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The Hunter and the Snowshoe Hare

John Zurn

    For me, one of the most important life lessons I’ve needed to learn took place during the autumn of my freshman year at college. My Uncle Bob had invited me to his hunting lodge during deer season and I eagerly agreed to visit.
    Because I’d worked for my uncle at the resort for two summer seasons, we knew each other very well and had a great relationship. Having spent many hours chatting in the dining room and drinking in the cocktail lounge, I felt a great deal of excitement as I drove up the lodge. I’d never actually hunted before; and I didn’t know if I’d enjoy it, but seeing my uncle again seemed worth taking the trip no matter how things turned out.
    After arriving in the parking lot, I stepped through the front door where I was immediately surrounded by a number of men in camouflage hunting gear. My uncle introduced me to all of them, and I soon realized they came mostly from New York City. Since dinner time appeared to be far from ready, the men appeared to be already drinking, and after a few minutes, they began to share some of their deer hunting adventures.
    I attempted to fit in by asking pertinent questions, but it soon became obvious to me that I wouldn’t be an accomplished hunter. I had neither skill nor experience. The hunters described various hunting strategies that seemed to be too technical for me to understand. They also vividly described field dressing techniques such as gutting and skinning that seemed barbaric. Later that night when two hunters taught me how to fire my uncle’s shot gun, my aim was awful. Worst yet, the recoil of the rifle made me uncomfortable, and I couldn’t hide my anxiety.
    It also took time for me to adjust to the daily routine. The day began before dawn with an enormous breakfast. Next, the men finished dressing in their identical hunting uniforms and double checked their rifles. Some of the men also carried buck lure that supposedly attracted deer. In addition, they also packed sets of antlers that could be scraped together in order to imitate bucks scraping trees.
    Finally, everyone grabbed his lunch and jumped into the jeeps. My uncle and his hired guide then drove the hunters to promising areas of forest and meadow where deer had been sighted during the summer and early fall. The men then hunted until dark and returned to the lodge, tired and hungry. But no matter how weary they felt, they still had enough energy to tell stories about the day’s adventures that often offered hope and entertainment for the group. Even though the hunters rarely succeeded, these tales charged the atmosphere with the promise of future excitement and success.
    Throughout the evening, the men drank heavily, but they rarely became belligerent. Since they were “good drunks,” they did use “colorful” language, but they rarely lost their tempers.
     Nonetheless, these prolonged cocktail hours at the hunting lodge were possibly the most revealing part of the day. As can be imagined, the more the hunters drank, the more enthusiastic they became. Some hunters might describe some past escapade in which they excelled as great trackers who managed to corner a twelve point buck. Sometimes these stories would drag on for so long, that it felt like it took more time to tell the story than it did to track and kill the deer.
    These hunters would also discuss the deep feelings of joy and sorrow that should be expressed after a kill. They would also declare that the deep respect for the animal constituted an important part of the hunting ritual. They spoke with such reverence it seemed obvious that they believed what they were saying.
    To be honest, a part of me did understand and believe the group of hunters. It wasn’t difficult for me to conjure up the primal feelings, they so aptly described. Once, for example, my friend and I fished all day and needed fish guts for bait, so we could catch even more fish. Then during one summer, my brother and I killed the songbirds in the backyard with BB guns. Yet another time, my friend and I netted a number of huge carp that had become trapped in pools when the river receded that year. I had even shot a cotton tail rabbit with a 22 caliber rifle, but it cried so hideously, my friend had to kill it because I couldn’t.
    But feelings of guilt and repentance didn’t exist for me, then. Walking in the woods with a gun or even a stick felt powerful and exciting. Whether it was our socialization or because of some primal urge; the feeling of the hunt felt genuine. Although I couldn’t fully understand it, I couldn’t deny it either.
    Generally, however, the hunters themselves spent a lot of their evenings talking specifically about the next day’s hunt. It proved to be this common purpose that bound them together. For example, often when the hunters planned out the next day, they pooled their knowledge about where a particular herd might be, where their movements might be at dusk, or where deer sign could be found. The hunting lodge guide also employed maps to identify possible ambush sites where the hunters could hide behind the spruce trees when the deer moved through the meadow.
    As the days passed, the hunters did successfully “bag” a few small deer. However, one young man did manage to kill a six point buck with a bow and arrow. He had been sitting in an oak tree for almost an entire day before the animal passed under him in the late afternoon. His patience and concentration seemed almost impossible to believe, but the evidence appeared to be irrefutable. I wondered who might believe his incredible story when he told it to some future hunting group.
    My own hunting experience turned out to be far less noteworthy primarily because I sabotaged it. Despite my uncle’s help in locating ideal spots, I always moved around in the forest as loud as I could, shuffling through leaves and snapping twigs from the trees. Since I had only actually fired a shotgun a few times, I felt terrified that I had no control over the bullet once it left the chamber. My father once told me that he was nearly killed by his brother during a woodchuck hunt, when a stray bullet ricocheted off a boulder and grazed his cheek. The bullet barely missed his eye. This fear about where a stray shot might end up haunted me and it gnawed at my self-confidence.
