Going through things you never thought you'd go through will only take you places you never thought you'd get to ... what are you waiting for?

My mentor affirmed the range.

“Fifty-two yards.”

I let the bolt fly.

It happened fast, that’s all I really know.

One second the goat was there, frozen in a broadside stance, looking right at me. The next, my safety was flipped, my mind was empty and there were emphatic shouts of “hell yeah!” coming from my left.

I remember everything leading up to taking the shot; the scramble to get positioned, the whispered yardage, the fact that I was literally thinking about … nothing at all. I also remember watching the antelope’s white rump bolting full-bore across the Nebraska plains in the opposite direction, his legs digging hard into the dirt, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

I asked if I’d missed again and remember hearing shouts about blood in response.

“Don’t you see the blood? It’s pouring out of him!”

What seemed like seconds later, the antelope stopped. He stumbled, fell, and it was over. 

 

Until that morning, I had missed as many shots at antelope as times I’d actually been out hunting them: four. Four times I’d been out and four times I’d been off. Whether I was flinging a bolt just 50 or 60 yards or pushing shots far and beyond my personal comfort zone, it didn’t seem to matter – I hadn’t been able to connect with anything but desert, sage brush and some serious feelings of self-doubt.

I knew plenty of hunters would go all season without a single shooting opportunity. I had, after just a handful of weeks, been presented with several quality scenarios, fired four shots, and somehow blown it every time.

I do not fail well. My pride wounded and suffering, I bought more bolts, more broadheads and hauled my gear back to the shooting range. I shot for hours, from 50, 60 and 80 yards. Then, when the shots felt good, I shot some more. When the groups were tight, I kept shooting. I was committed to seeing the endeavor through, and had decided that, should opportunity number five present itself, I was going to be as ready as I could possibly be.  

If you don’t already know, spot-and-stalk hunting in western Nebraska is serious business.

What the natives call trees look more like shrubs to an East Coast gal like me. The ground is crunchy and nearly every inch of the dry, dry landscape is covered in cactus, puncture vines and a number of other vegetative species that stab into your skin and stay wedged in the meat of your hands, knees, elbows and butt for weeks, or longer.

The animals are flighty and have incredible vision that allows them to see you coming from miles (yes, plural) away. And while there’s not a single place for an animal like that to hide out here, there’s definitely plenty of room for them to run. And believe me, you do not want them to run. The fastest land animal in North America, antelope can not only run at speeds of 50 to 60 mph, they can also maintain those speeds for distances up to 20 miles.

Add to that already super-sticky situation the fact that you’re trying to bring down a 130-plus-pound animal with a weapon that flings what is really no more than a fancied-up pointy stick using a string and some tension, and you’re in for a real treat.

Oh, and there’s rattlesnakes. A friend of mine once said that antelope hunting and rattlesnake encounters go together like peanut butter and jelly. Turns out, he wasn’t too far off.

Anyway, it’s friggin’ hard, that’s what I’m saying.

When it comes to archery hunting, seasonal success rates for speed goats in Nebraska rarely top 15 percent, and with shot opportunities averaging distances of 50 to 60 yards, it’s not tough to see why that’s the case. Plus, while one accurate shot in five might get an antelope on the ground, it doesn’t mean it’s a trophy animal, or even a buck, which means a little luck (endless knowledge and a touch of saintly patience in the form of an experienced guide, included) is never a bad thing.

My introduction to antelope hunting came when I was invited to ride along on a scouting excursion earlier that summer. I helped glass the plains, locate animals and gauge the size of bucks found within each herd. I was an observer and had no expectation of being anything else. At least not until it was suggested that I purchase a tag of my own, just in case.

So … I did.

After that, every scouting trip was a potential hunting opportunity. My crossbow, bolts, rangefinder and binoculars went everywhere I did, and I rode on the edge of my seat, anxious to run my eyes over shiny spots of white against the dusty brown of plains grasses.

And, because I’d had no expectation of turning from taciturn observer to alert and eager predator, my expectation of bagging a big buck, or any buck at all, for that matter, was nonexistent. I quickly decided it didn’t matter what the animal was – male, female, big or small – if it allowed me a decent opportunity at a clean shot, I was going to take it.

Until 9 a.m. on Sept. 4, 2017, I had missed as many shots at antelope as times I’d actually been out hunting them. I’d shot, and witnessed clean misses, a total of four times. Then, I took shot number five.

I admit, with hands raised and eyes to the clouds, that I lucked out. My fifth shot got the job done and I got real lucky. Real lucky. But, I also believe there’s more to it than that.  

I believe I was prepared.

I believe that as an act, hunting is learned. There’s a right way to walk, crawl and creep hundreds of punishing yards without being seen, heard or screwing up your equipment. There’s a certain way to breathe, appropriate levels of anxiety, fear and compassion to experience, not to mention a very finite amount of time to decide whether or not (or, better yet, when) to take a shot or pass on the opportunity all together.

I also believe that the desire to hunt is motivated by instinct. It is why, after the 52-yard rangefinder reading reached my ear drums, I blacked out entirely. All I remember is the hum of the vibrating string as that fifth bolt left its bed. I don’t know what I did, what pin I used, or how long I waited before deciding everything felt right, I just reacted. It was instinct; uncontrollable, biological.

It happened fast, in a minute, maybe two.

The bolt released, and this time, it connected perfectly. It plowed into one shoulder and passed through the other, my fixed three-blade broadhead punching a gorgeous pinwheel-shaped hole through the animal’s heart.

Death was swift, though the act of watching an animal die for me and because of me is something that took years to learn, and involved countless exposures to the wounded, dead and dying of both wild and domestic species. I’d hunted small game, shot a small handful of deer and witnessed the circle of life and death from the concrete apron of my father’s custom butcher shop as a kid. Even after all of those encounters, taking a life, for me, is still very much a deeply emotional event.

The antelope’s heart, I ate – pickled in a homemade brine – plain, on a bed of greens or tossed with rice. The desire to do so, and the fulfillment that resulted, products of innate need.

The lesson? Hunting isn’t about life or death, it’s about life and death, as well as the ability to appreciate and understand the need for both. And whether that ability is learned or inborn, I have not yet decided.