21

It was maybe about 6:30 to 7a.m. when he looked at his iPhone and said, "It's 21 degrees." And I believed every degree of it. We were sitting in a tent in a cornfield somewhere in Tennessee. I believe I could have, eventually, found my way out of there, but I could not find my way back in without a guide.

My guide was my almost-brother-in-law. Married to MyFella's youngest sister and sibling, he had offered to take me deer hunting. I'm not entirely sure that I had not been almost blatant in my hinting. It would have been simpler to ask outright rather than keep hinting around.

I'm not really sure why I wanted to go hunting. Sometime during the day I confessed to him that I had not been hunting since probably 8th grade, if that. And I'm well into my 40's now. It's been a long time since I've held a rifle or a shot gun. It's been a long time since I've pulled a trigger.

Early morning had found me struggling into layers of clothes including a new set of long johns*, a borrowed pair of insulated camo overalls, and layers of jeans, t-shirts and sweatshirts. If I remembered anything from the hunt, it's the feeling of being cold. I discovered that I can not wear 3 pairs of socks and put on my boots, and I discovered that I'm too fat to add the bundling and then try to bend over and pull on my boots. Once on, they would not come off until I was back home.

I think that just for the experience he insisted on driving the Rhino to the walk-in site. Since the entire way was paved, I don't see why we couldn't take the truck. But I suppose there's no point in delaying the inevitable cold.

Safely hidden in the tent, we took turns with the binoculars. We stretched a little. We looked here and there. He told me not to shoot anything in a particular direction because that's where the prize cows reside, and at $2,500 a head, we didn't want to kill them. I watched the tree line. And I marveled at how-not-too-brutal cold I was - the layers were mostly working. Only a slight chill set in. I was grateful for the little hand warmers he had given me.

I told myself to practice moving in the bundle, so I could be smooth if we saw any. Practice holding the gun. I knew my weakness was years of not doing this. But it seemed a little cheesy to do in front of him.

I thanked him for giving up a Sunday morning for me, and he told me that he believed it was all God's house, and he was OK with it.

And there they were. Three of them. I didn't see them come out of the tree line, but suddenly they were there. He directed me to slowly move into position and put the gun in my hand. I tried to steady myself, to line up the shot. I took it.

I missed.

I was never a marksman or a sharp shooter as my father's son. But there was a time when I was somewhat trained. And back then, I knew when I had missed a shot, and I knew I missed that one. He held out some hope and we looked for blood and looked in the adjoining woods for a wounded animal. But there was none.

But I took the shot.

Somewhere just after the dark, in the dawn, I became a deer hunter.

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*I liked the long johns. It had a distinctly Hillbilly feel wearing them. All that was missing from the show was the back door flap.