“Why do you want to kill something?” my friend asked.
“I don’t want to,” I said, “that’s the point.”
The comments I get before I go on an adventure are what you’d expect: most people say “that’s so exciting” or “very cool,” and the conversation quickly turns and moves onto another topic. Sometimes you get a kindred spirit that’s interested in the journey, and soon you’re swapping stories and sharing mutual admiration. But when I told my city friends I was going hunting, questions turned into interrogations, and the people who gave me the usual cocktail-party formalities now had plenty to say.
For me, it was Penance: my act of contrition. My whole life, at least two times a day, I’d eaten meat. I feasted on the spoils, but not once had I exacted the price, nor given as much as a second thought to the fact that until quite recently, the centerpiece on my plate had a pulse. We’re insulated from all that. I let someone else do the dirty work; somewhere a thousand miles away a life ended, while a few days later I sat and ate, blissful and ignorant. I didn’t hear the screams, I didn’t see the blood, I didn’t feel guilt. The way I saw it was simple: if I couldn’t stomach the killing, I had no right to the meat. I live in and work in the city and the idea of hunting or growing everything I eat is impossible. During my interrogations, that point was mentioned often. Obviously. But that wasn’t the point, I wasn’t thinking about turning into a subsistence farmer: I was thinking about doing it myself for once. One time, to see the true price of blood—to see a life slip away—to gut and skin and butcher something that I had just seen walking, breathing, until I decided I fancied some meat. A sacrifice the modern world has forgotten.
I’d never shot a gun before. But when I shot Tim’s deer guns—weeks before I put on a camo jacket for the first time—that’s when it began to sink in. And you don’t understand the power of a gun until you use a scope. There’s the noise, a blast that shatters the calm leaves your ears ringing; the stock slams into your shoulder; a shock wave pushes its way through your chest. But when I used a scope, that’s when I understood. Looking into its tunnel vision the world is slowed, magnified, still. You scrutinize your breathing, your target. Each subtle movement swings the crosshairs wildly over your where you meant them to be—motions that until now, you were unaware of. All you see is a circle: a fragment of spacetime surrounded in a black void. That is all you know. In some other world, you're holding a gun, but in this world, there is only stillness. Then the world breaks. An explosion splits the air and pulses through your chest, the stock slams into your shoulder—but you hardly notice. Sight is the most important sense; we use it to navigate, to ground us, and we rely on it more than the other four combined. I saw only calm. I knew where I was. But when I pulled the trigger, the stillness shattered into chaos. In a violent thrust, the barrel flew up and smashed my careful focus to pieces. Everything I could see flew by and when the gun fell back down and I found my target again, I knew after something like that, the world could never be the same. Then I understood: guns are made for killing.
When we arrived at target practice, Tim pulled out what looked like a small portable radio, his new caller, from the back of his pick-up. He flicked it on and filed through the settings until he came to the one he wanted, “hare in distress”. “There’s a fox around here, he’ll come running to check it out. Point that way,” Tim said. I raised the gun and pointed at the clearing, hoping nothing would show. It didn’t. After a few minutes, I lifted the gun, and we about setting up the target. But standing there, waiting for the fox, as clear as day I felt doubt leaching into my mind, and I wondered if I wanted to kill a living thing. I sent bullet after bullet into the wooden target. Before, killing had been an abstract thought, but now, I was holding a gun and it was real. It was only a fox, I said to myself, I came to hunt deer, and when I see one, I’ll have no problem doing what needs to be done.
