Endeavors of a Real Man

            by Alex Nichols

 

I attempted to decode this fascinating piece of technology as the nifty, handheld GPS flickered on. Unfortunately, I could not map out where I had wandered to. The wind whispered through the frigid Canadian woods as tiny specks of snow sparkled, drizzling down onto the thick white layer of snow that had already shielded the soil beneath. I perked my ears to try and catch any signs of cousin Chris and uncle Randy, rustling about. As I recall Chris portrayed our target as: A buck, or doe. More formally though, the white-tailed deer, grayish brown, with a spot of white under its tail, roughly 130-220 pounds. Our equipment: A “Diamond Black Ice” bow with the “grim reaper razor tip” broad head. When you come right down to it, this bow and arrow would give you maximum penetration on any Godzilla you set your eyes on.

This was bow season, therefore rifles weren’t technically allowed. My scrawny arms did not posses the strength to draw back this extraordinary mechanism that executed its targets so brilliantly. Therefore, Randy was skeptical about having me tag along but after showing off my superior marksmanship by shooting a large tree, my relatives thought otherwise. Thus, I was given a Winchester Model 70 Rifle. I felt like a real man, like in the movies where the devious spy designs crafty means of eliminating his targets, except this time it would be a buck. I was proudly sporting Uncle Randy’s oversized camouflage jumpsuit made of green and yellow twine that swayed with every footstep. I was encircled by a magnificent forest with trees as high as mountains, whose intimidating height seemed to grow by the second. I had agreed to embark on this endeavor but I was certainly unaware of what I was about to be subjected to. Being one of the youngest men in the family, I felt the drive to accomplish this expedition. Being familiar with the phrase, “you’re too young to tag along with the big boys buddy,” I knew that this time, there was no excuse. It was always difficult to stay back with the rest of the family while the “boys” were out doing the “fun stuff.”

It was my turn to prove myself, to become a man. Chris and I had shot at squirrels back at the harbor but that was in the summer. This was my very first time visiting Ontario during the winter, my first hunt.

 

I began hiking down the seemingly endless path that my GPS had instructed me to do, carefully placing the GPS back into my handy camouflage jumpsuit which included a ridiculous amount of pockets. For one reason or another, only three walkie-talkies seemed to be functioning properly so, being a ten year old kid, I was not fortunate enough to obtain one and therefore could not receive any transmissions on our progress. I gradually decreased the speed at which I was walking as the racket of the snow’s crunching came to halt. Nothing too exciting was happening so I decided to load the rifle that was handily strapped to my back. My near frostbitten hands proceeded to load the icy metallic cartridge into the handsome weapon. The click of this bolt action beauty resonated through the tranquil woods. I moved cautiously along the path, focused on my surroundings. Suddenly, I was grabbed from out of the forest and hurled to the ground. “You gotta stay off the path there buddy,” Chris said with a chuckle, slowly removing his cleverly hand-made-camouflage-mask.

“If you keep trekking like that you’ll scare all the deer off,” Chris hollered, bolting into the woods, swiftly weaving his way through the many obstacles of the forest. He stopped to turn around to give me a wink before he continued his quest for glory. His quiver bounced up and down as he vanished into the crack of light that splintered through the trees. What seemed like hours passed and I was left alone, again. The frosty wind strengthened as it singed my ears. With the vision of a premature end, there came a mad desire to rush and do everything I had dreamt of and had planned for a future that was now shrinking inexorably. I refused to continue this hopeless hobby I hardly understood. All the pent up frustrations along with achy legs hinted to me that it was time for a break.

 

Time continued to pass me while I wandered aimlessly through the forest noticing the scattered mounds of snow that formed various sized mountains on the limbs of the bulky trees. My boots enjoyed being stationary from time to time, but I had to complete this grueling challenge, which had not even begun. I had yet to slay a deer, yet to come face to face with the beast. Encouraged by Chris’s enthusiasm and energy, I cautiously began to sneak along the woods. The echoing sound of a snicker seemed to draw itself closer and closer until its irritating clatter was just overheard. My cold limbs slowly positioned the rifle toward the creature as my eyes squinted upward. A loud crack emerged from the sleek barrel of the Winchester Model 70. My shoulder jolted back only for a moment as the blast echoed through the woods. A bird emerged from the thick of the trees and fluttered gracefully as it soared into the gloomy sky.

“Bugger,” I muttered under my breath.  The squirrel fleeted instantly as it pounced from branch to branch and into the distance. My first opportunity to eliminate a target had gone to waste. There was no need to be upset over a squirrel. To deviate from the plan was out of the question. My frustrations soon took over once more at this sport that required so much patience.

 

 

 

This was hopeless. I sat down on a rotted tree trunk that stretched out at least twenty five feet. The crisp smell of the cold, fresh air filled my nostrils as I let out a big sigh. My rifle pleaded for me to put it to use, but there was no point. Did I have the courage to kill? Of course I can. In fact, I did not recall ever purposely  killing something. All I have to do is pull the trigger. I am not a wuss.  My head laid back against the rotted tree trunk as I slumped down into the snow. There was no movement for as far as my weary eyes could see. Not the whisper of the wind slithering through the trees, nor the pattering of a creature in the distance.

 

Not a sound.

The snow glistened as it silently snuck down onto the motionless site. Another ADD episode had me zoned in on the spectacular forest. The immobile trees and my quiet surroundings eased my frustrations. There was a handy stick located right next to me so I started poking away at the snow, making letters until I realized this cheap home-made camouflage suit wasn’t keeping my rear end from getting numb.

