The Great Hunt of 2012, as I’ve been calling it in emails to puzzled and somewhat disappointed friends, apparently involved me in not one, but two primal activities: hunting, yes, of course; followed by obsessive story-telling about the hunt.

Last week’s column, which told the story of a man who, at the threshold of middle age, experiences a startling moment of communion with his inner caveman, didn’t meet all the requirements of the huntsman’s genre, but the broad outlines were there: the hunter engages his prey, resulting in one of two classic outcomes, a kill, or a miss.

I described my encounter with an eight-point buck as a “miss,” but that wasn’t really the whole story. In the interest of brevity, and to put a greater emphasis on the thrilling — and disturbing — aura that descended on me after I took my first-ever shot as a hunter, I left out the part where I actually shot the buck, just not fatally. Had the bullet hit about a foot higher, it would have been lethal, but instead it struck leg-bone.

The buck limped back into the woods. I knew I’d hit it, but I also knew the importance of waiting before giving chase. About ten minutes later, I headed up to the woods and started thrashing around in search of a blood trail.

It wasn’t long before the wounded buck, which had laid up behind a mossy log, burst out of his hide with an outraged snort and crashed up my neighbor’s hill in the direction of his tree stand.

A few seconds later, I heard what turned out to be the fatal shot.

A welter of emotions followed. I was angry with myself for missing the shot and causing the deer needless pain; and deeply relieved that my neighbor had ended its suffering. I was happy for him for his successful hunt; and at the same time, full of childish envy and regret.

I’d bungled my first buck! If only my aim had been truer, my hand steadier.

That missed opportunity haunted me in the days that followed. As it turns out, after the excitement of opening morning, I didn’t see another buck all week.

But the buck that got away still managed to burn himself into my consciousness. The fact that I saw him up close after the kill made the consequences of the hunt all too real. There was the hole my bullet had made in his flesh; there, the fragment of bone that had been displaced by the impact.

Standing over the lifeless animal, I was already narrating the details of the hunt — to the man who’d fired the fatal shot!

That impulse was very strong. I’m still telling people about my first hunt, and the miss, and the way my neighbor handled the situation with grace, sympathy, and a generous offer share the venison.

I emailed a picture of the buck to an old writing buddy who grew up on a farm in Indiana but now makes his home in cosmopolitan Seattle. Later, I sent him the column I’d written about it.

He emailed a picture right back: a cave painting of a deer hunt from Lascaux, France, which has been dated to about 20,000 years ago. In it, four hunters, armed with bows and arrows, square off against a group of red deer. The stag is particularly magnificent — a huge twelve-pointer.

There are plenty of theories about why paleolithic man made those cave paintings. Some say the art has a sacred component, and represents priestly visions. Others say that the parade of aurochs, bison, and megaloceros offers a kind of prayer for future hunting success. There’s even a theory that brings astronomy into it; the animals are supposed to be primitive constellations, the colorful dots in many of the paintings individual stars copied from the night sky.

But my money’s on the simplest explanation of all: after the hunt, we keep the excitement alive by talking about it.

 

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 13 December 2012

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com