I shot three deer last week. It was the fastest, most businesslike “hunt” I’ve ever done. Thinking back on it all, it seems at once surreal and matter-of-fact, and I am still trying to sort out how I feel about it all.
The hunt itself was on a private ranch near Lawton, Oklahoma. I was a guest of my friend Larry Robinson, who runs Coastal Wings Outfitters. I’d shot a big buck there last year, so this year I was perfectly okay with younger animals.
They’ve set up ground blinds at the properties they have permission to hunt on (not a ton of public land in Oklahoma, at least around there), and they’ve done their job well. Deer are plentiful, and can get close.
Real close. Like, 10 yards close. Or closer. Last year, when I sat with my friend Rachel in the deer blind, a young buck all but nuzzled the blind. So when I decided not to be picky, any thoughts of a hunt went out the window: This would be grocery shopping. I’d take the first deer that gave me a clean shot.
In my mind, I wanted to see if I could get a yearling, because, well, it’s basically free-range, ethically sourced deer veal. I’d shot a yearling antelope before, under sad circumstances, and after the grief of that encounter faded, the meat was amazing. That was more than a decade ago.
Sure enough, two yearling does walked in shortly after we’d settled into the blind. Probably sisters, I thought. They were completely unaware of my presence, close, and gave me a perfect angle.
At this point, I did something I rarely do: I took a head shot. This is a shot that is, essentially, a game of double or nothing. You either end this animal’s life instantly, or you miss — if you are a good marksman. It is a risky shot at longer ranges because the chance of non-lethal injury skyrockets. I don’t take it over 100 yards. But this was close, my rifle was dialed in, so I took it. The first deer died in an instant.
The second stood wondering what the noise was, and, likely, what had happened to her friend or sister. In that instant, I took the second shot. She too fell dead in a flash. It was done.
All this leaves me with mixed feelings. First, it all happened so fast. I barely had time to process that I was hunting when they arrived, I shot, and it was over. Second, the fact that I consciously decided on a head shot, then somehow clicked off conscious thought (and my humanity?) and coldly killed these two deer with precision.
The elation with that precision, that ultra-clean kill, no meat loss, mixed with the scary thoughts that yes, this thing, this ability, lies within me, definitely leaves me conflicted.
And it repeated itself the next morning. My friend Alan here in St. Paul needed some venison, and my tag allowed me to shoot a buck, and the fact that I wanted at least one normal-sized deer, led me into the blind the following morning in search of a buck.
Didn’t care what kind, and Larry had said to not shoot a big buck because he has clients hunting there later. So something small or weird it would be. Two older does wandered in early, but unlike the yearlings, these were wary and didn’t give me a clean shot. They escaped.
Cows wandered in, mucking up the scene. Then a yearling pranced in, but I was no longer hunting yearlings. The cows were really crimping my style, and we were just about to get out of the blind to run them off, when a “spork,” a young buck with a fork on one side and a spike on the other, popped in. A cow ran him off, but he returned a minute or three later.
I was ready, saw a lane where no cows would get hurt, took the shot — again, a head shot from 20 yards — and he died, too. Hunt over.
This was, by far, the shortest, least stressful and workmanlike deer hunt I’ve ever done. But I’d shot with laser-like precision and was rewarded with clean carcasses (I even missed the tongues on all three so I harvested them, too, for tacos de lengua) and enough time to leisurely process them.
I am very happy to provide venison for my friend, happy to fill my freezer with really excellent meat, and very happy that those animals never knew what hit them. They were eating grass in Valhalla by the time their bodies hit the ground.
So what’s the problem?
At its core, I think it stems from the fact that for a very long time in our existence as a genus, back to Homo habilis 2 million years ago, we were both predators and prey. We remain so, in a very limited way, even today. Sharks, lions, tigers, and bears, oh my! We can identify both with the deer and the wolf that hunts it. We are split in this way.
Do I feel a regret, sadness, and yes, a kinship with those deer? You bet I do. At a very deep, cellular level. I always do, and if I don’t someday, then that might be the day I hang up my guns.
My rational brain is more wolflike. It’s the part of me that slows my heartbeat when I am taking aim, the part that chooses a target and steadies my hand, then wills me to squeeze the trigger softly.
My molars grieve with the deer, my incisors celebrate its death that I might eat meat.
The butchering process, the harvesting of offal, of unloved cuts, of every bit I can, salves the pang. I do not hunt to feed coyotes. I hunt to feed myself, and those I love and care for. What’s done is done. On to the cooking.
"I do not hunt to feed coyotes. I hunt to feed myself, and those I love and care for." You took the words right outta my mouth.
By the way, I made your Steak Dianne with the backstraps of my spoker this year and the boys proclaimed it the best thing I've ever made.