Once in a Lifetime

August 12, 2002

"Once in a Lifetime"
By
Alex Brozdowski
Pine Island, NY



It was my first time hunting. Contrary to the norm, it was with my friend, Cody Fiduccia, and his family, rather than my own father. Dad only hunts deer, and I did not yet have my license. I did not know if I would have a use for the 12-gauge shotgun I had brought with me; since I only thought we were going to do some target practice in the woods. As it turned out, Mr. Fiduccia had a bit of a surprise in store for us.

He has a stocking license for pheasant, so we could hunt them any time during the fall of the year. After a brief phone conference with my father to gain permission, Cody, his parents and I donned our hunter orange. Summoning their hunting dog we took up our firearms and we were soon afield. I wasn't sure if I would shoot anything, but I was put under no pressure to do so. I figured I would cross that bridge if or when I came to it.

We rode into the day's hunting area on ATVs, but dismounted and approached on foot so as not to scare away our game. I uncased my shotgun, and, while hefting its comfortable weight in my hands, wondered whether I was really prepared to kill a living being. Again, I shook off the thought and concentrated on the task at hand. Upon reaching the cornfield where a few birds were thought to be located, we were given our positions and firing zones.

While Cody and his father worked the dog in the field, I was stationed at its fringe, should the bird escape in a safe shooting direction. Mrs. Fiduccia stood behind me to let me know whether I was authorized to open fire. When asked, I solemnly replied that I was comfortable with the hunt. My mood was quiet, subdued and introverted, for I secretly hoped I would not be presented with the choice to take a life that day.

After some hard pondering, I eventually decided in my mind that I would take my shot if it presented itself, for I had been assured that any game taken would be treated respectfully and never go to waste. About this time, Cody and Mr. Fiduccia began working their chocolate Labrador retriever, Dax, through the late-autumn cornfield, armed and ready.

After a few minutes of patience and soft conversation on the particulars of the scenario, the first signal echoed from within the stalks."She's gettin' birdy!" Mr. Fiduccia boomed, announcing the dog's eager reaction to the proximity of her quarry. My heart jumped and my gut tingled, but I tried to remain calm. I was confident that my pair of waiting shells would not be needed, what with two able hunters, working in tandem, marked to take the first shots. I stood idle, but ready: my gun held firmly into my shoulder and pointed high, just as I had been instructed.

I scanned the horizon attentively, occasionally looking down my top barrel to keep it situated properly. Suddenly, the fragile silence was shattered by the soft flapping of feathered wings, followed closely by a barrage of auto-loading gunfire. I was given little time to realize my astonishment, as the unscathed pheasant began to fly unaware across my firing zone.

I tracked him from left to right almost autonomously with the unfocused bead of my gun, but harbored no immediate urge to pull the trigger on my own. Whether this hesitation was for need of a final, moral push, or for fear of making a poor judgment call, I may never be certain.

Then, as the bird crossed directly in front of my stance, an urgent command was half-whispered to me from where Mrs. Fiduccia stood behind; "Take him!"

All it took was that simple pair of words for my finger to pull that trigger. The process was carried out mechanically and with chilling parity to training on the trap range. I did not hear the shot, nor did I feel the recoil, but simply followed with my gaze as the bird went instantly limp, fell from the air, and lay still upon reaching the Earth. I safed and broke my action, and the dog scampered out to retrieve the fallen bird, this followed by cheers and smiles from my companions. When the bird was returned to us, his only wound was a single hole through the side of his head. I was glad for the quick kill, and I had to admit he was a beautiful-looking bird.

I pocketed my spent shell and kept it. It still serves me as a reminder of all I would learn from that shot.

Mr. Fiduccia shook my hand and praised me for my take, but intuitively asked what was wrong, upon seeing the grave and somewhat dazed expression I knew I was wearing. I stumbled over my words, but gave a soft affirmative when he proceeded to inquire if I had never hunted before. I needed some kind of positive reinforcement, which was readily given but reluctantly accepted, for I was not yet sure if I liked what I had done. After all, killing was an action one could not take back.

I did go on to shoot two more birds that day, because my very close friend Cody and his family, all of them seasoned sportsmen, helped me understand why people hunt. I needed something more to tell me why I was out in a field or a marsh shooting animals, and they took that time to talk to me and help me come to terms with everything I was feeling. For that, I will always be grateful to them.

That night, I happily discovered one of my favorite reasons to hunt when Mrs. Fiduccia fried up the all-dark-meat pheasants for supper. This soothed my hunger as well as my conscience, for it was then that I began to reflect upon the way nature truly works. Death is essential to life, hard as it is. A wolf feels no shame taking down a deer, nor does a rabbit feel remorse killing a green plant for its dinner. Likewise, no one who takes an animal in fair chase, and uses that game respectfully, should feel guilt either.

So, through these and many further deliberations since, I have learned volumes about the world we live in. Being a hunter and understanding death, has greater than ever taught me the precious value of life.

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