The First Day

I, as I’m sure many do, often find myself thinking about my beliefs and convictions, both spiritual and intellectual, and how well the way I actually live my life coincides with them. I usually come to the conclusion that the overarching theme of my life displays well the beliefs I hold about the way a good life should be lived, but I’ll be damned if I’m not still a hypocrite the other 49% of the time.

One of the most outrageous examples of this disjunct in belief and practice surfaces every year between the Monday after Thanksgiving and mid-January. This is the time of year that I take to the woods in that most primal endeavor, that coming of age event of the Western PA youth…yes, my friends, the Oxymoron continues, I am a hunter. Though occasionally pursuing small game and birds, the Pennsylvania whitetail is my prey of choice. Grant it, I haven’t taken a deer in the last two years…I said I was a hunter, not a killer. Often the adventure is more about taking my gun for a long walk in the woods than anything else.

So what is it that draws me to this “sport?” I hesitate in daily life to squash a fly or step on a spider. I swerve to miss squirrels in the road and feel terrible when I step on the tail of my 15 year old cat. I despise causing harm or bringing pain upon anyone or anything…for the most part. But, for some reason, I can’t think of hunting in these terms. There are the common defenses, with which I agree, given by hunters and outdoorsmen: population control, crop protection, if we don’t kill them you’ll hit them with your car, there are so many deer that they will starve to death if not controlled. But there’s so much more to taking to the woods during this time of year. There’s a culture and a tradition built up around it that I am, quite simply, not ready to forego. This is one time of year when I make the entirely conscious decision to live in discord with my beliefs.

The tradition…it starts in September when the time comes to buy a license and send in applications for additional tags. The emails and phone calls start escalating. Who’s seeing deer where? Where’s the big buck this year? Where are you hunting? Should we move our stands? Have the regulations changed? Remember where they took that big one in the Valley last year? It builds and builds…my dad, my uncles, my closest friends all chatting it up over the coming season.

Then…Thanksgiving weekend. Some of the guys have already been out for archery; they’ve seen the deer and have tales of tails to tell. The night before the holiday is always a night out on the town talking with old friends, singing, telling stories, and reminiscing. Thanksgiving day is for football and feasting and drinking some beer. But then comes Black Friday; while many take to the malls my friends and I take to the woods. We clean our guns, prepare our gear, check all our treestands, blinds, and other spots. Make sure the paths are clear and shooting lanes open, then trek back to the cabin for a couple of beers. Sunday is the final preparation. Pile the gear in the basement, double check your ammo, make some sandwiches with the leftover turkey, and go buy a pair of gloves because you definitely lost yours from last year…oh, and batteries for the flashlight…how are they ALWAYS dead? Nobody really sleeps on Sunday night.

The serenity…the alarm wakes me at 4:30 AM. Breakfast and a cup of coffee with my dad, and we bitch about how the newspaper is never there on time on the First Day (we capitalize it in PA b/c it’s a holiday there). I glare out the window at the crisp, dark morning hoping for some snow that just won’t come. Pile on three layers of clothes…maybe four…and mom gets up to say, “Good luck!” Load the gear in the truck, grab your thermos of coffee hit the road.

In the woods before sunrise finding your way with a flashlight, the stands must have moved since Friday…honestly, where can they be…by the big pine, or was it that big pine? Small talk ceased when we left the truck, now it’s walking in silence. Finally, I’ve found my tree and climbed the stand…strapped myself in and loaded my gun. My walkie-talkie is still off and this is my favorite part of the day. Watching the sun slowly peek over the horizon, the pinks and oranges of the morning light flicker off the glistening branches of the winter trees. The woods start to come alive. Birds chirp. Turkeys fly from their perches like feather covered rocks falling from trees. Woodpeckers start about their day. I sit in silence…just watching, listening. It’s the perfect place to be a philosopher…to contemplate and meditate. I’ve written papers in the woods before, all in my head. Made life decisions there, too. Hours pass slowly but steadily. A rustle behind me, and I turn slowly thinking it may be a deer. Just some squirrels playing, chasing each other through the leaves. Damn do they get annoying after a while, always keeping you at nerves end. But then, distinctively, the sound of a deer…maybe two…moving through the woods. They’re swift and light on their feet, but still I can hear them coming…behind me. I wait…let them move closer, then slowly turn…so slowly. Out of the corner of my eye…she’s there…just a doe. What beautiful creatures…majestic…this is their wood, where they belong. She walks, then eats, then walks. I turn to get a better look, still moving gingerly. She hears me. She looks at me then looks away as I hold my breath. Then…unexplainably, she spooks. As she runs, I see her suitor. The powerful buck that had been just out of my field of view gives chase.

The adrenaline…my heart starts to pound profusely, breathing becomes sporadic as I raise my gun and find him in my scope. I can’t hold him there, my hands tremble. A DEEP SLOW BREATH…and they steady. He has enough points…find his front shoulder…slowly squeeze…

Aha…drag him back to the cabin and let the stories begin over a sandwich, a cup of coffee and a frozen candy bar. No sandwich is better than the one that’s been smashed under your thermos all morning. No cup of coffee tastes as good as the hot cup in the cold woods. And frozen Snickers are a gift from heaven.

No…I’m not ready to give this up. I can’t reconcile it with my beliefs or justify the killing of an animal with any intellectual or spiritual certainty. But…sometimes traditions are just that way. Sometimes the tradition consumes you and is simply inexplicable…and I like that…sometimes.