When I Started Hunting

by Brigham Brewer

I got out of the family minivan, my heavy World War II rifle in hand as I walked over to the edge of a steep dropoff on the other side of the rocky road.

The brisk wind chilled me as it penetrated my jacket and thick layers of clothing that had already been dampened by the rain of the hunt.

It was doe season, so any deer was fair game for this 12 year old hunter.

The season had been long and enjoyable and was coming to a close. I had hunted several days, toting my heavy weapon, without getting a chance to kill my first deer.

I was skipping school that day to hopefully get a chance at putting meat in the freezer for our large family.

My absence was authorized by my father, who had picked me up from school earlier that day to drive me up into the hills. He was by my side now. It is always such a comfort to have him by my side as my guide on any hunt.

Nearly the instant we reached the edge of the road to look off into the clear-cut below, dad said, "There they go, Brigham!"

I immediately saw the three deer, which were running quickly up the side of the hill below at a distance of about 75 yards.

I didn't hesitate for a moment. I quickly shouldered my rifle and lined up the peep sight of the Lee Enfield No. 4 Mk 1, putting the tip of the front sight on one of the running deer. In the process I flipped the large safety lever to the "fire" position with my right thumb.

As soon as my sights were lined up with one of the deer, I pulled the trigger. A loud boom sent the 180 grain soft-nosed Nosler Partion towards my quarry.

The result was nothing. Nothing but more fear, and excitement, and urgency.

I quickly worked the rifle's bolt action, putting another cartridge in the chamber, lined up the sights again, and fired on the first deer I could.

This time I made a clear hit. The deer was down, but not out. I was excited though, because I knew I was going to seal the deal.

A hike down the steep bank with my father meant making my way through thistles, blackberry vines, and other gnarly ground cover, twisting my ankles over fallen trees and in unseen holes, and sliding down in the soft dirt and mud on my rump. But I was oblivious to any of this discomfort as I focused my attention on getting down to my prize.

We got down to where the young buck lay and saw that I would need to finish the job. I was saddened by the suffering. I was scared by the wounded animal, not wanting to get close enough for it to attack me.

I knew what had to be done, and it was not pleasant, but this process had to be learned. The beauty of the animal, in this case, a young black-tailed buck to be transformed into nutritious food for many family meals. An understanding between myself, the animal, and God, that this was the purpose of its creation.

God had blessed us with a successful hunt. Sure, we could have gone to the grocery store and purchased meat, but there is a deeper appreciation for life and death and the gift of sustenance that comes with hunting and killing your own meat.

People that have never hunted and even abhor the idea, while they themselves will only go to the market and purchase the flesh of domesticated animals without the understanding or appreciation of how it was provided, will never understand the connection between the hunter and the hunted.

This was how our forefathers survived. The men and women that settled the wilderness of the promised land; the land that makes up this great nation where we live freely today, partly as a result of their many hardships and sacrifices. The tradition of hunting that we keep alive helps us appreciate what they went through on a deeper level.

They didn't have an option. There were no Safeway's, no WalMarts. God blessed them with what they needed as they forged a new life and a new opportunity in a free land.

Finally, the lethal blow was delivered and the animal's spirit was released from it's mortal tabernacle and the suffering ended. I had provided venison for my family for the first time in my life.