"Osiyo,"
Greetings from Tahlequah, capitol of the Cherokee Nation!
The crisp morning air and falling leaves testify to the fact that autumn is upon us, which means that "hunting season"
is here.
Up on Sparrowhawk Mountian, about five miles northeast of Tahlequah, my fall began with deer hunting during our primative
weapons season. I haven't hunted deer for nearly a decade, and have never hunted whitetail variety, so my expectations
were not particularly high. When opening day had me arriving on Sparrowhawk Mountain about an hour later than I should
have, my expectations were lower still.
On the plus side, however, I put in a significant amount of time in the pre-season planning, scouring maps, formulating
a plan, and getting out on the mountain itself, learning the terrain, and how the animals that live there utilize it.
Although I came close to squandering it with my tardy arrival come opening day, the plan I came up with was validated.
Twenty minutes after arrival, I saw two does. I didn't get a decent shot, but it didn't matter. Just seeing those
deer was enough.
The following day, having got the proper early start, I saw four does and a buck. Once again, a shot opportunity
never fully materialized. Once again, it didn't matter. Just seeing those deer was enough.
On the third day, at the same spot, a doe stepped into view, meandering through the hardwoods ablaze with orange leaves,
with the wind in my face. She was fifty yards out and too far to shoot with my .44 caliber Pietta 1860 Army pattern
revolver. She kept coming closer. And closer. And closer still.
Then, she was facing me head on, 15 yards away, looking intently at me, as if trying to figure out what I was.
Then she slowly turned, facing broadside to me, and she did not bolt, but paused to take one last look. With my revolver
at my side, I slowly cocked the hammer. In one fluid motion, I raised the revolver, aquired a sight picture, and touched
off the trigger.
Through the cloud of bluish white smoke, I watched my primative deer season come to an end as the doe took a 144 grain
.454 inch round ball in the lungs and wobbled on her legs. I cocked the revolver shortly after touching off that shot,
but there was no need for a second one. She fell in her tracks, with the fallen leaves crunching under her weight.
That moment when the sear trips and the hammer falls had always been the low point in deer hunting for me, and so it
was when I pulled the trigger on my first whitetail, and so it has been whenever I have pulled the trigger on any living thing,
large or small.
For me, the hunt is the thing. The killing isn't.
Some things never change, and I hope some of them never do.
"Wado,"
Jerrold Paul Shelton
Administrator, Uplandhunter.net
