onemilmhz
Senior Member
Nicodemus' recent ethics post had me reminiscing. I started to reply but realized my post would be far too long, and rather than hijack his thread, I offer my thoughts here.
The VERY first deer I ever killed was a yearling doe, during buck only days, about 20 years ago. I had only been hunting a few times with my new father in law, Ed, a now retired DNR instructor. Ed had taught my hunter's safety course when I was 13. He made it a point each time we went out to say, "Now, remember, you can't shoot does right now, so make darn sure it has antlers before you pull the trigger." The instructions were well warranted. He knew I was itching to get my first deer and that I didn't yet have the sound judgement that came with experience.
That afternoon's hunt started like any other. Ed walked me to my stand, made sure I got settled and then continued on to his spot. He knew there was a possibility he would run one out of the creek bottom, back up my way, so he always did this on the off chance I would get an opportunity early. Of course, he also knew the rolling topography would shield him from my eagerness if that scenario ever played out. Ed is not a dumb man.
After a while, when I was convinced nothing was coming from his direction, I began to relax. As usually happens at some point in every one of my hunts, I started to lose focus, daydream and ultimately nodded off. It was probably only for a couple of minutes, but long enough for me to be cloudy for a second or two when I came back around.
As I scanned the area to see if anything had wandered in, I thought I heard THE NOISE. You know, the noise you hear when you absolutely, positively know that a big buck just broke a twig, hit a limb, bumped a squirrel or even sneezed. THE NOISE! I sat there motionless, frozen in fear, excitement, terror and joy all at once. I heard it again, more distinctly and definitely a foot step. Then another. And another. Until finally I saw a flash of brown through the trees, just enough to start counting tines before actually seeing any.
As I was deciding what type of mount I was going to go with when I got to the taxidermists' that night, I had that other moment in every hunt. The one where all your hopes and dreams are dashed because your ten point, drop tined, left turn shoulder mount brute just morphed into Bambi right before your eyes. And not Bambi at the end of the movie, standing on the hillside proud and regal, either. Bambi in the opening scenes, the one playing with rabbits and stuff.
I slumped back in the stand, having inched to the very edge during the buildup of my glorious disappointment. As I sat there, swearing off hunting as a fool's errand, I noticed that something wasn't quite right with the animal in front of me. She was walking a little funny.... no, she was noticibly limping. She was half hopping up the edge of the tree line, about 75 yards off, and I didn't see any immediate injury that would explain her awkward gait. I thought, birth defect, rock in her hoof, slept on it wrong, or some other simple explanation. That is, until she turned nearly 180 degrees and stood broadside.
Another "hunter" had apparently taken a shot at this young deer earlier in the day. I surmised this based on the amount and color of the bright red blood flowing down her leg, although the wound itself was already beginning to mat, caked with dirt and leaves, probably from where she bedded after running herself exhausted. I watched her for another minute or two, assessing her chances and trying to talk myself out of what I was about to do. Just as I was sure she would go on her way, heal up and live a fruitful life, she stumbled and fell, letting out the tiniest of bleats, as if she wanted to cry openly but knew it would draw predators. With that soft whine my decision was made.
I lifted the .243 Remington 7400 Ed loaned me before the season started. He had spent weeks hand loading and testing rounds for it until he found a combination that could donut a dime if the shooter did their part. He would later trade it to me for a Marlin 1894C in .450 that I bought for the sole purpose of the trade. I peered through the Bausch & Lomb 3000 Elite, and found her in the crosshairs. She was so small, even at that distance, that the 1.5-4.5 power was almost too little scope for such a novice marksman. This was far different than matching the lines on a paper target to those in the lens.
I never questioned myself after my initial hope for her had waned, but I still felt guilty as I pushed off the safety. I was about to take a life, break the law, and disappoint the man who, up to this point, had been my only hunting mentor and shooting instructor. But, that guilt was quickly replaced by anger and determination. Anger at the gutless wretch that had put me in this position in the first place, and the determination to make it right. With that final thought my only guide, I pulled the trigger.
Bambi immediately reared back and screamed, struck broadside in the vitals. She wheeled around and bolted straight towards my stand. This being my first live target, I panicked at her behavior, not realizing she was already dead, but fueled by a surge of adrenalin and the last puffs of oxygen left in her lungs before my bullet had done it's ugly business. I shot again, dead center in her narrow chest, dropping her silently in her tracks mid stride.
