A Lie.

A few years ago a close friend mine invited me back east for a weekend at his home in Vermont. He lived in the woods just south of a small village tucked away in the hills. A place to clear your mind and forget modern civilization. I had my bags packed as soon as possible and had purchased a ticket last minute for stand by. The flight I was hoping for ended up not filling up, which I was extremely grateful for. My plane took me west into Boston’s Logan Airport, where I ran across the terminal to catch my flight to Burlington, VT. I arrived at the Burlington Airport around 9am, where my friend met up with me. It had been such a long time since I had seen this old friend of mine. He hugged upon greeting each other and proceeded to head to his truck. The truck was an old Ford farm truck. It had been his fathers, and when he passed my friend had taken over possession. We climbed into the old rig and headed out of the small city. We chatted for a bit as we drove south, towards my friend’s home. The sun was shining; it was a warm autumn day. All the oranges, reds and yellows were blending together into one fiery blur as we sped passed them on the highway. We spoke of the how our families were and how we ourselves had been. We arrived at my friends place around noon and as we pulled up, the place looked just as I imagined it would. It was an old hunting lodge that had also belonged to the father of my friend. A tangled mass of antlers hung above the front porch. A twisted trophy chandelier to accent the rustic wood and natural outdoor surroundings of the lodge. The inside den was adorned with John Wayne movie posters, old lever action rifles and other classic nostalgia from greater times. My friend showed me to my room and told me he was going to check under the hood of his father’s old truck. I unpacked my bags and laid on the bed. I gazed out the window into the woods nearby…

The next thing I remember my friend is waking me from a deep sleep. He makes jokes about jet lag and proceeds to tell me that since I’ve been asleep he’s already run to town and made dinner. At dinner my friend also tells me of the trip he has planned for us tomorrow. A hunting trip. The woods nearby are full of deer and with the season closing in a few weeks he says this would be the perfect opportunity for us to take advantage of the location of the lodge. My friend says he has all the gear we’ll need. We stay up only a few hours longer, reminiscing and conversating. My friend shows me the rifle he is going to let me use. It’s an old bolt action rifle, which also belonged to his father. The wood is worn from years of use. The metal of the scope has tiny scrapes and scratches on it. My friend assures me; that despite its looks it was very reliable. His father had taken very good care of it, and since it had been in his possession it had received the same care.

My friend awakes me from another deep sleep. I was dreaming about…the beach. He tells me it’s time to go. I need to get my gear on. Get my backpack on.  He hands me his father’s old rifle as I’m wiping the tired from my eyes and following him out the door. It’s around 4am, and the sun had yet to come up. The air is frigid, bites at my nose and fingertips. Large clouds of steam are coming from my mouth and nostrils. Despite my thermal gear and outerwear the cold still manages to throw a chill down my spine.

My friend takes us about 5 miles from the hunting lodge through the sprawling autumn forest and the rolling hills. He stops us at a point where the woods break into an incredibly vast meadow. My friend tells me that this is the spot where we will find what we want. We hunker down in the grass on the edge of the meadow and prepare to wait. My friend assures me that he has seen many deer come through this area. An hour passes with nothing. The sun is starting to make the morning sky glow. About halfway through our second hour of waiting my friend draws my attention to the far side of the field. I put my eye to the scope and see what he does. It’s a buck. I don’t remember exactly what point. I do remember at this point becoming extremely nervous. My friend senses my tenseness and tells me to wait. We both watch as the deer makes it’s way across the meadow, coming closer and closer to us. My friend tells me to wait, still. Closer and closer it comes. Only about a hundred yards away. I have the animal locked in my sights, but I’m waiting. The animal turns, exposing its side to me.

The sun has set the hills around the meadow on fire as my friend and I walk up to the deer.

It’s breathing slow.

It watches with black eyes as we approach.

Steam is rising from the wound and from the ground where blood has been spilled.

One final breath visibly dissipates into the cold fall morning.

Despite being raised in a pro gun household in North Eastern Nevada I have never been hunting.

The only time I have ever spent in Vermont was as an infant or on vacation with my parents.