Miraculously, the deer stopped in a narrow opening 100 yards away, just a few steps short of a cedar thicket.
"It's a buck," I whispered to my 10 year old daughter, Shaylin, who had also closely followed the deer as it filtered up a brushy creekbottom, both of us desperately looking for antlers-she with her riflescope, me with binoculars.
"Can I shoot it?" she asked.
"Yes. But only if you're sure you can make-"
Her cut-down muzzleloader roared and the deer vaulted up like a bucking bronco, all four hooves seeming to touch under its arched back. Then it disappeared with a bound into the cedars, leaving a small tuft of hair that drifted weightlessly with the breeze, dislodged from the lower part of the buck's chest, just behind the front leg.
"Did I get it, Daddy?" Shay asked, the recoil having caused her to lose sight of the deer.
I hugged her. "I'll be damned if you didn't shoot it right in the heart!" I said. "I've never seen anything like that."
Of course I'd seen deer shot in the heart. But before I had children, I'd always viewed it from behind the trigger. It's an entirely different experience when you're peering over your kid's shoulder instead-how much clearer you see everything unfold, how much more acutely you feel the stress of the moment when you desperately want your child to succeed. I was almost as excited as Shay, who had hunted three years without seeing a buck, during which time her older brother had both scored at least once.
At the side of the sleek 5-pointer, I gave Shay another hug and told her how proud I was of her persistence and her determination to learn how to shoot well.
"Mommy's going to be so proud!" shouted little Shaylin.
"I love you daddy"
"I love you too princess"
