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This is my grand daughters essay. She is 15.
The True Trophy
The beginning of an obsession. The spark of a passion. A legacy passed on. In other words, my first deer. My uncle, Clint, is a busy man, but he never fails to make time during deer season to take me and my brother deer hunting. Our hunting trip is always the highlight of the year because it is the only chance we have to spend time with our uncle, and the only opportunity we have to hunt whitetail deer. Uncle Clint, never one to waste time that could be spent outside, picked us up as soon as he could, and set out for the ranch. We couldn’t have picked a better time to hunt. The rut was at its peak.
It was one of those evenings that are heaven-sent. The air was cool, crisp, and deathly still. The smell of cedar trees was thick in the air and the hunt had just begun. Despite the promise of the evening, it slipped by without a sign of whitetail. We hiked to the last spot we would have time for and hid in the cedars on a ridge, the sun at our backs. We sat in silence until the meadowlarks had forgotten our presence and sang with gusto again. Uncle Clint raked his rattling antlers on a cedar and shuffled his feet in the gravel that constituted the ridge. He gave a few deep grunts on his call. Then he started to rattle. Softly at first, and then so fiercely that two bucks could have been locked in combat behind my back. The rattling alone was worth the trip! After a few minutes, Uncle Clint paused to point out a small spike buck to the north-east that nobody had seen until then. Uncle Clint’s vision could trump a hawk’s sight. It seemed there was not a living thing for miles that crept by unbeknownst to him. I was still trying in vain to locate the spike when he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Look.”
I swiveled my head as quickly as I dared to see a gargantuan eight point two-hundred yards out and coming in fast. His hide rippled with muscles and he came in bristling for a fight. I frantically swiveled my gun around to get on target. The buck stopped dead in his tracks and gazed up at us. He knew something was out of place. We froze like rabbits in a spotlight beam, holding out hope that we remained unseen. The buck stared straight at us, but the rut had wiped away his sense of caution, and he charged forward, all the more determined to destroy his unseen foes. I moved the gun into position and brought the buck into my sights. He paused again, but it was too late. He was under my crosshairs. I squeezed the trigger. My uncle’s 30-06 roared and bucked out of my grip. I glanced up in time to see the buck sprinting into a patch of shinnery never to reemerge.
The search for my buck could not have been shorter, but it was an eternity to me. We found him lying under an ancient mesquite tree that seemed to have grown just for that purpose. I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath until now. I mentally thanked God for blessing me with his creation.
Looking back, I realize that my buck is not the monster I once thought it was. Four of his eight tines are broken off at the base during previous fights, leaving him a four-point in the eyes of a scorer.
Now, I also know that my buck was not the true trophy of that hunt. The time spent, and the knowledge gained, from my uncle are far more valuable to me than any animal could ever be. For the success of a hunt is not decided by the size of an animal, or whether or not any game was harvested, but by the time spent in the outdoors with family. I would not trade my buck for the biggest deer in the world, for it is far more valuable to me.
The True Trophy
The beginning of an obsession. The spark of a passion. A legacy passed on. In other words, my first deer. My uncle, Clint, is a busy man, but he never fails to make time during deer season to take me and my brother deer hunting. Our hunting trip is always the highlight of the year because it is the only chance we have to spend time with our uncle, and the only opportunity we have to hunt whitetail deer. Uncle Clint, never one to waste time that could be spent outside, picked us up as soon as he could, and set out for the ranch. We couldn’t have picked a better time to hunt. The rut was at its peak.
It was one of those evenings that are heaven-sent. The air was cool, crisp, and deathly still. The smell of cedar trees was thick in the air and the hunt had just begun. Despite the promise of the evening, it slipped by without a sign of whitetail. We hiked to the last spot we would have time for and hid in the cedars on a ridge, the sun at our backs. We sat in silence until the meadowlarks had forgotten our presence and sang with gusto again. Uncle Clint raked his rattling antlers on a cedar and shuffled his feet in the gravel that constituted the ridge. He gave a few deep grunts on his call. Then he started to rattle. Softly at first, and then so fiercely that two bucks could have been locked in combat behind my back. The rattling alone was worth the trip! After a few minutes, Uncle Clint paused to point out a small spike buck to the north-east that nobody had seen until then. Uncle Clint’s vision could trump a hawk’s sight. It seemed there was not a living thing for miles that crept by unbeknownst to him. I was still trying in vain to locate the spike when he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Look.”
I swiveled my head as quickly as I dared to see a gargantuan eight point two-hundred yards out and coming in fast. His hide rippled with muscles and he came in bristling for a fight. I frantically swiveled my gun around to get on target. The buck stopped dead in his tracks and gazed up at us. He knew something was out of place. We froze like rabbits in a spotlight beam, holding out hope that we remained unseen. The buck stared straight at us, but the rut had wiped away his sense of caution, and he charged forward, all the more determined to destroy his unseen foes. I moved the gun into position and brought the buck into my sights. He paused again, but it was too late. He was under my crosshairs. I squeezed the trigger. My uncle’s 30-06 roared and bucked out of my grip. I glanced up in time to see the buck sprinting into a patch of shinnery never to reemerge.
The search for my buck could not have been shorter, but it was an eternity to me. We found him lying under an ancient mesquite tree that seemed to have grown just for that purpose. I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding my breath until now. I mentally thanked God for blessing me with his creation.
Looking back, I realize that my buck is not the monster I once thought it was. Four of his eight tines are broken off at the base during previous fights, leaving him a four-point in the eyes of a scorer.
Now, I also know that my buck was not the true trophy of that hunt. The time spent, and the knowledge gained, from my uncle are far more valuable to me than any animal could ever be. For the success of a hunt is not decided by the size of an animal, or whether or not any game was harvested, but by the time spent in the outdoors with family. I would not trade my buck for the biggest deer in the world, for it is far more valuable to me.
