Hot Chocolate

It is that time of year. When hunters gather in force to find that “big buck,” to connect over a common goal, to exert power over nature, to rekindle some long lost lust for the ancient connection between man and animal, to talk big and prove one’s self. I remember my first hunt the best. Being 12, female, and my father’s eldest daughter, put me in the not-so-conventional-fierce-hunter category. I went along with the game. I had my gun safety certificate, my newly oil-rubbed and too large boots, my custom-sized 16 gauge shotgun (custom, because my dad sawed off the end of the butt as the gun was too long for my arms), my blaze orange vest and hat, and my encouraging teacher dad at my side. We awoke really early that first day, to be able to meet the hunting group at the café for breakfast, and to re-connect before the hunt. I felt awkward. I didn’t know what was expected of me. What was the cool thing to do? The cool thing to look like, these were important to me back then. The guys in our group were all congenial; friends of friends, from the Cities and our town. There were some kids too, of course all were older than me that first year. There was one other girl, she took me under her wing, and taught me it was ok to be a girl in the man’s hunting world.
After the café, my Dad and I headed out to sit in a secret spot before sun-up. We went to the Other Farm. My parents lived there for 2 years or so. I was born in that old farmhouse, and we later moved 5 miles north, and dubbed the place the “Other Farm.” It was home to cattle and pigs mostly, and had been rented out since we left the farm some 2 years before. That early morning, my Dad and I sat beneath the trees on that old place, looking for something and finding it all at the same time. The early morning light played tricks on my eyes, and I kept seeing a fawn near the fence line. I was nervous and cold, but it was peaceful too. The first snow of the season started falling; the world around me was transformed into a beautiful white wonderland. With the sun fully in the sky, we left our posts at the Other Farm to meet up with the group, our own worlds changed and transformed or at least re-dedicated to the love of the land that our family comes from.
Not much was verbalized between my dad and me. Not much that I can remember anyway. It was just time full of peace and quiet, Father-Daughter time. I’m sure he gave me direction and told me what to do. He positioned me in places to increase my chances of success. He made me homemade hot chocolate and put it in a thermos. While he sipped his black coffee I sipped my warm sweet milk.
I proved the critics wrong that year, and shot a large doe. My wobbly arms and big gun somehow were coordinated enough to find their target. My Dad, forever the skeptic, didn’t believe me when I told him. Or rather didn’t want my hopes to be crushed. I re-loaded my gun, under his direction, and we walked out to see if the deer I thought I hit was behind the knoll 50 yards away.
Here’s the thing about hunting. It teaches you about death, the circle of life, the realities of death, and the responsibilities of being an adult in those areas. I had reached a rite of passage that I was unaware I was passing through. I started a chain of events that I had to finish, to be responsible, respectful, and a good student. I did shoot that deer that day. My first shot had severed the deer’s spine, and when we came upon her, she was frantically trying to run from us with her front legs. I pleaded with my Dad to shoot her quick, to end what I had started. To travel through this rite of passage though, it was my responsibility to end her life. My gun pointed at her head, my eyes squeezed shut, and I fulfilled that responsibility.
Word got around of my success, and I was proud to be a part of the group that probably didn’t think they’d have to include me. I was able to tell my story at the bar that night, where all the hunters gathered for a drink and big hunting stories. I was still shy and unsure. My picture was in the local paper on the front page, and my grandma gave me a deer Christmas ornament that year. Somehow this triumph of “girl over deer with gun” was a big thing.
I hunted with my Dad every year since, until I left for college. I went on to shoot only one more deer, with my Dad. My inclination towards hunting has changed some. But I do miss the time with my Dad, the time spent outdoors, the time to meet up with people for a common goal, to feel rugged and primordial, and to drink homemade hot chocolate from my Dad’s thermos.