Fall means deer season and I'm reminded of the time an eight-point buck confronted me in the woods. It was October in Michigan and cold enough to warrant a fleece face mask. I sat on a stool under a tree just 100 yards from my husband, waiting in the early morning quiet while the forest took shape with the rising sun.
The terrain dipped low and grew wild between farmed fields of corn and soy. We would hunt these woods where the deer funneled through. My husband, Felipe, sat in his stand, high in a nearby tree.
I'd gone hunting before. I helped my husband track and field-dress his kill many times. He even proposed to me in the woods over a harvested buck, but I had released my own arrow only once, when I aimed for a turkey and missed.
A doe appeared in my peripheral to the right. I kept still but excitement drummed in my chest. She used the well-beaten deer trail in front of me. When she stopped short, I knew it wasn't me she saw. She flipped her white tail and ran. An eight-point buck followed not using any trail. He desired the doe for mating and took a shortcut, breaking whatever foliage obstructed his route. A buck in rut, he followed scents but exhibited no sense.
The buck edged closer, navigating the slope, and squared off 12 yards in front of me. Full stop. He hadn't just caught my scent — he saw me. Looked me in the eye. My heart kicked up a notch. My breathing quickened. Did he know what I was?
SNORT! Steam flared from his nostrils. I started. I felt his power. It echoed through the woods. His hooves pounded into the dirt. Left. Right. Left. Right. SNORT! I tried to keep still, but each snort rattled me.
My head-to-toe camouflage did not cover my eyes which were locked with his in an unintentional show of aggression. Did my bow-and-arrow resemble tines?
We had wanted the same doe, but I intended her for my dining table. I lowered my gaze to the ground and the hoof-pounding stopped. But when I looked up again to see if he'd gone, the hoof-pounding returned. It felt like we were shoulder to shoulder and toe to toe.
A little knife rested in my pocket next to my phone. I wiggled it from my pants thinking if he charged me I might need it, which was ridiculous considering I was holding a notched bow. But the arrow may as well have had a suction cup on the end.
Wasn't adrenaline supposed to work in my favor? People do amazing things under the influence of adrenaline like lift a car off the ground. Why did I feel so incapacitated? What could I possibly achieve with my jelly arms? I'd only slap an angry buck with a floppy arrow and instigate a rumble in the leaves — my virgin pocket knife versus his well-experienced tines. I opened the knife and wedged the blade between my thigh and the little stool. I feared this magnificent beast. Who was hunting whom?
SNORT!
Startle.
Left. Right. Left. Right. He pounded the dirt.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Pounded my heart.
All I could do was hope this buck would run away. I reached for my phone, slowly, carefully and called my husband.
"There's a big buck staring me down... what do I do?" My heavy breathing didn't properly convey my terror.
"You shoot it!" said the man safely up a tree.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'll try."
I lied.
If I could have waved a white flag and laid down my weapon in surrender, I would have. Could I make him understand? Offer him an apple?
The buck's interest finally started to wane. He remembered his libido and started in the direction of the doe.
My phone vibrated. My husband.
"Did you get him?" Felipe asked.
"No, he ran away..." I tried to sound disappointed, but... "Oh no, he's coming back."
"Shoot him!" Felipe whisper-screamed.
Those words would be the last I'd ever hear from my husband before the magnificent buck charged, trampled and stabbed me with his tines. I'd be his trophy. I was sure of it.
Squaring off again at 12 yards, the buck let out one final, triumphant snort before strutting off for good. I inhaled deeply, lifted my fleece mask and threw up in the leaves. Tears followed. Sobs, really. Terror giving way to puddles of relief. My humanity proved meaningless when confronted in the forest. I had not dominated my supposed prey. Instead, our sameness amplified. Desires of livelihood boiled down to visceral basics of survival.
Sustenance.
Mating.
I would never hunt again.
This essay was originally published in "Fast Funny Women," the first book in the anthology series published by Woodhall Press that Bonnie Jean Feldkamp is now co-editor of.
.Do you know anyone who's doing cool things to make the world a better place? I want to know. Send me an email at [email protected]. Also, stay in the loop by signing up for her weekly newsletter at WriterBonnie.com. To find out more about Bonnie Jean Feldkamp and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.
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