The First Time I Shot a Deer

***Author's Note***

Reader Discretion Advised

I grew up hunting and learning about proper firearm safety. While I am proud to be a licensed hunter, I understand some readers who are not as familiar with hunting or the use of firearms might find this story disturbing.

Please read at your discretion, and if you have any questions about what I have said or if there is anything you'd like me to clarify, please feel welcome to reach out to me in the comments. I enjoy sharing the hunting facts, tips and stories I've heard and learned over the years, and I feel it is my responsibility as a hunter to help spread awareness about the vital role ethical hunting plays in outdoor stewardship, the preservation of wildlife populations and habitat as well as conservation on a large scale.

I also want to make one thing abundantly clear before I begin: poaching and hunting are not the same thing. Hunting, which is the ethical harvesting of deer and other wildlife, prioritizes humane treatment and respect for the animal taken, the environment and fellow hunters.

Poaching is the unethical and illegal harvesting of animals. It can include the taking of wildlife outside the state-determined season, exceeding bag limits for animals, going against hunting guidelines and regulations, neglecting to adhere to proper firearm safety protocols, illegally selling wild game, trespassing, baiting animals, hunting at night, the list goes on.

I feel it is important to clarify this point. I do not condone the actions of anyone willing to illegally harvest wildlife or engage in irresponsible hunting practices for sport or monetary gain. I have legally and ethically harvested six deer in my time as a hunter, and each one has provided my family and I with meat far more nutritious than anything you'd find in a grocery store.

That said, I would love to share my first hunting story. To this day, it was probably one of the happiest and proudest moments of my life.

***

My father woke me up at 4 a.m.

It was youth weekend, a specific weekend in October set aside for new hunters ages 14 and 15 who successfully completed their hunter safety courses and acquired their licenses, but are unable to engage in the sport without a parent or guardian with them. At least until they are 16.

At 14 years old, I was a newly licensed hunter excited to get out in the woods with Dad. It was Sunday, and after a disappointing Saturday for hunting, we could both feel it—today was the day.

Since I was 10, my siblings and I, under the watchful eye of my mother and father, practiced target shooting with lower caliber firearms, slowly making our way up to higher caliber firearms we would eventually use when hunting.

I remember the first time I ever shot a 12-gauge shotgun—the kickback from the force of the shot spun me around, nearly knocking me off my feet. I cried a little, mostly out of surprise. It was the day I understood exactly the kind of tool I would be using to harvest a live animal. It was critical I felt and respected its power and learned how to handle it safely.

On this day, I would not be using a shotgun. Today, I would be using the 243 bolt action rifle my father had bought me for my 14th birthday. A rifle designed for hunting that he and I had been practicing with for months. To this day, I call it my lucky shot.

"Get up, kiddo," Dad said, giving my shoulder a shove as I still lay in bed. "Today's the day, we gotta get out there before the Sun's up." I could barely mutter a groaned response before he left the room, zipping down the stairs to the basement to gather up our gear.

I put on my Long Johns, my jeans, my tall wooly socks and wrapped my neck in a scarf. I rushed downstairs to find Dad almost fully ready—camouflaged from head to toe, orange hunting vest and licenses secured, boots already on. He barely looked up from his work bench as he tossed me my outfit.

"Come on, kiddo, wake up," he said. "Gotta get your gear on and then we're out. I'll meet ya upstairs." And with that, he gathered up his coffee thermos, his gloves and my gun, heading back up to the kitchen in a few brisk strides. That was something I always marveled at when it came to my father—his huge boots and colossal steps, moving at such a quick pace, yet barely making a sound. He was born to be a hunter, and on my first official day following in his footsteps, he was just as excited as me. Maybe even more so.

I covered myself in layer after layer of camouflage and insulating clothes, put on my bright orange hat and vest, laced up my boots and followed after him.

I came out through the side door of the garage, careful to close the door slowly behind me, making as little sound as possible. The two of us stood outside for a moment, taking in the cool quiet of the night air. Dad smiled, digging around in his pocket before producing a tiny spray bottle.

"Open up," he said, "the deer'll smell your morning breath for sure."

I giggled as he sprayed a scent repellant in my mouth and then his. Thinking it would be gross at first, I was pleasantly surprised. The after taste was minty, almost refreshing. Hopefully it'd do the trick.

