside, after all. But, I fell back asleep before reaching a decision. At 3:45 I woke up again, and lay in bed, arguing with myself about whether or not to get up. After a few minutes, I decided that if I was awake enough to argue with myself, I was awake enough to get up. So I did.
Frost sparkled everywhere in my flashlight beam. My heavy boots crunched on the frozen leaves like thick potato chips. The trail had a steep section, and despite the temperature, I was hot by the top, coat unzipped and shirt flapping to release the heat so I didn't get all sweaty. I got to my spot, prepared and arranged my many heating pads, hunkered down, and tried to stay as still and comfortable as possible. I'd brought a thermos of tea, but didn't want to touch it yet, because then I'd just have to pee. I made myself into a small ball, held a heat pack between my hands and up to my face, and tried to keep the snot-wiping movements to a minimum. Nose-blowing was out of the question, since it would be far too noisy. It was 5:00.
The stars hung on in the sky for an interminably long time. The sun debated about waking up longer than I had. Eventually, moonlight gave way to sunlight, reflecting almost warmly off the side of a nearby mountain. And I waited. I finally had some tea, which was delightfully sweet and warm, and this perked me up. I saw a grey squirrel hop by, which was a surprise. They are very scarce in the woods around here. I heard bluejays scolding the day in general. And, then, I heard a loud rustle off toward my left. It didn't sound like a chipmunk. I readied the gun, and rested it on my bent knee. I listened, but only heard the wind in the dry beech leaves, which often refuse to fall off trees until spring. I sat, figuratively, and almost literally, frozen for about ten minutes. Then, something happened to make me look to the right. I honestly don't know if I heard something, or saw something out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I was just checking that direction for the heck of it, though I'd really expected that, if I saw anything, it would come from the left. That's where I'd heard the deer on the previous morning, and where I'd heard the suspicious rustle ten minutes previously.
But, I looked right. And there, about 150 feet away, was a large buck. He was nonchalantly walking along the edge of the logging road, head down, sniffing the ground. It's hard to explain what happened next. Everything happened very smoothly, without any conscious thought on my part. It was as if I had done this 1000 times before and didn't need to think about it consciously any more, or, as if someone else was guiding my actions. Somehow, I swiveled around to face the right. I don't remember doing that. I was suddenly just sitting at the right angle. Somehow, I raised my gun into position. I don't remember doing that. The gun was suddenly just in the right position. The buck hesitated and looked my way for a brief second, but went back to his slow walking and sniffing. The gun was aimed at his chest, as he took a step into a clear space between small hemlock trees. I fired. The deer stopped, hunched his body ever so slightly, then continued walking. Had I missed? No, I couldn't have. He would certainly have bolted at the sound. But, I expected him to bolt, even if he was hit. As he walked a few yards. I quickly re-loaded. This involved lowering the gun, finding a shotshell in my coat pocket, making sure it was buckshot and not birdshot (I had both in my pocket), breaking open the gun, reloading, and raising the gun again. I honestly have no memory of doing any of this. All I knew was that the gun was suddenly loaded again, and the deer was still walking. I shot again. He didn't respond at all. He walked a few more yards, then partly lay down and partly fell down. He held his head up for a few seconds, then gently laid it in the brush. I watched his chest rise slowly once, twice, then it was still. From my first sight of the buck, to this moment, could only have been a couple of minutes. It was 7:00.
I stood up, stunned and actually confused. Had this really happened? It all seemed more like a slow-motion dream than reality. I stumbled down the hill and saw the buck lying very still. He looked huge. One antler stood out bright and polished. I approached with reverence, literally awestruck to be in his presence. His eyes was open, but glassy and staring at the sky, and there was no response when I touched one of them. He was dead. He was also stunningly beautiful. I stroked his thick neck, surprised at the depth and thickness of the fur. I gently touched his ears, his legs, his hoofs, I looked into his clouding eyes. I drank him in, amazed, shocked, horrified, thrilled, confused, fulfilled. I don't think there was an emotion I didn't feel. And, as with every kill I have ever made, I wondered how I should feel. How could I look upon this beautiful animal, and feel a primal, deep love for him, yet also feel a primal, deep love for having killed him? Who was I to take his life? What had I done, and what did it mean? I didn't know the answer to those questions then, and I don't now. I doubt I ever will.
