Ashley Heatley's Buck Hunting Story


As the crisp morning air of fall sent a chill throughout me, my heart continued to pound within the cavity of my chest. I had followed my father through the same open field countless times, but each time continued to feel like the first. The frost left the fallen hay of the field crisp and fragile. I could feel and hear it give way beneath my boot-clad feet. I tightened my grip on the black suede shoulder strap of my rifle and continued to follow the dim outline of my father. My breath hung in the air like the mist hung in the trees that morning. The prevailing wind became noticeable as we walked along the crest of the hill, and my numb, red cheeks were thankful when we approached and entered the shelter of the woods. On countless other occasions, I had trekked through the same field after the traditional 4:30am breakfast at my grandfather’s. I had shouldered the same gun and breathed the same sweet fall air, but on this morning, it became different. On this morning, the morning of November 27, 2000, I watched my dreams take the form of a living, breathing reality.

We approached our destination, a small awkward shanty, to which we would become its contents. Before we entered, we loaded the gun in our usual tradition. My father and I each placed a good luck kiss on the last bullet to enter the chamber, knowing it will be the first one fired. My dad pulled the duct tape handle fastened to the window and turned the loose but reliable lock. He then carefully positioned his hands in such a fashion, that the rickety old door opened in silence. I entered and sat on the shorter of the two faded yellow bar stools. As my father entered, he occupied the other seat and handed me my rifle, which I carefully placed in the corner to my right. I quickly exchanged the musty scent of the shack for the sweet smell of fall leaves by opening a few windows. I found the nail in the corner, whose only purpose is to hold my hat. There was nothing left to do, except wait for daylight. Concealed in the depths of the forest, I knew sunrise was upon us as the area residents began to wake. I could hear the birds and the squirrels gossiping among each other and the familiar “caw” of a crow overhead. I remember my father saying, “Now is the time when the deer are becoming active. Keep your eyes peeled for movement.” I scanned the woods with a keen eye hoping to spot a buck in enough time to get a shot. My father has an experienced eye, like that of an old hawk, and he spied what I had missed. I can still hear my dad saying, “Ashley, get ready in your far opening. I saw a deer sneaking through the bottom, and I think it’s a buck!”

With adrenaline controlling my every move, I reached for my rifle and placed the barrel out the window. I readied myself in the opening where my dad predicted the deer to appear. I removed the safety and tried to remember everything my dad taught me. I pulled the stock of the gun deep into my shoulder and laid my finger outside the trigger guard. I took deep breaths and patiently waited for what seemed like eternity. At last, the buck stepped into the opening and the crosshairs of my rifle. I squeezed the trigger and watched the deer turn in pain and head in my direction. I racked another bullet into the chamber and took another broadside shot, which dropped the buck in his tracks.

As my dad and I walked up to my trophy, I’ll never forget the feelings and emotions that ran through me. The two of us were both so happy that we were in tears and I could barely talk. My dad gave me the biggest, warmest hug of my life. In that hug I felt just how proud he was of me and how much love he had for me. In that moment, I realized that this was better than any dream come true.