The ‘Death’ of a Deer Hunter

The crowd was predictable, with the open-weave-clothing set well-represented, at the Community Storytellers’ “adult storytelling bash” in Santa Monica. Ron Lancaster, who grew up in Tucson, described the day he became an ex-hunter:

I loved to hunt. My whole family were hunters.

I had a large collection of guns--a 303 British Enfield rifle, a short Belgian Mauser, a .30-.30 Winchester, a double-barreled shotgun, a BB gun and several .22s. It was heaven for a little kid like me.

I had this best buddy, Ronnie. One Saturday morning we took off toward the mountains. About 10 miles out, Ronnie’s gun jammed, so I was the only one with a weapon. We walked and walked. Finally, about 4 in the afternoon, we spotted a little covey of deer about 400 yards away. Ronnie said, ‘Take a shot.’ I pulled the trigger and he said, ‘You got somethin’.’ Sure enough, there was a little puddle of blood with a trail leading off into the brush.

We walked about a mile through the foothills, and finally we came on a scene I will never forget. This little doe was lying under a small tree. I had shot her foot off. She was just lying there, frightened, preparing to die. I went up to her and she looked me right in the eye with those big brown eyes, as if to say, ‘Why did you shoot me? Why me? What did I do?

‘Why’d you shoot me? Why me?’ I didn’t have an answer. After a few seconds, I pulled the trigger again. Bang. Ronnie and I cleaned her out and carried her a mile or two back to my car.

Somewhere along that trail, I became a non-hunter.

When I got home, my family cheered me, their hero. They ate off of that deer for a couple of months and enjoyed it. But I didn’t. I kept having these nightmares, seeing those eyes. . . .

This last spring I went home. My gun rack is still in my old room. I held the Mauser in my hands. It felt heavier than I remembered.

I realized I’d lost my innocence that day. I had to look that deer in the eye. I’d never had to do that before.

I put the gun back and I thought, ‘That gun doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to someone who left a long time ago, the day of my last hunt.’