My brother-in-law is the only person I know who hunts, and whether he wanted my company or not, I forced it upon him. Tim was just the person I wanted to go with. Each adventure I take has been chosen for a reason. I get inspiration, I research, I mull it over, and then I plan. I’m always there for a reason, and getting the full experience is mandatory—no corners cut. And with hunting, I wanted to learn, not just kill. Tim loves the sport because of the deer themselves. After shooting that day, we walked around his sister’s property. It was only a twenty-minute drive from his house, and he visits it during the week to hunt after work. Often when he’s there, sitting in the cold, he doesn’t take the shot. He looks on as they pass by, his gun at the ready, only watching. He loves the sport, not for the trophy, but the deer themselves. He told me as much. But he didn’t need to, as we walked into the brush, and he showed me game trails and scrapes in the dirt where the deer had scratched away the leaves, I couldn’t miss the excitement in his voice. He taught me about the rut and game trails, how to spot a bedding area, how to know a fresh scrape, and tell how big the buck was that raked his antlers against a tree. He described how they behaved, their daily patterns, how to approach from downwind. He taught me how to hunt them. I chose deer for a reason, to kill something big. Something my size, something I could not write off as beneath me: a creature that could look me in the eye.
I had to take the New York State hunter ed course, which for someone living in New York City, as you can imagine, was difficult to find and difficult to get to. Despite the high demand for hunting licenses in Brooklyn and Manhattan and the high concentration of hunting clubs, few courses were offered in the city. But I wanted to do this. And three weeks before Thanksgiving, I swung through Rochester on my way back to the big city to go shooting with Tim. My mother wasn’t happy that her son giving up his holiday weekend home to go hunting instead of spending it with the family. But she didn’t have a choice. This was something I had to do.
After Thanksgiving dinner and the board games that followed, Tim picked me up from my parents’ house and we drove an hour south of Rochester to his camp, a three-way land partnership he’d inherited. We arrived late, in the pitch dark, and after unlocking the entrance gate, headed down a long dirt road covered in fog, crowded by trees on either side. The lot was sandwiched by two different state forests, and that narrow strip was all that connected it outside world. At the end of the driveway the woods broke apart and the camp appeared. It was situated on a hill looking down into the valleys of western New York, but with the November clouds blocking the moon, I could only see as far as the truck’s flood lights headlights could shine. There were two buildings and several tired looking trailers stationed about the property. One of the two structures had been built by a deceased friend of Tim’s father. Over the years piece-by-piece, he assembled a hunting cabin, and after his sudden death, it passed to Tim. Once out of the car, he fumbled with a lighter, igniting the propane lamps. There was no electricity. For water we went to a shack at the edge of the trees, and began the thirty-minute process to bring well water into the house. For heat we relied on a wood-burning stove made of cast iron. There were warm beds, food, and water; everything we needed and nothing more. For meals I cooked on a bulky gas range from the 20’s that had two settings, very hot and burn; it was more antique than functional stove. For two days we lived off eggs and chili and instant coffee.
The first day was quiet. We went out into the dull light before dawn, and stayed until it was sucked back over the western hills. We sat in the cold; together in the morning, then in the afternoon, Tim took a different spot. He caught a glimpse of a spike, one that was well out of range. I had no such sighting to report. The next morning we rose again at 5AM. When I couldn’t take anymore of the instant coffee, I slipped into my wool long sleeve, covering it with an identical shirt, but in a different color. Over those, my heaviest wool sweater—I did not think to wear it the first day, and I paid the price—one pair of long underwear, insulated athletic pants, and camo trousers left over from my paintball days in middle school. I zipped into my PrimaLoft jacket that I used for everything: skiing, hiking, commuting to the office…and now, hunting. My final layer was a borrowed jacket, two sizes too big, emblazoned with orange camo and knee high plastic hunting boots. Twice my normal width, I walked passed the iron stove and out into the predawn darkness.
If Thanksgiving in Rochester were born a person, it would, at the earliest age possible, have been diagnosed with manic depression. One year, it was sixty-five degrees with all the earmarks of a gorgeous September day. The year after, I sat inside watching the snow hurl at the earth, so dense, I couldn’t see the huge oak only thirty feet away. And this year, there was a blizzard the Sunday before that left snow up to the knees, but by Thursday, its white cloak had been frayed away by the rains, and the ground was left soggy and bare. Until today, when I stepped outside to find the landscape gilded white. The temperature was just above freezing and the snow fell in clumps and if you closed your eyes you would have gambled your life’s savings away on the certainty of rain, banging against dead leaves.