I don't even remember hearing the shots. I sat there a moment, numb from what had just happened. My heart pounded but I couldn't move. I stared down at the lifeless body, now only 20-30 yards from my stand, and thought, "Please, don't get up." I remember literally speaking those words to myself in my head, knowing I would crumble at the site of her still alive, still in pain, or worse for my having inflicted further evil upon her. Of course, she remained.
I gathered myself, collected my gear and blew the whistle hanging around my neck three times to signal to Ed that I had a deer down in sight. No cell phones back then. No radios. I just climbed down and waited for him to arrive and see what I had done. As the minutes ticked by I started to worry. Had I just rationalized myself into killing an illegal deer because I wanted to shoot something? Was I just as bad as the other "hunter" that poor deer had encountered that day? She might have survived, right? Who was I to decide?
My mind raced as I saw Ed's orange vest bouncing behind the brush, his rifle barrel appearing first, then his hat and then his face. He could see her now, her demure size and the absence of antler. I held my breath. Honestly, I held my breath, terrified of what he was going to say. I saw his face and knew he was disappointed. As he was silently sizing up the situation my mounting guilt and fear overtook me and I blurted out, "She was hurt!" Once the words were out there, they wouldn't stop coming. I explained what had happened, what I observed and why I had shot her. I apologized profusely, almost grovelingly, until I ran out of steam. I stopped talking and waited for his response.
"Well, the coyotes would have gotten her anyway. At least like this she won't have to suffer until they do."
"I'm sorry." I repeated again as we picked her up and carried her up the hill towards the truck. I started to wonder which was worse, killing an innocent, illegal yearling, or not even being a man about it afterward. But Ed put all that to rest in a hurry.
"No, I'm sorry." He explained, "I'm sorry your first deer had to be like that."
And then it hit me. He WAS disappointed, but not because of what I had done, rather that I had to do it at all. He wasn't mad at me, he was proud of me. "Those were both great shots." He didn't scold, he encouraged, "The next one will be better." He didn't lecture, he coached, "See how that 6mm bullet performed." He didn't even disparage the other hunter, "That's why I teach Hunter Safety. These things happen and people make mistakes. Who knows what happened when she was shot." Hunting wasn't ruined for me that day. Its place in my soul was solidified. I learned more about respect, responsibility, and life in general in that one afternoon than in my previous twenty years.
So, what is an "ethical hunter"? Is it one who obeys all the rules, or always does what's right? The two aren't always in sync, nor are they mutually exclusive. Based upon MY hunting education, an ethical hunter knows the difference and does both.
The VERY first deer I ever killed was a yearling doe, during buck only days, about 20 years ago. I had only been hunting a few times with my new father in law, Ed, a now retired DNR instructor. Ed had taught my hunter's safety course when I was 13. He made it a point each time we went out to say, "Now, remember, you can't shoot does right now, so make darn sure it has antlers before you pull the trigger." The instructions were well warranted. He knew I was itching to get my first deer and that I didn't yet have the sound judgement that came with experience.
That afternoon's hunt started like any other. Ed walked me to my stand, made sure I got settled and then continued on to his spot. He knew there was a possibility he would run one out of the creek bottom, back up my way, so he always did this on the off chance I would get an opportunity early. Of course, he also knew the rolling topography would shield him from my eagerness if that scenario ever played out. Ed is not a dumb man.
After a while, when I was convinced nothing was coming from his direction, I began to relax. As usually happens at some point in every one of my hunts, I started to lose focus, daydream and ultimately nodded off. It was probably only for a couple of minutes, but long enough for me to be cloudy for a second or two when I came back around.
As I scanned the area to see if anything had wandered in, I thought I heard THE NOISE. You know, the noise you hear when you absolutely, positively know that a big buck just broke a twig, hit a limb, bumped a squirrel or even sneezed. THE NOISE! I sat there motionless, frozen in fear, excitement, terror and joy all at once. I heard it again, more distinctly and definitely a foot step. Then another. And another. Until finally I saw a flash of brown through the trees, just enough to start counting tines before actually seeing any.
As I was deciding what type of mount I was going to go with when I got to the taxidermists' that night, I had that other moment in every hunt. The one where all your hopes and dreams are dashed because your ten point, drop tined, left turn shoulder mount brute just morphed into Bambi right before your eyes. And not Bambi at the end of the movie, standing on the hillside proud and regal, either. Bambi in the opening scenes, the one playing with rabbits and stuff.
I slumped back in the stand, having inched to the very edge during the buildup of my glorious disappointment. As I sat there, swearing off hunting as a fool's errand, I noticed that something wasn't quite right with the animal in front of me. She was walking a little funny.... no, she was noticibly limping. She was half hopping up the edge of the tree line, about 75 yards off, and I didn't see any immediate injury that would explain her awkward gait. I thought, birth defect, rock in her hoof, slept on it wrong, or some other simple explanation. That is, until she turned nearly 180 degrees and stood broadside.