I could have sat with the buck for hours, letting the emotions course and swirl, feeling the depths of what it means to have killed, and to have died. But I also knew that quick gutting was important so the meat didn't spoil. I called my Mom on my cell phone and told her to come on out with my plastic deer-dragging sheet. And I rolled the deer on his back, took my small knife, and opened him up. Brilliant red blood poured out of his abdomen. It was shocking, and brutal, but real. It was also a merciful sign. The buckshot had pierced his aorta, leading to the rapid death. His lungs were also collapsed, but his stomach was very distended with air. I thought perhaps, with unable to fill his lungs, he had gulped down air. I imagined his last moments of life, which must have been full of confusion and pain. And I thought again how I was the cause of it. I was mystified by the calm way he had died. Deer, even when shot through the heart, can run the length of a football field before dropping. And yet, this stunning animal had gently laid himself down, just a few feet from where I'd first seen him. I could almost image his spirit standing back up from his body, and continuing his slow walk along the logging trail, unperturbed. If such a thing could be, I fervently hoped it was.
The deer's liver, stomach, and intestines were whole. Even though the aorta was pierced, the heart didn't have a mark on it I opened the stomach, and he'd been feeding on acorns.
My hands and arms were bright red by this time, but the deer had fallen right next to the deep puddle in the trail. I had to break through ice to get to the water, but honestly didn't feel the cold very much. Besides, I was amazed how hot the interior of the buck's body was. Life is heat. I watched the buck's heat steam in the cold air, and rise away into the trees.
Somewhere in the middle of this, my Mom showed up. We tied the deer to the "sled", although the sheet was really too small for such a large animal. I was very dubious that we were going to be able to pull him across the fairly straight section of ground where he'd fallen, let alone up hills, and over logging slash. Sure enough, we managed to move him a few yards, but the slightest rise in the trail defeated us. Our struggle reminded me of a pulling competition I'd seen in a fair a few weeks ago, where a team or horses tries to pull a sled piled high with hundreds of pounds of cement slabs. We were going nowhere fast. We were going to have to leave the deer where he was, and hope my Dad could come home early to help. I didn't like the idea, but there was no other option. There weren't any neighbors who I felt comfortable asking for help, and it's illegal in Maine to cut a deer up before it has been registered at a tagging station.
Just as I came to this conclusion, I saw another hunter walking down the trail. Now, remember that I'd only seen evidence (a parked car) that someone else was in this area once during the whole season. I certainly hadn't seen any other hunter. At most, I'd heard two or three shots since hunting season began. And yet, right when I needed help, a hunter appears. And, not only one hunter, but two. His buddy came out of the swamp a few minutes later, as the first man and I were chatting. This was beyond odd. The two men were very friendly, obviously good people. I was still planning on leaving the deer, but when I said this, they immediately offered to pull it out, at least to the point where the trail started going downhill. And they did.
My Mom and I still had to wrestle the sled down to the house. It took a long time, especially because the deer wanted to drag along his side, off the sled, with legs and antlers catching on trees, and the ropes snagging on stumps. It was crazy, comical, and by far the oddest thing my Mom and I have ever done. About four hours after I'd shot the deer, we were home. My Dad got the buck into our trailer a few hours after that, and we went to a tagging station. He weighed 150 pounds, and. I swear it felt more like trying to pull 250. Each antler had four points.
I found a local taxidermy/cutting shop to prepare the meat. I received about 50 pounds. The fellow who processed my deer said that several of the shot pellets pierced the spine, which obviously helped lead to the very quick kill. I'm going to clean and keep the skull, and I'm also getting the hide tanned.
Now, couldn't I have just bought 50 pounds of beef? Yes, but consider. I knew that deer had a good, free, healthy life. I took responsibility for all aspects of his death. I felt his death with mourning and honor. The experience has changed me. That deer will be a part of me forever. Contrast every aspect of this with the life and death of an average cow. That's why I hunt.
And that is my first deer. I still expect to wake up and find it's all been a dream, and, that I have to decide whether to go out and freeze in the dark cold November morning.
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He was more curious than threatening, just popping up and down in his hole and looking at this big white thing making a soft rumbling noise; an arm hanging out of the window with this funny box in the hand. Glad I wasn't on foot. I'd hate to have to shoot him to protect myself.