"Okay," Dad whispered, pointing toward the tree-line behind the house. "This is the plan. The deer are still gonna be bedded down for now, I've seen them bedded down near the creek a few times on the way to the stand. If you hear them move or run, just stop walking. Let 'em go by and then we'll keep moving."

He paused to dig around in his pocket once more, pulling out two clip-on headlamps.

"Clip this to your hat," he stated, offering one to me. "We won't turn 'em on just yet, we'll make our way to the stand first. You stay close behind me and you'll be fine. Your eyes will adjust to the dark."

I shivered at the thought. I wasn't afraid of the dark, but the thought of animals being able to see us before we could see them made me uneasy. I couldn't imagine walking into the woods in the dark without him.

"Don't worry, kiddo," Dad said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "It's only a five minute walk, and we'll go super slow so we stay quiet. Follow me."

And before I could agree or protest, he started hiking toward the tree-line, 14-year-old me struggling to keep up behind him.

As he marched through the leaves and roots, barely making a sound, I winced at each of my crunchy, noisy steps. He had taught me how to walk quietly. To step with the side of my foot and let it roll to the middle like a fox instead of stepping straight down. In the dark surrounded by tangled tree roots, that was a tall order for me.

But the light was at the end of the tunnel. As we entered the clearing just before reaching the hemlock grove that hid our tree stand, the woods around me did seem to be getting brighter. Dawn was about an hour or so away, and the faint glow forming on the horizon was enough to help me at least distinguish dark objects from shadows.

As we reached the foot of the tree stand, Dad suddenly stopped walking. He froze like a statue, and it was all I could do to mirror him as quickly as possible. Silently, he slowly moved his head from left to right and back again, scanning the shallow valley below our stand, trying to see if we had managed to sneak up on anything.

After about a minute, he relaxed, turning to me. "Let's unload your gun and tie it to the rope. I'll head up first and pull up your gun. Remember—three points of contact at all times on this ladder. If you need your headlamp, use it, but turn it off when you're in the stand."

I nodded, unslinging the rifle from my shoulder and unloading the clip. Gingerly, I laid it down on the ground, running my fingers over the roots at the base of the tree as I searched for the rope. I tied it to the stock of my rifle and stepped back as Dad climbed the ladder. I chuckled as I watched him brush away leaves and branches at the top, grunting to himself in irritation. Probably another squirrel attempting to capitalize on the free real estate by building a messy leaf nest in our stand. Dad always hated pesky squirrels.

He carefully hoisted my rifle up to the stand and nodded for me to climb up. I grabbed the ladder, but did not turn on my headlamp. It was a short climb, I could handle it without extra light.

Finally situated, I began scanning our surroundings, Dad poured himself some coffee, and we waited. And waited. And...waited.

As the hours ticked by and the Sun traveled up over the horizon, Dad turned to me with a sigh.

"I say we head back, warm up, then try again one more time at your Aunt's house this afternoon," he said, dumping the rest of his coffee and screwing the thermos lid back on tightly.

"Today's the last day of youth weekend, we'll head out one more time. We might get lucky."

How right he was.

***

That afternoon, just as the bronze hue of early evening in autumn was starting to set in, Dad and I were on the road headed to my Aunt's house. She had a gorgeous piece of property that sat right smack in the middle of a wildlife corridor. Deer herds passed through everyday, and Dad had had great success hunting that property. If there was anywhere to give youth weekend one last go, it was here.

We got out of the truck, conducted the same ritual and rundown, and immediately made our way in. The way the trails were set up here were a little different. Back home was a straight shot to the tree stand. Here, we had to go up and around, and approach the stand from the side in order to stay hidden.

Taking the lead again, Dad led us past my Aunt's impressive vegetable garden, up the hill and behind the endless bushes of honeysuckle. Keeping low to the ground, we took our time as we snuck closer to the stand, the base of the ladder coming into view.

"Okay," Dad whispered, getting my attention. "Doesn't look like there's anything here right now, so stay quiet, but we'll try to get up there quick quick."

I nodded. "Sounds good."

Together, we made our way over, hoisted up my rifle and climbed into the stand. It was nearly primetime—that perfect window just before dusk. It was the time when deer moved the most. With spirits high, we settled in, and once again, waited.

I watched as the sunlight began to retreat more and more from the surrounding branches and trunks. The warm glow that had embraced us when we first arrived was replaced with cool shadow and a crisp fall breeze. The Sun was still up, but primetime was at its peak, and it would only get darker from here.

Just when I had nearly accepted another quiet, deerless evening in the woods, I heard it.

