Bang. The sound of my hot pink Realtree camo .243 caliber hunting rifle as I earned my first "big game" hunt. My right ear started to ring as the side of my face was still pressed against the smooth cheek rest. I watched the caribou's final seconds as her graceful and alarmed bounds turned from leaps to a walk, while the rest of the herd ran away, and she lay peacefully on the soft grass. I turned to my dad to ask him what to do, and noticed his open mouth and wide eyes, still tracking the caribou in case she got up. He was shocked. And so was I.

    "Did I do it?" 

    He was so focused that he didn't respond. A wave of nervousness started at my shoulders. We didn't know until later, but my copper-coated lead bullet pierced both lungs, grazed her heart, causing a near painless death. My shot placement was a proud goal and a relieving achievement. 

 

    It was the beginning of August in 2020. There was a light breeze, the type of wind that you forget is there until your loose ponytail hairs dance in front of your eyes. Dad and I woke up early to go hunting near Eagle Summit, with our gear prepared the night before. We organized our rifles, the four-wheeler, and the gut trailer, loading everything into the big red truck. He drove for a while, thermos of coffee in hand, showing me the CDs he had and pointing out the scenic overlooks. Most of the ride to the summit, we were both quiet because we were tired.  

 

    With warm thermoses in hand, we arrived at the Eagle Summit overlook parking lot. I drank hot apple cider, which burned my tongue at first. We unloaded the four-wheeler and took in the view. The smooth green hills had dark shadows from the dense clouds. We didn't hear anyone or anything around us. The whole morning was just like my thermos a few minutes later: empty. At one point, we saw a large herd of caribou grazing and resting in a valley. But the group was so clustered that it would be unsafe to aim at one of them. I didn't want to take the chance that it could pass through two; one caribou provides more than enough for my family. We watched the herd for a bit and wandered around, trying to get a better angle. Then something alarmed them, and the entire group quickly trotted away, moving and flowing in a very organized fashion. 

 

    We walked back to the four-wheeler and drove along the dirt road for a while, then saw our first truck of the day. It was an older couple, and they were curious as to how we were hunting so early in the season. They seemed interested, so my dad talked to them excitedly. 

    "She was drawn for the youth hunting tag, which lets her hunt before the crowd comes in." 

    The man asked, "What type of rifle are you using? That .243 won't do the job," instantly lowering my confidence. After that, their conversation ended and became a blur. The truck left, kicking up dust.

    "Don't listen to him, he doesn't know what he's talking about," my dad said, irritated.

    That helped me feel better, but I was still unsure. Since we were already near the outlook pullout, we decided to stop by the truck and make easy Mountain House meals. And that's when we saw a different vehicle. The man from the car stepped out and asked if we were hunting. After we replied that we were, he pointed out a beautiful herd with one caribou away from the group. This was my chance, the big moment, the end of my favorite story.