Another "hunter" had apparently taken a shot at this young deer earlier in the day. I surmised this based on the amount and color of the bright red blood flowing down her leg, although the wound itself was already beginning to mat, caked with dirt and leaves, probably from where she bedded after running herself exhausted. I watched her for another minute or two, assessing her chances and trying to talk myself out of what I was about to do. Just as I was sure she would go on her way, heal up and live a fruitful life, she stumbled and fell, letting out the tiniest of bleats, as if she wanted to cry openly but knew it would draw predators. With that soft whine my decision was made.
I lifted the .243 Remington 7400 Ed loaned me before the season started. He had spent weeks hand loading and testing rounds for it until he found a combination that could donut a dime if the shooter did their part. He would later trade it to me for a Marlin 1894C in .450 that I bought for the sole purpose of the trade. I peered through the Bausch & Lomb 3000 Elite, and found her in the crosshairs. She was so small, even at that distance, that the 1.5-4.5 power was almost too little scope for such a novice marksman. This was far different than matching the lines on a paper target to those in the lens.
I never questioned myself after my initial hope for her had waned, but I still felt guilty as I pushed off the safety. I was about to take a life, break the law, and disappoint the man who, up to this point, had been my only hunting mentor and shooting instructor. But, that guilt was quickly replaced by anger and determination. Anger at the gutless wretch that had put me in this position in the first place, and the determination to make it right. With that final thought my only guide, I pulled the trigger.
Bambi immediately reared back and screamed, struck broadside in the vitals. She wheeled around and bolted straight towards my stand. This being my first live target, I panicked at her behavior, not realizing she was already dead, but fueled by a surge of adrenalin and the last puffs of oxygen left in her lungs before my bullet had done it's ugly business. I shot again, dead center in her narrow chest, dropping her silently in her tracks mid stride.
I don't even remember hearing the shots. I sat there a moment, numb from what had just happened. My heart pounded but I couldn't move. I stared down at the lifeless body, now only 20-30 yards from my stand, and thought, "Please, don't get up." I remember literally speaking those words to myself in my head, knowing I would crumble at the site of her still alive, still in pain, or worse for my having inflicted further evil upon her. Of course, she remained.
I gathered myself, collected my gear and blew the whistle hanging around my neck three times to signal to Ed that I had a deer down in sight. No cell phones back then. No radios. I just climbed down and waited for him to arrive and see what I had done. As the minutes ticked by I started to worry. Had I just rationalized myself into killing an illegal deer because I wanted to shoot something? Was I just as bad as the other "hunter" that poor deer had encountered that day? She might have survived, right? Who was I to decide?
My mind raced as I saw Ed's orange vest bouncing behind the brush, his rifle barrel appearing first, then his hat and then his face. He could see her now, her demure size and the absence of antler. I held my breath. Honestly, I held my breath, terrified of what he was going to say. I saw his face and knew he was disappointed. As he was silently sizing up the situation my mounting guilt and fear overtook me and I blurted out, "She was hurt!" Once the words were out there, they wouldn't stop coming. I explained what had happened, what I observed and why I had shot her. I apologized profusely, almost grovelingly, until I ran out of steam. I stopped talking and waited for his response.
"Well, the coyotes would have gotten her anyway. At least like this she won't have to suffer until they do."
"I'm sorry." I repeated again as we picked her up and carried her up the hill towards the truck. I started to wonder which was worse, killing an innocent, illegal yearling, or not even being a man about it afterward. But Ed put all that to rest in a hurry.
"No, I'm sorry." He explained, "I'm sorry your first deer had to be like that."
And then it hit me. He WAS disappointed, but not because of what I had done, rather that I had to do it at all. He wasn't mad at me, he was proud of me. "Those were both great shots." He didn't scold, he encouraged, "The next one will be better." He didn't lecture, he coached, "See how that 6mm bullet performed." He didn't even disparage the other hunter, "That's why I teach Hunter Safety. These things happen and people make mistakes. Who knows what happened when she was shot." Hunting wasn't ruined for me that day. Its place in my soul was solidified. I learned more about respect, responsibility, and life in general in that one afternoon than in my previous twenty years.
So, what is an "ethical hunter"? Is it one who obeys all the rules, or always does what's right? The two aren't always in sync, nor are they mutually exclusive. Based upon MY hunting education, an ethical hunter knows the difference and does both.
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