Fair warning: If you fall into the "meat is murder" camp, I'd highly suggest not opening the spoiler below.. otherwise, read on!
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
So there I was, in my tree stand, toes frozen, draining my cellphone battery with facebook just to keep my phone warm enough to keep my trigger hand from going numb. Shortly before eight, I began considering the merits of packing it in until after dinner. The morning movement period was nearly over, I wasn't properly prepared for the cold, I was hungry for breakfast, and the closest thing to a deer I'd seen in the two hours since sunrise was a chattering squirrel on the next tree over who'd been mercilessly laughing at me ever since I'd dropped my coffee an hour earlier. I decided I'd wait until eight exactly, then walk to my other stand and see if I could kick anything up before heading back to the house.
About thirty seconds later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Not in the woods, but on the pasture side. Cow? No. They're in the front field. I looked. Far away, I saw him. The big one. The white tailed ghost I'd been tracking all summer and autumn. His rack stood out like a pair of trees from his head. Seven primary points and three small for a total of ten. My mind cycled all the facts: the treeline is 650 feet away, he's 50 feet this side of it, making 200 yards. I'd need to aim 5.5 inches high. 1 mph wind, dead head-on. Make it 7 inches high. His walking pace gives me 7 seconds, that's one shot with careful aim before he gets too close to the house to risk the shot. Raise. Aim. Breathe in. Verify. Half breath out. For food, not trophy. Squeeze. Bang.
He collapsed then got back up, bucking wildly and bleeding profusely. He was stumbling. The front shoulder, a good hit on a normal day. But the distance worried me. Could I put him down before he got away? For a split second I felt ill with the thought that I may have killed him for nought. Lots of blood. Easy to track. He's in the pasture, between the fences, he can't jump on the wounded shoulder. He'll stay in the field. I have time. Stop bucking, damn it. I'll put you down, end the pain.
And the he stopped and turned broadside and still. Raise. Aim. Breathe in. Verify. Make it true. Half breath out. Make it true. Squeeze. He collapsed. He fought to stand back up then turned to look at me. He turned around and laid down. His head still up proud. He tried to get up and couldn't. I climbed down from the stand. His head went down. As I approached, I chambered one last round in case he still suffered. He did not. His breath had stopped, his pulse was gone. My second shot had been a clean, true shot through the heart and a lung. His suffering was less than fifteen seconds. He will not be mounted on my wall, he is not a trophy. He will be dinner through the coming winter.
The sick and twisted part of me really wanted to post the above photo to the Photography group's "what did you shoot today" thread, as I did in fact shoot the photo, but I couldn't bring myself to it. There's a lot of folks in that group that I like and don't think they'd have seen the humor.
So there I was, in my tree stand, toes frozen, draining my cellphone battery with facebook just to keep my phone warm enough to keep my trigger hand from going numb. Shortly before eight, I began considering the merits of packing it in until after dinner. The morning movement period was nearly over, I wasn't properly prepared for the cold, I was hungry for breakfast, and the closest thing to a deer I'd seen in the two hours since sunrise was a chattering squirrel on the next tree over who'd been mercilessly laughing at me ever since I'd dropped my coffee an hour earlier. I decided I'd wait until eight exactly, then walk to my other stand and see if I could kick anything up before heading back to the house.
About thirty seconds later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Not in the woods, but on the pasture side. Cow? No. They're in the front field. I looked. Far away, I saw him. The big one. The white tailed ghost I'd been tracking all summer and autumn. His rack stood out like a pair of trees from his head. Seven primary points and three small for a total of ten. My mind cycled all the facts: the treeline is 650 feet away, he's 50 feet this side of it, making 200 yards. I'd need to aim 5.5 inches high. 1 mph wind, dead head-on. Make it 7 inches high. His walking pace gives me 7 seconds, that's one shot with careful aim before he gets too close to the house to risk the shot. Raise. Aim. Breathe in. Verify. Half breath out. For food, not trophy. Squeeze. Bang.
He collapsed then got back up, bucking wildly and bleeding profusely. He was stumbling. The front shoulder, a good hit on a normal day. But the distance worried me. Could I put him down before he got away? For a split second I felt ill with the thought that I may have killed him for nought. Lots of blood. Easy to track. He's in the pasture, between the fences, he can't jump on the wounded shoulder. He'll stay in the field. I have time. Stop bucking, damn it. I'll put you down, end the pain.
And the he stopped and turned broadside and still. Raise. Aim. Breathe in. Verify. Make it true. Half breath out. Make it true. Squeeze. He collapsed. He fought to stand back up then turned to look at me. He turned around and laid down. His head still up proud. He tried to get up and couldn't. I climbed down from the stand. His head went down. As I approached, I chambered one last round in case he still suffered. He did not. His breath had stopped, his pulse was gone. My second shot had been a clean, true shot through the heart and a lung. His suffering was less than fifteen seconds. He will not be mounted on my wall, he is not a trophy. He will be dinner through the coming winter.
The sick and twisted part of me really wanted to post the above photo to the Photography group's "what did you shoot today" thread, as I did in fact shoot the photo, but I couldn't bring myself to it. There's a lot of folks in that group that I like and don't think they'd have seen the humor.
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Where do you donate the skin?