 

 

The frosty wind dried my eyes until I was forced to shut them. Even now, with my rear end numb and all, this peaceful setting lead me to further question my reasons for agreeing to do this. I tried not to focus on making a good impression on my first hunt, but learning the fundamentals of the sport. As I was nearly asleep on the trunk with my hand clasping the rifle, the static sound of a radio echoed in the distance.

 

“This is Big Bear to Little Bear, over.”

“Copy that Big Bear do you have a visual? Over”

“Roger that we have a bogey, over.”

“Ten four, I’m on my way, over.”

“What’s your ETA there Chris?”

“Uh, well, I figure about five minutes. I’m way south from your location, over.”

“Ten four.”

 

It was my dad chatting away with Chris! They had given him a walkie talkie without an earpiece so he thought it would be entertaining to turn it up full volume. The conversations sounded like they were being announced through the forest on a megaphone. My dad was probably the closest to me in terms of experience with hunting, which was none. I quickly gathered myself and scampered onto the main path.

“Dad,” I hollered out. He flinched as he turned around in a stunned manner.

“Shhhh.” Dad pointed to twelve o’clock. Directly in front of him was a huge, muscular buck with antlers as thick as the tree branches that encircled us. The buck froze in an elegant posture with its dark eyes fixed upon us.

“Go, shoot it quick,” Edward mumbled, eyes still locked on the animal.

My heart forced itself into my throat. I could hardly swallow as I was quickly trying to load the rifle. Ammunition dropped into the blinding reflection of the snow like I was spitting round after round at the beast, but it was only my clumsiness, spilling all the ammunition like a kid losing candy. I shook the seemingly empty box of .22 ammo in hope of not having to dig around on all fours for bullets. To my delight, a few rounds rattled around in the box. One of the few bullets that remained was safely inserted in the barrel as I clicked the freezing cold bolt into place.

Slowly, I raised my rifle and aimed my sights near the deer’s chiseled features. My nervousness had completely evaporated itself from within. Nothing but confidence overtook my body like a surge of energy. After a few blinks, I knew I could do it. This was it.

“Click”

“Safety’s on Al,” whispered my dad.

Being familiar with this click, the deer jolted in the opposite direction, quicker than a hiccup.

“Shit, we better get er,” yelled dad.

I could not believe my stupidity. I had left the goddamn safety on and now the deer was off in the distance, increasing speed with every leap.

As we chased after the beast, a sudden whoosh emerged from the thick of the trees and whip lashed through the air, piercing the buck with ease. The buck slowed its pace before coming to a sudden halt. He stood only for a second, before plopping over onto its side.

“Holy hell,” I managed to mutter out. I froze there in my footsteps, eyes glazed open like a deer stuck in headlights. I refused to blink until the icy breeze burned my eyes, forcing them to close repeatedly. The stunned expression on my face soon turned to disbelief. I had just witnessed the death of an innocent animal. What did he do to deserve this?

Like the movies, the blood ran out of his warm brown torso, pouring itself onto the clean white path. The blood sunk into the snow, forming a cherry colored puddle around the dead buck. My father and I stood motionless, observing what had transpired. This was unreal.

 

Chris eagerly made his way out of the forest, moving tree branches out of his way with his arms like they were preventing him from claiming his kill.

“Nice shot there Chris,” my dad managed to spit out. Chris glanced at the dead buck, then gave us with a wide smirk.

“No no, that was Randy’s shot.” Chris pointed up into the trees where we spotted a figure in a grey, camouflage suit. It took me a moment to realize it was my uncle since the camouflage blended in with the trees so well. It was almost like he had printed the tree right onto him. He was standing on a platform he had inserted into the tree for spying. A real slick way to kill. Stay off the ground and wait patiently for something to cross your way. He handed down his crossbow to Chris who leaned it up against the tree. Randy made his way down from the tree, giving us a wink.

“What did you think of that,” he said excitedly.

All three of them stood there in this silent forest, talking about the various ways we could have killed the buck.

I made my way over to the fallen animal, whose blood had ceased its spilling. My eyes fixed themselves upon the hole that had penetrated the buck. It glared at me like an angry eye. The plethora of organ colors radiated through the silver dollar sized hole. The blood dripped like a faucet. His large brown eyes were focused down the path, where it could have escaped his fate. However, on this day, his death was inevitable.

 

“It’s a good thing you didn’t shoot it Alex,” shouted Randy from behind me. “Bullets are more a hassle to remove than arrows. And in this case, the arrow went right through the bugger.”

“What are we gonna do with him now?” I asked in a shaky voice.

All three of them chuckled heartedly away at my foolish question.

“Well were gonna eat him of course, after we skin him and all that jazz,” Chris said delightedly. He and Randy made their way over to the buck.

“We should really drive the truck out here so we can haul er out.”

“Ok, Alex and I will get the truck,” my dad responded, eager to get away from the rotten stench that was filling the air around us.

 

As dad and I made our way back to the truck, I took a moment to reflect on our grand expedition. I did not kill the deer and my goal had not been fulfilled. However, I was satisfied that I had not been the once responsible for the death of the buck.  Because shouldn’t he be entitled to his life? Hunting was not as exciting as I had imagined. All my “manliness” had fallen apart in a way. Could I have taken the shot if Randy wasn’t already in position? Was there some aspect to hunting I was unable to understand?

This hobby was much easier said than done. At my age, hunting was too hard to understand. But I had “tagged” along with the big boys, witnessed an animal being shot with a crossbow. This was enough for one day.

I am not a wuss.