I saw their ears first. Fluffy little ovals through the arcing tangles of autumn grasses. I nudged Bria with my elbow as I raised my rifle to get a better look. Slowly, so slowly, they worked their way out into the open, picking their path through the little piles of leaves and grasses that had already bent low under the weight of hard frost. There were two of them and they were very small—much smaller than anything I was interested in shooting. I watched breathlessly as they grazed in the fading November light.

Bria and I had been in the stand since before sunrise and were coming to the end of a long day. She had successfully dropped a beautiful six-point buck that morning, and now it was my turn. So I watched, and even practiced lining up on the shoulder of one of the yearlings. It would have been an easy shot. They weren’t more than twenty yards away and were quietly grazing, not at all spooked, and perfectly broadside. But when I looked through the scope and thought about clicking off my safety, my eyes welled up. This felt all wrong.

They were just so cute. Small, and gentle, and curious. Eventually they caught our scent and looked right up into the stand. The pair stalked towards us, curious heads tilted, with those big brown eyes and teddy bear noses. It felt all wrong to shatter the moment with the kickback of a rifle. So I told Bria I wasn’t going to shoot, and tried to be confident in that decision. We watched them for another five minutes as I wondered internally if I had lost my nerve. Eventually, they wandered back through the brush line and into the cornfield behind us. I let out the breath I had been holding.

This is my sixteenth year of hunting. I was twelve when I shot my first deer—a button buck in a quiet patch of hemlock on a very snowy night. I have cried after almost every shot, not for very long, and not very hard, but tears have always felt appropriate as I bow my head over each deer, honoring its life and praying its spirit towards heaven. I have yet to find a word for the feeling in that moment.

In Pennsylvania, the opening day of rifle season is the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and this year especially, I felt some melancholy hanging over our celebration. I felt the weight of Saturday and couldn’t fully relax as I prepared mentally and emotionally for the task before us. On Thursday, we sighted in our rifles. I’ve always been a good shot and have taken great pride and comfort in my ability to execute a humane kill. But this year, my groupings weren’t tight, landing high and to the left. I was distressed, and memories of the prior year pressed close. Dad must have known, because he asked if I remembered the doe from last November—I said “the one I missed?”

I had spotted a big doe in the field below my stand and taken what I thought was a clean shot. But she darted with the herd and I didn’t see where she went. Every shot I had taken before that resulted in the deer down where it stood. I’d never had a deer run, and despite my tracking couldn’t find her, finally deciding (praying) that I had made a clean miss. But this year I learned that Dad had found her the next weekend, fifty yards from my stand. My lethal record was intact, but I had failed to diligently follow up and I was (and am) ashamed.  

So I guess it’s no surprise that my confidence was shaken going into this year, or that I was inclined to pass on the yearlings. I wanted them to go on living and to enjoy the beautiful evening and the clear sky and the full moon. I wanted them to keep looking up at me with those curious eyes and to still have each other. And admittedly, I thought being a hunter meant being a little ashamed of that. 

I come from a line of hunters, made clear by the presence this year of my eighty-seven-year old grandfather. There is legacy here—something about being a Kelly, and I don’t want to betray it with my tears or lack of courage. I’m proud that we know how to do this and that the tradition of self-reliance is unbroken, but I sometimes struggle to reconcile our deep gentleness with this annual engagement with death.

I know all the arguments in favor of hunting. I’ve made some of them here before. And I believe them. I believe that hunting is important to maintaining the health of the Whitetail herd in Pennsylvania. Deer don’t have any remaining natural predators, and without hunting, their population will swell to beyond what the land can sustain. We will have starving deer and stripped landscapes. I also know that hunting is among the most humane ways to source regenerative animal proteins and that the proceeds from licenses and the engagement of hunters drive conservation in our state and across the country. I know that sitting in a tree stand, watching the sun make a full arc over the Earth is a powerful spiritual experience.

Hunting is the ultimate work of participating with nature. It’s a tedious annual reckoning with our dependence on creation in a world where we are so carefully divorced from our impact. The garbage trucks come every week and we never have to face our waste again. The spinach comes in its perfect clamshell, never requiring that we walk on the depleted California soil. The chicken comes from the fridge and we don’t have to wonder about that animal’s life… or its death. But I don’t want to be divorced—I want to take full responsibility for my place and my impact, even when the reality stirs grief.

After shooting on Thursday, I walked out into the field and looked over the valley under the low rolling clouds. I cried quietly—tears of anxiety and uncertainty. I prayed. And the wind carried a simple word back: “all the deer are mine.” I held up my grief for the unclaimed doe and heard back: “all the deer are mine.” I prayed for skill in each shot and heard back: “all the deer are mine.” And when I lowered my rifle and watched those little deer pass, I heard back: “all the deer are mine.” 

I’m only a piece, and am called to own my part well, but I don’t have to hold the whole thing. I only have to keep coming back to the mystery and pulling wisdom out with each tedious opening Saturday, choosing to stay in the work every day until the next year. May God give us grace and patience to do this, all our lives long.

Ansley Kelly

Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.