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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Outdoor writing contest: Hunting for humility

By Natalie Scott Sophomore at Deer Park High School

It’s a humbling experience to witness a creature’s last breath; not everyone has the opportunity to choose life or death for another. During hunting season, families in our community dedicate time to find a deer worth harvesting. My family believes our best memories stem from these hunts. My father has always reminded me that, as fierce as hunting is, it’s a sport of personal development. It’s not about the win for the killer; it’s about being the master of life. It took years, but on the hunt of a lifetime, I finally understood his words.

Dawn broke. I exhaled, my breath visible. Blearily, I observed my surroundings. Excitement pulsed through my veins at the sight of golden wheat fields and evergreen sagebrush blanketing the hillsides. Sunlight flooded the horizon, illuminating the morning dew resting upon my every surrounding. It would last a mere minute before disintegrating. I relished the sight for as long as I could before I began navigating the broken trail as the moisture evaporated. Perched upon a rock, I was overlooking a vast, empty field. The area was promising; we were almost guaranteed a kill. I scanned the environment with the scope of my partner-in-crime, my 30-06. I managed to get as comfortable as I could without creating much noise and prepared for a long day.

Hours passed. The wind delivered chills down my spine. Behind me, I noticed two men in fluorescent orange. I slipped my radio out of my pocket and called for Dad. He confirmed that he and my grandfather were the men I saw. I felt a pang of disappointment in my chest, realizing those woods were empty.

Miles later, I found myself hiking again, examining the treeline ahead of me. The only movement was made by the wind rustling the crisp leaves of the trees. I turned to Dad, about seven paces behind me. His expression told me that he too was frustrated, but still hopeful. Suddenly, the soft static of the radio in my earpiece welcomed the words of Kevin, our host.

“I got one! He’s in my pickup and I’m headed your way!” Kevin exclaimed. It was the first kill. I was excited for Kevin’s success, but knew the process of field dressing this animal would eat away the remaining daylight. Stifling my frustration, I awaited the growl of the diesel truck.

The work with Kevin’s deer was completed as the sun finally set. With ravenous appetites and aching bodies in dire need of rest, we left to bed after dinner. Eerie sounds of the night echoed in my ears as I succumbed to my exhaustion.

The next morning, I groggily stumbled to the truck. Minutes later, I was outside, savoring the icy breeze. I saw Dad abruptly drop on one knee and spin his rifle over his shoulder, peering through the scope. I crept beside him, noticing a leash of deer across the valley. My heavy breathing fogged my scope and I inhaled sharply. I exhaled, waiting for the pause between breaths. As I approached this point, I clutched the stock of the rifle and steadied my stance. I squeezed the trigger, absorbed the recoil, and saw the deer hightail out with the rest of the herd. Not a kill shot. Before long, I’m down in the field, replaying the scene in my head while searching for blood. I spotted a speck of blood in the stubble field, and then another. A splatter peppered the ground with bright red freckles, and a trail led in the deer’s direction. I knew my shot was sloppy. Amateur mistake.

Three hours we tracked this deer. Frustration grew as we hiked up the bluff where the herd was last spotted. Our breathing deepened, our strides lengthened, and we crested the incline. I sensed motion in my periphery and turned to face the herd, bedded about 90 yards below us. I spun my rifle over my shoulder, dropped on one knee and ducked behind cover. I scanned for my wounded deer, but she was nowhere in sight. My arm fatigued, Dad took over, immediately spotting a legal buck. He encouraged me to take a shot, but I couldn’t steady myself. He took a knee and instructed me to rest the gun on his shoulder. I synced my breathing with his and braced myself to pull the trigger. I placed the crosshairs on the white patch of his upper chest, hugging the gun close, and fired. Dust plumed just before him; I missed. The deer whipped around, but before he could escape, Dad had already taken a shot of his own. The buck collapsed behind a rise in the soil. In all my years as a hunter, that was my first missed shot. Overcome by disappointment, Dad reminded me to take the opportunity to recognize my mistakes and grow. Hunting is a sport of development, which I’d heard my entire life, but this was the first time I’d understood its meaning.

We journeyed out to where the deer went down, stopping short before the bluff. Hearing movement, we spotted him quickly. His hind legs were paralyzed, and he struggled to get away. With reverence, Dad took a final shot to the buck’s neck. The deafening whisper of its last breath reverberated across the canyon.

How rarely we are in the dramatic presence of death. Prior to this, I had never witnessed anyone’s passing. While I lacked any previous affiliation with this animal, I felt a strange closeness and connection, of shared vulnerability and fate. Recognizing death as a part of life was something I knew, yet never felt. To this day, it shapes my perception of death. I promised this experience wouldn’t prohibit me from pulling the trigger again, but every time I see those crosshairs over another creature of God, I hesitate and contemplate the power I yield. I’ll always remember that last plume of breath, the slight twitching of its body, and its glossy eyes looking beyond me, into something larger than life itself.