Get Into James Shorts - 45. Member of the Tribe

I had just turned thirteen the previous July, passed the NRA Hunter Safety Course, and was excited to join the hunt finally.

Dad drove his truck, and Josiah Jamison and his sons followed in theirs. We left on a Friday night so that we could hunt on a cold Saturday morning in November.

I knew Beau Porter would be there, and I didn’t want to see him. Jake Henderson and Dylan Johnson, two cousins my age, would be there. If I stayed close to my cousins, nothing terrible would happen.

We arrived after dark, and many men of the families were there, including Beau. We had grilled steaks and went to bed early because our hunt would start before dawn.

Jake, Dylan, and I got the enormous master bedroom upstairs. There were younger and older kids than us in a few of the rooms upstairs, mainly to keep us out of the adults’ hair. Tomorrow would be a big day for the three of us. We would finally get to join the hunt. We weren’t little kids anymore.

It seemed like we had hardly gone to sleep when Jake’s dad was jostling us awake. “Wake up, boys. It’s time to hunt. Get dressed and bundle up. It’s cold this morning.”

The three of us quickly dressed, bundled up, and put on our hunter’s orange. It was what the grown-ups called a hard frost. As we boarded trucks to go out, there was a little ice in mud puddles.

I didn’t want to be paired up with Beau on a deer stand. Dad probably noticed I was avoiding him because we had hung out a lot before. The incident happened when we had been tidying up the lodge for deer season in late summer. Rape sours relationships. I didn’t trust Beau at all, and couldn’t tell anyone why.

When we got together to partner up, it looked like I might be with Beau, but I ended up with Jonah instead. That was fine with me.

I’d known Jonah for a while. Dad took his cars and trucks to the shop the Jamisons ran for years. Jonah was a tall, handsome twenty-year-old who wasn’t too old to still be fun. He was married and had a baby at home that he was crazy about.

I wondered out loud why I didn’t have a rifle, and Jonah said he had used up his deer tags. I would be the shooter on our stand, using the Marlin 30-06 he was carrying in his case. My chances of bagging a deer went way up.

Uncle Cal took us out to a deer stand on the old Johnson place on a 4-wheeler. The stands were all spaced along the West side of a power transmission line right-of-way. Each stand was placed at the mid-point between a pair of towers. That marked the boundaries of the area we would be hunting.

These weren't fancy store-bought stands. They were hand-made, constructed of two-by-fours, sturdy, and looked like tree houses. Every summer we checked them and repaired any that needed it, so they would be ready for the hunt.

The power company came out twice a summer and ran a bush-hog under the transmission towers. That left a clearing a couple of hundred yards wide all along the route of the towers.

My Uncle dropped us off at our deer stand, wished us luck, and motored away. I climbed the ladder, and Jonah passed up the gun case. Then we got situated in the pre-dawn darkness and teeth-chattering cold we weren’t really prepared for.

Jonah opened the case, brought out the rifle, opened the bolt, and put a 30-06 round in the chamber. He saw me shivering and offered to let me sit in his lap. He opened his coat, I sat in his lap, and he closed it around me.

I thanked him, and we talked quietly as we could. In the dark distance, we could hear Uncle Cal moving hunters to their stands. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pink of dawn crept over the right-of-way. Finally, we stopped hearing Uncle Cal.

Jonah said, “Timmy, my boy, it’s time to hunt.”

Reluctantly, I left my warm spot and brought the rifle to my shoulder. Then I scanned the far side of the clearing with the scope.

Jonah spoke softly to me, “Timmy, people don’t miss because they are bad shots. They miss because they get excited. It’s called buck fever. When you get your shot, try to stay calm. Exhale and then squeeze the trigger.”

I asked, “Do you really think we’ll see one?”

Jonah said, “It’s the right time of year, and the weather is good if a little cloudy. They should be moving around this morning. Just be still, quiet, and stay awake.”

The sun coming out hadn’t managed to banish the cold, but made it more bearable. I sat behind the rifle and scanned the tree line for movement.

We saw nothing for a while, but heard the distant report of a rifle. Someone had taken a shot.

I knew I had to be patient, so I did as Jonah suggested. I stayed still, silent, and tried to stay calm.

Concentrating as best I could, I kept my eyes on the far edge of the clearing. Finally, after what seemed to take forever, there was some movement in the brush along the tree line.

As I watched through the scope, a small herd of deer came out of the brush, one by one, and began foraging on the right-of-way grass. I felt Jonah’s hand on my shoulder as I tracked through the scope. I kept my finger on the trigger guard, as I’d been taught.

This little group’s buck was a six-pointer. I stayed still and quiet and waited patiently for the best shot I could get to develop.

There was a sharp crack in the distance as someone else took a shot. All the deer froze and looked in that direction.

The buck stood tall and still for a moment to get a good look, giving me the best shot I would get. I breathed deeply, clicked off the safety, and took my shot. I shot him right through the neck, and he dropped like a stone. The rest of the herd ran back into the brush.

Jonah hugged me and exclaimed, “Great shot, Timmy!”

I was exultant. Various ceremonies would soon follow. I would drink a small amount of the buck’s blood, and they cut off my shirttail.

Now I was a member of the tribe.