I was born as a hunter at age fifty-two, after a very long labor and delivery.

I grew up in the suburbs of DC, and there were no hunters in my family. Well, that’s not exactly true, because go back far enough and there were hunters in pretty much every family. But at fifty-one I shot a rifle for the first time because I wanted to hunt with my son and to keep eating venison. Learning to shoot was the easy part, even though I had to shoot as a lefty since the eye on my dominant side had gone bad. One perk of starting so late was already knowing which body parts I’d need to compensate for. Bad eye, bad knee, and menopause. I’d never get cold in my tree stand, right? Sadly, I’ve never had a hot flash when I needed one.

If it weren’t for good friends with land and a love for hunting so strong that they shared not just their wisdom, firearms, and skills, but also their hunting spots, my son and I probably wouldn’t be hunters. I let Gabe, at fifteen, have a year under Jim Wagner’s tutelage without his mother horning in. Gabe got a five-point that year. My first year, I got attuned to the sounds and shapes of deer in the woods. I watched a fox move across the hillside, picking its way to avoid dry leaves, unaware I sat above. I saw deer, but never had a good, legal shot.

The next-to-last day of my second rifle season, I sat in a tree stand. Yes I was hunting but, as far as I was concerned, I wasn’t a hunter. My friend Sue Webster and her husband, Rob, had invited me out that afternoon. Their Potter County land was a mix of woods and fields, and Sue chose a spot for me. It was my first time hunting with another woman, and Sue’s enthusiasm over me getting my first deer was sweet. I already dreaded disappointing her. She’d handed me a walkie-talkie because there was no cell service. It sat on my pack at my feet. My 30.06 was loaded and ready. I had a doe tag, so lack of antlers was not an issue this week. The temps were in the high forties, but after a few hours sitting very still I was wishing for that hot flash.

I tried to imagine what it’d feel like to pull the trigger. Not because of any moral quandary or squeamishness. My family’s approach to ethical eating focuses on local sustainable food, and hunting expands our choices beyond the farmers we’re lucky to have in our area. Years ago I’d learned how to get a chicken from coop to soup pot by myself. And parenting requires one to deal with all sorts of body fluids, of which blood is the least gross, in my opinion. What I was trying to imagine was the certainty I’d need to pull the trigger. I knew where to aim and was a good shot—at motionless paper targets.

About three o’clock, some deer wandered onto a mowed hill across the road. I watched them through my scope. They seemed disinclined to wander away from their sunny field. Rustling started next to me, as black-capped chickadees showed up to peck at red berries dotting scraggly gray branches. I jerked a little when the lone doe scampered into the field, entering from the path where the ATV had disappeared earlier. She was almost hopping. The deer I’d seen in the woods didn’t do this, they moseyed or bolted. She turned right, and I brought my left eye to the scope, even as I knew she was going too fast—and up and down. She headed for the large patch of thorn apples, then the trees and shrubs. So much for that, I thought.

Scanning the area, I saw movement behind the screen of branches. If she kept going, I might see her as she came out briefly, right there. I ignored the noise in my brain about all the things that had to go right. I took the safety off and trained the scope where I thought the doe would emerge. When she did, I followed her slow walk, resting my right arm on the rail of the tree stand, holding the crosshairs at the crease behind the front leg as it opened and closed and opened—and suddenly noise. I wasn’t looking through the scope anymore. When had I decided to shoot? I could hear the echo and pressed the button on the walkie talkie, shaking.

“That was me. I have no idea if I got it. It’s way out by the trees.”

“Oh, I hope you did,” Sue said. “I bet you did. I bet you got one.”

I stood on the seat to get a better look. There’d been no thrashing through trees, which was not a good sign, unless it was a very good sign. I couldn’t calm my heartbeat. There was a tiny patch of white in the brush, low. I packed my things up and reminded myself they don’t drop in place unless it’s a really good shot. I marked where I was heading and climbed down. Sue’d asked if I needed help field dressing. I’d told her I was prepared but had never done it myself.

“I’m coming to you,” she said. I wanted to tell her not to give up a chance at her buck until I verified the kill. What if it was a plastic bag caught in the briars? A white stone?

As I rounded the mown semi-circle, it was as if the doe manifested at that moment, as if before I’d rounded the bend she hadn’t been there. But she was. I let Sue know, and said my thanks to the Creator and to the deer.

Sue coached me through the next part. She gave me long orange plastic vet gloves that covered my sleeves, over which I put regular latex gloves. She loaned me her knife—so much sharper than mine—and at a crucial point shared an orange plastic corkscrew device that I immediately put on my Christmas list. Whenever I paused and looked up, I could barely make out the tree stand. Sue’s range finder put it at 127 yards.

Sue and I yee-hawed it on the ATV back over the muddy trails to find Rob. When asked why he wasn’t still hunting, he laughed and said with all the squealing and cackling we were doing, he figured his hunt was over. He also wanted to see what I got. A good-sized doe, they agreed.

Back at their cabin, joined by Sue’s brother Chris and our friend Joe, we had a beer and told our tales of the day. This was what I’d been craving. I can’t explain the feeling, but I can remember it. I couldn’t text my family, but when I walked in the door late that night, I said, “I’m finally a hunter.”