Hunting Deer With My Flintlock

She took me by surprise. Though I had been 2)stalking her through the dense 3)undergrowth for about 40 minutes， I had lost sight of her as the afternoon light began to fade. It was getting late and I was about ready to 4)call it a day when， just as I 5)hit the 6)crest of a shadowy 7)depression in the mountainside， I caught a glimpse of her， a beautiful 8)doe， the 9)matriarch of a small 10)clan that 11)foraged behind her. She saw me， too. Even in the spreading dusk I could see her eyes as she glared at me. She 12)stomped out a warning on the rocky ground.

I had to admire her 13)guts. I dropped to one knee， 14)fumbled in my pocket for my old brass powder 15)charger， 16)freshened the powder in my 17)frizzen， and pulled back the hammer on my 50-18)caliber flintlock. I took a deep breath and then I 19)drew a bead on her. An instant that felt like an hour passed before I squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell， the powder in the frizzen flashed， startling me even though I was prepared for it， and a heartbeat later， the whole world exploded with the thunder of 90 20)grains of black powder erupting in fire and 21)blinding 22)acrid smoke from the barrel of my gun， sending a lead ball rocketing toward the doe at a 23)lethal 1，400 feet per second.

In the smoke and the confusion I couldn’t tell if I had hit her. And then I saw that I had. The impact of the bullet had knocked her to the ground， and as the rest of the herd 24)hightailed it over the ridge， she struggled to stand， staggered a few yards and then collapsed again. I had hoped for a clean kill. But I had failed. I knew what had happened—I had 25)flinched when the powder in the 26)pan went off. Instead of hitting her in the heart or lungs， which would have killed her instantly， I had mortally wounded her. Now I would have to finish the job.

I hate to kill.

I know that must sound like an odd confession coming from an 27)avid deer hunter， a guy who， like thousands of others in my home state of 28)Pennsylvania， spends the better part of the year looking forward to those few short weeks in October and November， and especially to the special flintlock season that begins the day after Christmas， when I can load up my rifle and get lost in the mountains behind my home all alone. But I suspect that if you could 29)wade through their 30)braggadocio and really talk to hunters， many of them would tell you the same thing.

For me， and I suspect for many others like me， the art of hunting is far more profound than taking 31)trophies. It’s about taking responsibility. For my needs. For my family. For the delicate environmental balance of this wounded but recovering part of the country. Biologists estimate there are now 1.6 million deer in Pennsylvania’s woods， far more than when white men first set foot there. I took up deer hunting a decade ago when I realized that this 32)staggeringly large population was 33)decimating many of our forests， forests that after hundreds of years of 34)clear-cutting 35)were at last poised to recover. Thus the responsibility for trying to restore a part of that balance fell to me. And to all the other hunters.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in a family that always did things the hard way， when I took up hunting， I 36)eschewed all the technological gadgets designed to give modern hunters an extra edge over their prey. I like to believe that there’s something primitive and existential about the art of hunting， and that somehow， stripping the act of hunting to its basics makes it purer.

I wanted a weapon that required more of me， one that demanded all the skill and all the planning that I could 37)muster， a weapon that gave me just one chance to get it right. I made the decision to hunt only with the most basic 38)firearm there is， a 39)muzzleloading black-powder rifle， fired by a piece of 40)flint striking cold steel. There are hundreds of us in the state. In late December we wander into the woods， usually alone， with our antique weapons and our 41)obsolete notions of what a hunt should be.

But those antique weapons also carry with them an antique sense of responsibility. To kill with a flintlock， you must get close. And because these ancient guns are notoriously 42)balky and inaccurate， there is a very good chance that you’ll miss your target altogether or， worse， that you’ll simply wound the creature and in so doing， 43)inflict greater suffering than is necessary. And so you take every precaution to make sure that your one shot is clean， that it kills quickly and mercifully. And still， sometimes you fail， just as I did that late afternoon in midwinter when I flinched as my gun went off.

I followed the blood trail a few yards and found her. She was still alive. I could see her breath. It was 44)ragged. She looked at me. I loaded my gun， charged the frizzen， and pulled the trigger. There was a flash in the pan—and then nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. The sun was sinking behind the ridge. I didn’t have the time or the tools with me to fix the gun—and so I laid my rifle down on the ground， pulled my knife from its 45)sheath， wrapped my arms around the wounded and frightened doe， and...I hate to kill.

But if I’m going to profit by death—and to some degree we all do， as even those who find the very act of eating flesh to be offensive still benefit from the 46)restorative act of responsible hunting in the nation’s wild places—then I believe I also have an obligation to do it in the most honest way possible. It has to cost me something. And it does. I would not be so 47)presumptuous as to suggest that the obligation extends beyond me. But speaking only for myself， it is 48)compelling. It’s a debt I owe the place I’ve chosen to live. And it’s why， if you’re looking for me on the day after Christmas， you’ll find me in the woods of Northeastern Pennsylvania with a flintlock rifle in my hand， and a few 49)gnawing regrets in my heart.

獵鹿人的自述

她讓我吃了一驚。雖然我在密集的叢林中跟蹤了她約四十分鐘，但隨著天色愈漸昏暗，我已無從尋覓她的蹤影。天色已晚，我正準備打道回府，就在這時，我發現了山邊若隱若現的頸脊曲線。我瞥見了她，那是一只美麗的母鹿，一小撮鹿群的頭領，鹿群正在她身后覓食。她也看見了我。即使暮色已濃，我仍能看到她注視著我的雙眸。她用腳跺著巖石地面，發出警示。

我不得不贊賞她的勇氣。我單膝跪下，一手在口袋中摸出老舊的黃銅火藥彈盒，給火鐮裝上火藥，并拉下了那桿50口徑的燧發槍的擊鐵。我深吸一口氣，瞄準了她。那刻，一秒猶如一小時般漫長，我終于扣下了扳機。擊鐵落下，火鐮的火藥被點燃，火光把我嚇了一跳，盡管我對此早有準備。頃刻，整個世界在90格令（相當于5.8克）黑火藥引發的轟雷聲中迸裂，我的槍桿中冒出一陣火光，撲鼻而來的火藥味令人暈眩，一顆鉛彈從槍膛中射出，以每秒1400英尺的奪命之速飛向那頭母鹿。

在煙霧和恍惚中，我無法分辨我是否已命中目標。很快，我看見獵物被擊中了。母鹿已中槍倒地，其余的鹿在山脊邊上迅速地逃命而去。母鹿掙扎著站起來，搖晃著走了幾步又跌倒在地。我本想將其一槍斃命，卻失算于此。我知道原因——火藥被點燃后我遲疑了一下。如果擊中她的心臟或肺部，她就會立馬斃命，但我只是讓她受了致命的傷。現在，我要結束這一切。

我討厭殺戮。

我知道這話從一個獵鹿狂熱分子口中說出，肯定荒謬無比。……