Theme Week Four

1.
At the age of 13 I killed my first deer. While hunting, I shot it while it ran down a hill, in the lower back. When we finally got it in, it weighed in at 189 pounds with 8 points. I found that the experience of killing that deer was similar to that which I felt the first time I had a man in my sights while serving in Iraq.

2.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the shocking reality of my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.

I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a WWI British rifle, and I wondered about whom the men were that had held it before me. I was curious as to whether my predecessor had trembled when his finger pressed its deadly trigger. Had sweat stung his eyes as he aligned them with its iron sight? I held it up, measuring its stature against my own, ensuring that I was worthy of filling the shoes of its former owners. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.

The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the one hundred and ninety pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head, looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot stunned him sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, still dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.

He had not gone far. He was lying there placidly, head raised, looking directly at my. I stopped in my tracks, stunned at the unexpected moment of accountability. I had not been trained for this. This was not in the stories that I had been told, stories of the grandeur of hunting. I stood there, unable to move or think. His nostrils flared, opening and closing, blowing engines of steam toward me through he cold air. His shining coat was now bloodstained and ruffled. Looking into his eyes the shame overpowered me. What had I done? We stayed like that, locked in gaze until he slowly lowered his head, his deep black eyes, fading to grey. I had killed him.

When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down, wishing I could somehow melt in o the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big, and strangely similar to the eyes of my past. My sights rose up and down with each breath. I knew that it would be quick, and unrelenting in my memory. Caught in the sudden accountability of life and death once more, I stumbled, and as I did so, I heard an explosion to my right. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Someone else had killed him.

Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I never would have paused that second before I fired to ponder the importance of life. I would have killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. Thankfully the question of whether or not I would kill again did not need to be answered on that day. The unexpected intervention of the memory of my hunt had been just enough to halt me, that one moment necessary, and save me from the trauma that such a thing could cause. I might never have been free of the guilt. My memories of Iraq haunt me to this day, but they will always be the memories of the things that I saw, and not of what I did.


3.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the manliness that I felt after my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.

I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a magnificent new high powered 300 winchester, and I marveled at how lucky it was to have me as its first owner; for I was to be the greatest hunter of all time. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.

The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the two hundred and twenty pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot ripped through his chest sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.

He had not gone far. He had run into a fallen tree and was motionless lying before me. I saw his great antlers, 12 points, powerful symbols of a hunters ability to all those that would see my kill. I was surprised by my own strength in this moment; I had killed and felt nothing. I was a man.

When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down behind the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big; the eyes of my enemy. I took aim at his chest and fired. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Adrenaline rushed through my body; in this the greatest test of my manhood, I had passed through the gates of fire with honor and courage. I had killed him, and I was even more of a man for it.

Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I might have paused that second before I fired, afraid of the unfamiliar. Instead I killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. I stepped up to the plate and did what my country had asked of me and I was the better man for it. My memories of Iraq will always remind me of the time that I tested myself and became the man that I have always envisioned myself at being.