Blair Rumley is a senior from Browns Summit. She can be reached at bmrumley@live.unc.edu

My idea of hunting usually involves scouring antique stores in search of priceless treasures. But for the men in my family, it’s another story altogether. I come from a long-standing tradition of dove and deer hunters. Guns are family heirlooms, while Carhartt and camouflage are standard cold weather wear. And of course, a bevy of duck blinds and deer stands pepper the woods of my family farm, abandoned in the summer heat, anxiously awaiting opening day.

During the month of December, I decided I would accompany my brother to the deer stand. Naturally, it took a great amount of convincing to receive his consent; being a woman in the Rumley family inevitably means I have the gift of gab—not exactly a desired attribute for hunters. I was eventually granted permission, but there was one catch: I was not allowed to even hold a gun, let alone show off my sharp shooting skills.

Just a few days before Christmas, my brother and I made the trip to the family farm in Caswell County. We arrived at the large plantation-style home sitting atop a brown, barren hill. The house is playfully named Green Meadows Inn, yet there wasn’t a green meadow in sight.

We were greeted on the porch by the smiling faces of my grandparents and were welcomed into the kitchen by the aroma of braised collard greens and corn bread. After dinner we sat around the crackling fireplace, and as the fire faded, so did I. When the conversation turned to whitetail deer and big mouth bass, I faded even faster.

My alarm screeched; 4 a.m. is an ungodly hour. The comfortable four-poster rice bed restrained my movements. I began to question my sanity. To think that I actually begged to do this. I pulled on borrowed boots and an unsightly pair of oversized cam- ouflage pants. It felt (and looked) as if every ounce of femininity exited my body. My brother was waiting downstairs and handed me a cup of black coffee, my lifeblood.

We set out.

The day was as dark as my coffee. We strode down the hill, hurdling the split-rail fence that separated the tamed yard from the wild thicket. The tall grass was jeweled with morning frost and partially shrouded by a layer of fog. Without speaking, my brother and I continued side by side, making our way to the deer stand.

While climbing up the ladder, I couldn’t help but feel a bit underwhelmed; was
this really the experience that the men in my family raved about? I was tired, cold and hungry already. It was only 4:25 a.m. My bed beckoned me back. Nonetheless, with all the optimism I could muster, I sat down and waited with patience and vigilance, or at least pretended to for my brother’s sake.

We sat in silence, which wasn’t easy for me. Even the slightest whisper elicited a stern stare from my brother, which I returned by rolling my eyes. He sat, gun at the ready, watching the motionless woods. I sat, thinking about my bed, watching the motionless woods (and occasionally the back of my eyelids).

After what seemed like a lifetime, at 5:33 a.m. the still morning was interrupted. We saw the first deer. She was elegant and graceful, the essence of purity. The doe crept around the deer stand. She walked straight towards us; she walked straight towards death. My heart dropped. I knew what was about to happen.

The gun fired, the doe fled and I screamed. I knew she was hit.

Note: I have eaten my fair share of venison. I have stared into the glass eyes of countless mounted bucks. I have even seen a field-dressed deer hanging from the bas- ketball goal in my driveway. But never had I seen someone shoot a deer.

I had an indescribable emotional response. Yes, I cried. I’m not sure what came over me. I have no affiliation with PETA. My favorite food is bacon. I didn’t even cry during Old Yeller. But that day, I ran home, my eyes filling with tears. I stopped momentarily to take a breath. (The dramatic and tearful running women in movies make it look so easy.)

But unlike them, my pain was caused by a deer, not a dude. It cut me (and the deer) deep (literally).

And no, I have not abandoned my carnivorous ways; I ate the deer I cried over. How’s that for twisted?