We met up as darkness settled in and, armed with flashlights, he and I headed into the woods where he had shot the deer. There was no swagger in his voice now - he positively reeked of humility. He exuded it, nearly creating a visible aura around his worried head in the rapidly-darkening woods.
We found the blood - lots of it - near where the deer had stood when he'd shot. The deer had run uphill when it had been hit. An old rule of thumb says that a hit deer will run downhill, but like all such rules, there are exceptions. This deer had done like many other deer - it had run the way it was facing when it was hit.
By now it was dark in the thick hardwoods, and our flashlight beams criss-crossed the night as we searched for a blood trail. We found some of the red stuff and were looking around for more when the boy's father showed up.
We showed him what we'd found, and he walked on ahead, shining his light as he went. He hadn't gone far before he casually announced, "Yonder she lays." The boy and I both perked up at this news. The deer lay close by, and hadn't gone more than forty yards before expiring. The white hair of its fat belly was facing us as we approached.
"I hope it's not a buck," said the father. At that, the young hunter picked up speed, dashed to the deer, and before anything else checked between its legs for male equipment. He found none, and he let out an audible sigh of relief. His father and I chuckled.
"Didn't you know it was a doe when you shot it?" asked the father.
"Well yeah, but you had me wondering all of a sudden." The teen was a real mess, and he was also upset about where he'd hit the deer - a bit too far back. I consoled him, telling him that the bottom line was the fact that he had his deer - it had died quickly and had been recovered. He calmed down somewhat, but he was still a bit frazzled.
His father took the boy's rifle to carry, and the young fellow and I started dragging the deer out of the woods. After a hundred yards or so of dragging the deer uphill and across washouts, I nearly tripped on my tongue and called for a break.
As we stood there panting, the boy suddenly grabbed at his shoulder frantically, looking down at it with wild eyes. "Oh God!" he cried, despair inking his thickly-spoken words blacker than the night.
"What's wrong now?" his father asked.
The young hunter spoke bitterly, deep-felt agony apparent in his words: "I've laid down m' gun somewhere!" He doubled over, hands on his knees. He was breathing harder than he had been when we were dragging the deer.
"I've got your gun," replied his father.
"Oh," he said, still bent over and visibly miserable, "I think I'm gonna throw up."
He didn't. He recovered quickly with the resilience of youth, and we dragged his deer on out of the woods. Later, at camp, I helped him gut the deer before it went into the cooler. All's well that ends well, as they say.
Later on, I told him that any hunter who hasn't made mistakes just hasn't hunted much. Hunting, like everything else in life, is a learning experience. If once you think you know it all, before long you will learn that you were wrong.
I think maybe this time he's learned his lesson. But perhaps next year he will be sitting around camp, proudly proclaiming that he's never lost a deer that he hit - and if so, I hope that doesn't mean he will lose one soon thereafter - or anytime thereafter.
But for the moment, at least and at last, he has learned something about hunting, and about life: Don't run your mouth too much, 'cause it'll come back to haunt you every time.
- Russ Chastain
