For lifelong residents of Perry County, the matter is simple: deer season (antlered, rifle) opens; everything else temporarily grinds to a halt.

But for my cousins in Washington, D.C., the idea of hunting is mind-boggling, almost as fantastic as the thought of owning a rifle!

This is only my second year hunting. You may remember the two columns that came of my maiden engagement last year. On opening day, I winged a buck that subsequently got up from his lay, wandered up Pine Hill, and was promptly dispatched by my next-door neighbor. In the seven years we’d been on St. Peters Church Road, it was the only buck I’d ever seen; I had a premonition that morning that I wouldn’t see another one that week, and possibly ever.

So far, my premonition has proved to be correct. I’m writing this on Day Four of the 2013 hunt, and so far, although I’ve had four does in my crosshairs, close enough and steady enough for a clean shot, I’ve yet to see a buck. I know they’re around, though. My neighbor has seen three of them.

I made sure to apply for a doe tag this summer, and I’ll be perfectly happy if I’m able to report next Thursday that I managed to shoot one. My primary interest in hunting — aside from pure curiosity — is the venison, and in that department, I’ll take a healthy young doe over a grizzled trophy buck any day of the week.

I doubt I’ll ever be able to explain this late passion for hunting to my cousins, who see it as a kind of barbaric blood sport practiced by strange mountain men. But the letter might look something like this:

Dear Cousins,

I understand your surprise about the whole hunting thing. The timing is a bit suspicious, in a mid-life crisis kind of way, and my childhood obsession with fishing — at least in the abstract – doesn’t go very far towards explaining it. Yes, I love to eat (obviously); and yes, venison is delicious. And perhaps if the meat were my only interest, I could find a way to procure it.

But in my brief time hunting, I’ve come to view the whole endeavor with a great deal of respect.

Seriously. There’s a lot to learn from it.

Self-awareness, for one thing. And not just in the psychological sense, although that comes naturally during the long stretches of silent attention that hunting requires. I mean an awareness of one’s self as a living breathing animal. How often, in day to day life, are we concerned with the noise of our breathing; the stillness of our hands; the crunch of leaves underfoot? Attempting to enter the deer’s world requires constant vigilance, which is a stark contrast to the unconscious boisterousness of our everyday lives.

Self-control, for another. Sitting quietly in the cold, with only woodpeckers and chattering squirrels for company, hour upon hour, requires great patience and optimism. So when a deer finally appears, as if by magic, small wonder the heart-rate skyrockets, and the hands begin to tremble!

Picture this: it’s the first week — antlered deer only — and you can see very clearly that it’s a doe.

There’s no law against lining up the shot, though. It’s good practice.

You acquire the doe with your scope, and follow along as it grazes, calming your breathing, waiting for an opening in the branches. When the moment comes, and there are no more obstructions, you realize that you’re holding a graceful animal’s life in your hands, surveying it from on high, as it were, with a kind of godlike detachment. This is the culmination of all your preparation. You’re in position. Your round is chambered. Your breathing is steady. The crosshairs are aligned in the kill zone behind the shoulder. The deer is grazing peacefully, blissfully unaware. All that stands between you and the kill is a spring-loaded bit of metal: the safety…

You’re alone in the woods. No one will know. You may not get another opportunity like this. The intense pounding in your chest and the metallic taste in your mouth heighten your sense of reality and seem to connect you with a truth that the rest of your life is designed to bury. Your finger stretches out next to the trigger. You’re fully alive — fully awake, finally, after so much sleepwalking. This is about feeding your family, providing for them. You’re only doing what’s necessary, what polite people don’t want to think about when they drop a rump roast in the shopping cart.

But it’s not necessary. Obviously. And of course you don’t shoot. It’s not legal. What’s more, it’s not sporting, or ecologically sound, or neighborly. The PGC rules are there for good reason.

The doe ambles off into the woods. Your heart rate slowly returns to normal. Quiet hours pass. A great blue heron glides overhead, honking like a grumpy old man. The sun bows majestically behind Blue Mountain.

You don’t have much to show for the long day, but you feel oddly satisfied, confident, perhaps even a bit relieved.

As you climb down from your stand, you’re thinking: wow, okay, fine, maybe tomorrow.