I’m gonna tell y’all one story, although I have hundreds relating to deer.

It is the account of the one time I went deer hunting.

I know what you’re thinking: “Amy? In the woods? To shoot a deer?” I know, it’s preposterous. There are ticks there. And deer are graceful and agile and beautiful….and I’m so decidedly NOT.

I was eleven years old. My uncle, having decided there were no boys forthcoming in the family, had taken me under his supervision for all things outdoors. It started simply enough, with frisbee throwing. I was the blue ribbon winner of my Kindergarten class on Field Day. And Field “Day” used to be a week, in my glory days. But it looked weird when I typed it.

Uncle Dale also taught me a great many more things, including varieties of trees, how to tie my lures, how to fish, how to clean a fish, how to double knot my shoelaces so I wouldn’t eat dirt, how to shoot a pistol, a rifle, AND a muzzleloader. I assisted him when he processed deer, and I picked up sticks for the duration of my childhood under his watchful eye. He gave me my first dog and my first knife. He gave me $5.00 for my own crawdad lure, but he didn’t buy me a My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. He’s paid for that one a million times over, and finally came in with a sub-par Barbie kite a few years ago. As adults, we fight over Shirley’s apple stack cake and pester each other until I’m almost in tears.

But, on this particular fall day, I was short on sleep and he was short on patience. I had recently completed my Hunter’s Safety class in my 6th grade year. That’s hard to wrap my head around now. Mr. Wade, the Principal, instructed us on firearms and target shooting. At the end of the course, we all piled in an old school bus and went out to the lake to shoot skeet and have a picnic. We were ELEVEN years old. Eleven-year-olds nowadays wear safety pins to express their harmlessness and keep their nose buried in their phones. Snapchatting, as I understand it. That’s probably not the word they use. I still recall most of what I learned, and have had to instruct several grown men of two hard and fast rules: Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, and be absolutely sure of your target before pulling the trigger.

Men are stupid.

Anyway, back to that frosty morning.

I had spent the night at their house because we were leaving way before the crack of dawn to drive to Nowhere, Tennessee. I couldn’t tell you to this day where we went. Some guy named Mansel owned the farm. I got suited up, I remember him helping me lace my boots (Brenda’s, they were a little big, but I had on like, three pairs of socks) at the kitchen table. I think we had a biscuit before getting on the road.

Well, it started before we ever got to the road. I was slumped against the door, thinking about how warm and cozy I had been, when he snaps, “You gonna start the day off deaf?” and got out and slammed the door. Evidently he had requested I shut the gate. Ah, well.

Listening to Patsy Cline and the tires on the red Ford sing, I fell asleep again. When I woke up, we were there. Which, as I stated before, was nowhere. And so began our long journey to the ridge. Over the river and through the woods, indeed. I was sweating by the time we finally stopped, as hiking was not my custom. Riding horses, yes. Laying on my bed reading and eating Snickers, yes. Tromping through the thicket in boots two sizes too big, wearing insulated coveralls, hauling a backpack, and carrying a shotgun…no. And the fallen leaves were so dense they came halfway up my shin! I was so relieved to finally collapse on the sodden log I would have fallen asleep again but I had to pee so bad it was keeping me awake. But the thought of peeling off my sixteen layers and exposing my backside to the below freezing temperature was not appealing. So I suffered in silence.

It was at this point the sun began to make its ascent. The warmth it generated caused me to close my eyes in contentment.

“Can’t shoot no deer with your eyes closed,” my uncle growled from beside me.

I should clarify something here, as I’m making him out to be a bit of a villain. I wanted to go on this little excursion. I had mistakenly thought I wanted to shoot a deer. Turns out, I just wanted to be able to compete with Stephanie for bragging rights. Stephanie is my aunt Brenda’s niece on her side. She had shot a buck on her juvenile hunt. I couldn’t be shown up. I had to remain at the top of the food chain of favorites.

With my eyes open, I could concentrate in turn on needing to pee and hypothermia. I had already counted my self dead. I would die right here, frozen to this moss covered log. I would deteriorate with the leaves unless Uncle Dale found it in his heart to drag me off the mountain. By the time they would be able to get the four wheeler to me, the coyotes will have ripped my limbs from my body and began to gorge on my intestines…

“Well, we ain’t seeing nothing here, let’s walk a ways up the ridge.”

Whaaaaaa???? UP the ridge?! Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we were on the pinnacle already. Oh dear….

“I gotta pee,” I said.

He walked off to leave me to it. I tried to hurry to catch up before he was totally out of sight, and in my haste, slipped on some slickety leaves and went down. In an effort to gain traction, I stuck the barrel of the shotgun in the dirt. This was most definitely the wrong thing to do. I got a strong talking-to about how we were going to have to clean it right then and there to avoid an accident in the event I actually had to fire.

We eventually got back on track, walking across a strip mine to get to the next destination he had so carefully plotted. I remember a stream. I remember eating the lunch Brenda had so lovingly packed for me and my long day of adventure. Peanut butter and crackers too. Always peanut butter and crackers. Which, of course, I crunched too loudly. My head was beginning to hurt. Probably a side effect of hypothermia.

I prayed vehemently we wouldn’t see a single deer. I didn’t want to shoot one. They were too pretty. What had I been thinking??? Deer tasted good but I couldn’t look in their liquid chocolate eyes and end it! “Please, no deer. No deer, no deer, no-deer-no-deer-no-deer…” I chanted silently in my head.

It was early afternoon when we spooked up the spike. I remember the dappled sunshine and how he lunged up the hillside. Uncle Dale instructing me to pull the gun, the white flag tail making a break for it. It was like I was in a trance. Uncle Dale all but tore the gun from me, disengaged the safety, and shoved it back into my gloved hands. By then it was too late. Too late for me, anyway. The deer would live to eat another acorn.

And I was so glad.

I know Uncle Dale was beyond disappointed in me as he recounted the day’s events to the landowner. But I was tired and I ached all over. I was thankful I didn’t have to gut a deer and drag it back to the truck. I crawled into the cab of the old Ford and slept.

I woke up hot and sick as a dog. I puked and puked and my head was busting.

And that, my friends, is the story of my first and last deer hunt.