Crunch crunch crunch. Crunch crunch. Crunch crunch crunch. Crunch crunch.

Rhythmic. Too certain to be a squirrel, too heavy to be falling nuts or leaves. They were footsteps, of something big.

My adrenaline building, I slowly turned my head to the left as far as it could turn. I had scanned over the area what felt like hundreds of times in our short time sitting there, but I knew I could hear it.

Something approaching us from behind the stand, and if I fixed my gaze to the left of the trunk of our tree as far as it could go, I knew something would eventually step out into the clearing where I could see it.

And then it did.

The color of its coat so similar to the browns and reds of the woods around us, the deer blended into the background to the point it was almost invisible. But as it continued its cautious walk into the clearing, I could see its legs and snout, its eyes, and then...its antlers.

My breath catching in my throat, I reached toward Dad, grabbed his knee and squeezed as hard as I could. Without making a sound, Dad leaned toward me, whispering in my ear.

"What's up, kiddo? You see something?"

I nodded, pointing with the same hand I had just used to squeeze his knee. I pointed toward the deer and without taking my eyes off it, whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

"It's a buck. 30 yards out. It's a freaking buck."

I didn't even have to look at his face to see the smile. He chuckled, his voice brimming with excitement as he whispered once more.

"You know what to do, kiddo. You got this. Remember, slow trigger squeeze, and reload after just in case. Let it walk out a little further first, then get your scope on him. I'll stop him for you."

I nodded, reaching for my rifle. As I focused my breathing, doing everything I could to calm down, any chill in the air around me seemed to evaporate. The rush of warmth in my cheeks, the tingle in my hands and feet, the hammering of my heart in my chest as I gripped my rifle—it was the most excited I had ever felt.

My eye trained on the deer, I moved my gun into position, securing the stock snuggly against my shoulder, lining up the deer with my scope, and clicking the safety off.

My finger hovered outside the trigger guard as I steadied my nerves. It was right there. A buck, a four-pointer. Standing broadside right in front of me. The perfect shot.

As my finger entered the trigger guard and I poured every sense I had into aiming at the deer, I waited for Dad. The cross hairs followed the deer, aimed right behind its shoulders. Now I just needed it to stop walking.

Right on cue, Dad let out a short, loud "MEH!"

And instinctively, the deer froze in place.

I didn't hesitate. Before it could turn its head in our direction, my finger slowly squeezed the trigger and a loud crack echoed off the trees.

Dad immediately pumped his fist in the air in celebration. "Way to go, kiddo! It looked perfect!"

But my heart sank as I stared at the deer. Was Dad sure I hit it? Had I missed? It was still standing there. Surely it would’ve ran or fallen over. Right?

"Mad, reload!" Dad's command brought me back down to earth.

"Reload kid, take another shot since he's still up, just in case."

I nodded, chambering a round quickly and positioning the rifle once more. This time was different. The deer was already still, it hadn't moved. I must've hit it. Now it was time to speed things up and ensure it didn’t suffer.

More confident now, I aimed at the same spot, slowly squeezed and fired. This time, the deer took one step, then another, and finally, tipped over. As it slumped to the ground, I reloaded, clicking the safety back on and lowering my gun.

My ears were ringing from the blast, the smell of metal hanging in the air.

It was a clean kill. The first bullet through the lungs, the second through the heart. The deer never knew what hit it.

A few seconds later, I heard a deep, sincere "WOOHOO!" escape Dad's lips as he pulled me into a giant bear hug.

"You did it, Mad!" He laughed, shaking my shoulders and jumping around the stand. The adrenaline receding and my normal senses returning, I laughed with him. I could feel the heat of tears pooling in my eyes and my muscles relaxing like a weight had been lifted. Every inch of me was filled with newfound pride at my achievement, and it was all Dad could do not to fall out of the tree stand as he cheered.

"Your first youth weekend! One of your first hunts! Mad, you got a buck, that is incredible!"

Both of us were full-on crying now, tears of excitement streaming down our faces. Pulling back from the hug just enough to look me in the face, he smiled.

"I'm so proud of you, kiddo."

It was the ultimate validation, the ultimate comfort and relief. I've never forgotten those words in that moment, and I carry them with me each and every time I find myself back in the woods, watching the world from my tree stand.

These many years later, I might be walking into the woods alone. But with my lucky shot in hand and those words echoing in my heart, Dad is always with me.