The world is closer up there, especially in the woods. Dense trees block the horizon. Leaves that made the upstate hills and valleys burn orange and crimson and gold have flamed out. In November, the last survivors cling to soaked branches. Embers of a dying fire. The rest are lifeless, a carpet of rot covered in mud: the smell of Thanksgiving in Rochester. All the while, the grey sky pressed down on the world.
I sat with a rifle. Watching. Waiting. Thinking. Alone, and silent as the grave. It was damp, November in upstate always is, and there’s nothing more ferocious than a damp cold. The first hour, I hardly noticed, with all my layers to protect me, but as I sat there, still and silent, the cold pushed past each layer; it sunk down to my skin, seeped through muscle, and finally dug itself into my bones. As time dragged on, the chill consumed me. Silent and still, gun resting in my lap, on my lap, or leaning up an arm’s length away, I waited. I thought about the fox I didn’t want to kill, and I thought about the deer I hadn’t yet seen. I thought about what would happen if one, in that instant, came looping out of the woods, how I would draw my gun, and what would I do if it was a doe. Thankfully, I couldn’t shoot a doe here. We didn’t have the permit for this zone of New York, and I was much more certain I could pull the trigger on a buck. Over and over, I’d try to imagine the deer walking out, and what I would do. Do I really want to kill? I sat there, thinking in the cold, listen to the snowfall, trying to pretend I was warm and wanted to shot a deer.
But none came. After another fruitless morning, we left our stands to walk in the woods. For the first time in two days, I wasn’t cold. But the weight of the rifle gnawed at my strength. Each minute I shifted the weapon—to my shoulder, or ready in both hands, or slung across my back. The most comfortable poses were also the least useful. By the end of the trudging through the woods, I had nothing to show for it, only the sight of two does bounding through the trees with stunning grace. They floated over fallen pines, moved so quietly, so fast. Each step was true and perfect. They were made for the woods. I raised my gun, but as I did, I saw neither was a buck and instead of shooting, I watched them dance into the trees. I was relieved. Luckily, there was no decision to make. I had reservations about shooting a full-grown buck, but had I resolved to do it. I would not kill a doe with a baby, that was certain, but between these two extremes was where I languished: if it were a doe or a young buck, I still didn’t know what I wanted to do.
After two days of seeing no bucks, we switched spots and guns. Our eyes on the clock, we headed back to Tim’s sister’s house trying to catch the last of the daylight. He knew this spot better than he knew his own camp and he’d kept this spot as a backup plan—I’d get another chance at a deer. But this property was in a different zone, and now we had the permits to shoot deer without antlers: does and young bucks were fair game. I was out of convenient excuses. Here, I’d have to make a choice.
The trees were too close, and a rifle would not do. Tim pulled a 12-gauge shotgun mounted with a scope out of the back seat of his and handed it to me. It was his first gun: the most powerful I’d shot, the one that made me hesitate the most, and I’d only pulled the trigger three times. It weighed twice as much as the rifle, and carrying it, my arms were tired before the first minute was up. As we walked past the ground where I’d waited for the fox, and where the target had been set up, he told me about a button buck he’d seen here. His mom had kicked him out now that mating season had begun. He was young, not even old enough for antlers; not some old crusty fellow, ill-tempered and bitter, one that might grunt at the young deer as they came into his woods. As I marched up the hill, carrying a gun I’d barely shot, I tried to convince myself I wanted to kill this animal. A sense of dread bubbled up inside me. I failed, but with each step I moved further into the trees. With dusk at hand, I told myself, this is my last chance.
