Bloodied Hands: Inside the Deer

I cleaned my first deer last night under a veil of darkness, my movements lit only by my dimming headlight and a full moon. It was almost surreal to think back to it this morning. It was a moment I had waited many years for, to put my hands on such a large animal and work with it so intimately. To feel all that gives life and realize that it now displays death. I don’t know how to describe it, I really didn’t know what to do, but throughout the night I remember a calmness, surprise even, with how naturally the scene unfolded. I found myself covered in blood, my pants heavily stained and the rawness of it all was utterly pleasing. Not pleasing because death was before me, but pleasing because I had never felt so connected to something outside myself. With the moon casting a white light upon me, I stood outside, the wind howling before the coming storm, and I refrained from thought, immersing myself in the moment.

I had watched many others complete the process but had never partaken in it personally. I was always an hour too late or a town too far away. I had wanted so badly to experience this moment in Oregon, pushing hard and praying that I may have but one chance to feel the warmth of an animal in the cold of the state’s forests. But it was not meant to be and on this night, that moment found me.

I remember most the beauty of the animal, youthful and healthy. A coat that said she had prepared for and was thoroughly ready for winter. I remember the warmth she radiated, both freshly on the ground and hours later. As I removed the hide I remember feeling the blood dry on my arms, dark, cracked and heavy burgundy in color. I gazed over to see other vibrant shades of red, blood still new to the night’s air. I remember working every angle to quickly try and cool her down, to expose the meat and admire its quality. My knife movements were clumsy, searching for direction, but I was soon finished and before me stood a picture of death and unapologetic beauty.

John Muir had once spent over a week living in a graveyard in Savannah. He had chosen that spot to avoid roaming thieves and thought there was no better place to remain hidden than the site of which so many were afraid. But this cemetery was overgrown, neglected by man and taken over once again by Mother Nature, her arms reaching into every crevice. And amongst the headstones that symbolized death, John Muir found a wealth of life. From the birds to the plants, all that was once lugubrious now became enchanted with life. He found there was no need to be afraid for here, life and death were to be celebrated together.

While his experience only bares a small resemblance to mine, I remember that I have never felt the raw nature of life and death as much as I did last night. I was not afraid of the unknown. Alone in the darkness, the wind and moonlight were my companions. I was not afraid of what so many in this new world are so disconnected from. Alone I found myself tranquil, moved. I will never forget it.