BOISE, Idaho _ Adrenaline subsiding, I reloaded my rifle and trudged uphill to where I'd shot the whitetail buck a couple of minutes ago.
I knew the drill: If you fire at an animal and it runs off, wait a bit, collect yourself, reload and then follow. No sense rushing. You'll never outrun a deer.
The half-foot of snow on the ground should make this easier _ if I actually hit anything. Sure enough, among the tracks, a couple drops of blood stood out against the white background. I stepped off the abandoned logging spur and into the thickets.
I didn't have to go far. Just inside the line of trees and brush, I caught sight of the buck. He was bedded down, still alive. He looked at me, 50 feet away, and didn't move.
A heavy mix of emotions hit me. It wasn't exactly pleasant. I was proud, sure, that after years of hunting I'd finally bagged a deer. But I felt guilt, too. Mostly, what struck me was the permanence of the act. Soon, that deer would be dead, forever, and I would always be the one who killed it.
At 36, I was no stranger to hunting. I grew up in western Montana and North Idaho, where hunting is as normal as wood heat and driving an old pickup. Long before I was old enough to hunt, I'd walk through the woods bird-dogging game for my dad, mom or older brother. I'd seen more dead deer than I could count. I was never squeamish about them.
But there's nothing like doing it yourself, and there's nothing like your first time. It was clear to me then, as it is now, that anyone who eats meat should have to face that moment, to feel what it's like to kill an animal for food. If you accept the toll, then keep eating meat. If not, you should be a vegan.