We climbed into a tree stand big enough for the both of us, one-by-one, guns unloaded: bullets do not discriminate between people and game. At the top I loaded my weapon, too heavy to hold, and leaned it against the sideboards. Tim began blowing into the deer call, grunting into the cold air. We waited. Hunting is quiet business. The sounds came from the wind and swarms of starlings twisting into odd shapes above our heads. They moved like shadows and their ominous calls chattered through the naked forest. They reminded me of Death.
Movement in the woods. I went for the shotgun. I stood still. There was a deer down the hill, protected by cover, whose form melted back into the brush as quickly as it had appeared. It’s time, I thought, what is your answer? We waited. Nothing. After a few minutes, fatigue clawed at my arms and I was forced to return the heavy gun to rest. Tim called again. When he did, without hesitation the young buck bounded out of the woods. Curiosity had gotten the better of him. I grabbed for the gun, again. He was sniffing at the air, looking around. Blocked by branches, he started walking towards my line of fire. I followed him through the trees and as he drew near, placed my crosshairs five feet ahead, at the start of a clearing: a clean shot. Do I really want to kill this deer? I asked myself. One who hadn’t seen his first winter? His curiosity was endearing. My whole life I’d gathered so much joy from watching animals, observing their behavior, wanting to be their friend. When I was three I started watching documentaries about them, and even now a quarter century later, I’ll spend hours on the internet researching, daydreaming about the interesting species of pets I’ll have when I leave New York City. Pigs, bears, and kangaroos, they’ve all been on my list. One day my co-worker mentioned that she thought otters were cute and I launched into a ten minute monologue about their needs and behaviors and why they make difficult pets. But now I had a shotgun, and I was looking through a scope.
I saw him hesitate, saw him think. Before the clearing he paused and smelled the air. He knows. Then a weight poured over me and the excitement vanished; I realized what I must do. I heard Tim whispering. I didn’t know what he was saying, but I felt the pressure to act. Two days of sitting and here was a deer, I had to shoot. But do I want to? He started moving out of the trees. More whispering. I’m committed, now. I had asked for this; I dragged my brother-in-law out into the woods, taken a hunter’s education course, and traded my Thanksgiving weekend for the cold. We were here because of me. Yet, I didn’t know if wanted to pull the trigger. Not this deer. Do it. I don’t want to. Do it, now. I had sat silent for two days, alone with my thoughts. And now, I had no time to think, and the young deer trotted into my crosshairs.
I climbed down the aluminum ladder, and out of tree stand. My feet sinking into soggy earth, I pumped out the empty shell, and a new one slipped into the action. Even reloading was abrasive; a heavy clang, metal-on-metal, sliced through the trees; the spent casing sprang into the air, landing several feet away. In a final and desperate act, the deer had run downhill—past our line of sight—with last of its strength and on borrowed time. Doubtless when its shattered heart and lungs were needed again, there would be nothing left but to collapse into death. We walked down the ridge, through the trees and bushes, following dark mud, the place where hooves had hit the ground in panic. Bending over looking for traces of blood, I wondered how he felt. Does he know he’s dying? I tried to remember when it happened, but it happened so fast. I searched my feelings, but with all the guilt and excitement and dread swirling about, I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how I felt. Instead, I thought about Death, and how it must feel like late November.
...
Darkness crept into the trees. Across the cornfield, picked bare by man and deer and crow, gun smoke drifted towards the setting sun. Black clouds of starlings whirled against the grey sky, their jeers piercing the cold. The sound of late November. When I looked up to see them, where the trees had been, black spears stabbed at the belly of the clouds, glowing faint with the last of a dying light. My lungs filled with freeze, and with each breath, a chill burrowed deeper into my bones. The smell of rotting leaves choked the damp air as my body bled into their decay. I saw a dark shape gliding through the trees. I heard the beat of silent steps draw near. Bleak skies pressed down; the world began to shrink. And the wood faded into starless night.