    How could one be sure that a deer in the forest was really hiding behind a tree stump? What if a hunter walked by carrying a deer over his shoulders? Worst of all, suppose a hunter wandered into a meadow or forest behind a deer? These hunters from New York City seemed friendly and honorable, but their experience with rifles might not be as good as they wanted others to believe.
     A number of stories I heard during the week also felt troubling. Often, deer are wounded when shot, so the hunters have to track them through the woods sometimes for hours. Once in a while, they can’t be found at all.
    Still, there definitely remained another part of me that could imagine the praise and recognition I would receive if I “bagged” my first deer. It would please my uncle because he believed I wanted a deer. In addition, not only would I be considered a tested hunter, but I also would be fully accepted into the overall hunting group. I would be asked repeatedly to narrate my story and to embellish it for effect. No matter what most people suggest, there is a deep and abiding desire for young people to be acknowledged by their elders, especially when competition is involved. It felt no different for me.
    On the last day of hunting season, my uncle once again found a great spot for me to observe any deer as they approached the meadow. He felt sure I would shoot one, and he really tried to encourage me. But I simply couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d be hurting his feelings and disappointing all the other hunters. In addition, I would be indirectly showing disrespect for their beliefs.
    So, I sat down on a large patch of moss under a spruce tree. Then I proceeded to follow my routine and ate my lunch in the early morning hours. I felt sure I wouldn’t “bag” a deer. Even though the men had repeatedly described the best places on its body to target, my aim and attitude remained awful. Even when they gave suggestions about handling the recoil, I placated them by promising to practice later. I felt lonely and miserable. But as I sat in the woods feeling incompetent and depressed, something extraordinary happened.
    As I sat staring at the spruce trees, a solitary snowshoe hare hopped lazily into the meadow directly in front of me. Its fur was perfectly white except for its ears, and the animal had obviously turned white ahead of the forest. Since the deciduous trees hadn’t completely changed colors, the rabbit seemed remarkably easy to spot. It appeared as if nature had performed some cruel trick. The white camouflage made the rabbit actually stand out instead of helping it blend into its surroundings.
    This extraordinary snowshoe hare seemed to be in no hurry to hide from me, and at first I thought it didn’t see me. Huge in stature, it looked to be about four times the size of a cottontail rabbit. Her enormous hind legs looked powerful, and she could have easily escaped from my rifle.
    Here was my chance. I began to imagine myself displaying this enormous rabbit while the men gathered around me. I could create a dramatic story about my encounter, and the others would want details that I could create as I went along. This enormous hare, now directly in front of me, could bring me all the recognition and praise I had hoped to receive and please my uncle as well. To be sure, it wasn’t a deer, but even I knew that snowshoe hares were difficult to approach, let alone kill. I even imagined myself chugging down twenty four ounce beers for the entire cocktail hour. Then, of course, there would be rabbit stew for everyone.
    Now that I had the hare in my sights, I realized that it saw me too, and I expected that it would bolt immediately, but it didn’t. Instead, the animal simply stretched out its enormous body and stared at me. This stare wasn’t because the animal felt fearful or uncertain. On the contrary, the hare appeared to be unconcerned, even indifferent. I continued to hold my weapon against my shoulder and aim, but the hare finally became restless. Quietly and gracefully, the snowshoe hare hopped a few feet, stared at me, and then hopped a few more feet, until it finally disappeared behind a thicket.
    I couldn’t shoot that snowshoe hare even though I sorely wanted the men’s respect. Initially, I believed I felt unwilling to shoot such a magnificent animal because I was afraid of wounding it or ending its life. The hare had done nothing to warrant such a painful and terrifying death.
    But it wasn’t just pity toward a vulnerable creature that moved me. Somehow, it felt like my own identity as a man was being questioned. In a way, shooting the snowshoe hare seemed unfaithful to my conscience. My desire for acceptance was based on what others considered heroic. In truth, I did understand the motivation of the hunters and the feeling of power and superiority they felt in the woods. It appeared buried deep within them, and its expression gave them a sense of fulfillment and pride.
    But I couldn’t accept these views because they seemed to be full of contradictions. It was hard for me to justify inflicting pain and suffering simply for the “thrill of the hunt.” My idea and beliefs, whether accepted by others or not, were not suitable for the whole mystique of hunting. I clearly had no idea where I was going, but somehow I knew my future would not take me down the hunter’s path again.
    I never told my uncle or the hunters about the snowshoe hare, and I never picked up a gun again. Part of me felt proud of my decision, but I also felt left out. The fraternity of hunters now no longer served as examples of adulthood for me to follow. As I grew older, I repeatedly attempted to discover what it meant to be a man, and I’ve concluded that it’s different for everyone. This makes it lonely sometimes, but one thing is certain. That snowshoe hare I encountered in the meadow taught me more about unexpected beauty, courage, and self-confidence than any hunting story I’ve ever heard, before or since.



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