We could hear him gasping for air from just a few feet away. It was a definite unpredictability—a not so lovely ending for such a beautiful creature like himself.

My father leaned over and whispered to call my mother. I did as I was told, but how could there be any possibility of cell service? The call went to voicemail, and the atmosphere filled with the hope of survival, at least in eyes other than my own. We were physically exhausted, but our minds were racing with anticipation—mine was slightly uneasy for a small feeling of guilt hung over my shoulders. How could I let this moment unfold right in front of me? I plopped down with intentions to brush this thought aside but noticed the heavy breathing had come to a sudden halt. The lingering silence was then interrupted by my father’s praises. Am I truly the reason for the end of a life?

I clutched onto my phone as I scrolled through my Twitter timeline, looking for a little piece of something to keep me awake. It was almost 6 a.m. and I was bound to nod off even before the sight of daybreak. Sitting up 12 feet high in a tree stand at this hour wasn’t exactly my idea of the perfect morning, but I had decided to start hunting that season, which meant the earlier the better. It also meant chugging coffee in the dim kitchen light before developing a clear thought was even a possibility. The melting frost on the ground sparkled as sunlight peered between the trees. The woods started to come alive. Birds calmly chirped and squirrels rustled leaves as they scampered below, giving my heart a jolt of expectancy for something greater.

It was the first weekend of bow season and my family and I were at our property in southern Ohio. I had just gotten a brand new crossbow from my father who secretly hoped I’d one day find the thrill in hunting. It seems animalistic and even more so when it’s a teenage girl behind the arrow. I practiced on a deer target when we first arrived and instantly fell in love with the bow that I could call my own. After aiming from several different distances and shooting perfectly behind the shoulder nearly every time, I knew I was ready for the real thing, and I was ready for it alone.

I faced the bottom of the trail with the crossbow in my lap —a silly error in retrospect. I heard a crunching noise coming from the top of the trail and inched my way to the right hoping not to catch the attention of what turned out to be a large doe. There was no way I would shoot a doe. It’s mating season so you might just have to sit back and wait to see if a buck is trailing behind. I remembered the words of my father who was clearly knowledgeable about whitetail this time of year.

I waited for what seemed like a lifetime before finally catching a glimpse of those antlers. He followed the same trail as the doe had—she was his one and only intention. He was slow, but his focus never strayed as she peacefully nibbled from a tree branch just a couple yards away. I carefully lifted the crossbow’s scope to my left eye. My hands were trembling. Every hunter talks about the adrenaline rush from the time he sees the deer up until the moment he pulls the trigger (and even after that), but it’s simply unexplainable until you become the eyes behind the fate of the creature.

The buck was making his way through the intrusive bushes and prickers, so I aimed my arrow slightly left where I’d have the perfect shot when he stepped out. He took a step or two into the clearing, and, without hesitation, I pulled the trigger. He jolted up the hill, turned left, and then sprinted to the right—his white tail being the last thing I saw.

My parents had recently discovered the advantages of texting when it comes to hunting. We could communicate with each other without causing a ruckus amidst the serene stillness of the woods. My parents were on opposite sides of our property, so I sent them both a text.

When I saw the arrow lying exceptionally far from where the deer had been standing, I was convinced I overshot. I picked up the arrow, and to my disbelief, blood and fur covered the arrowhead. My parents met me at the top of the hill and were thrilled to see what I had accomplished. I flaunted the arrow.

All three of us had our eyes glued to the ground looking for the slightest trail of blood. We stumbled upon a puddle of bright red blood nestled between the blades of grass before branching out into droplets. We were being lead toward a valley, and my mom gave up early since climbing up and down hillsides wasn’t on her morning agenda.

The blood trail was convincing, but there was no sign of the deer. Like my mom had predicted, my father and I were getting way more exercise than anticipated. It became our adventure. An hour of staring at the red-stained leaves passed by when the blood trail began to thin out, and I worried about wasting time searching for something I’d probably never see again.

My father, too, seemed to be losing confidence, but another hour passed and we were somehow still finding red droplets upon the fallen leaves. We had walked close to two miles by now. After making it through what seemed like the most complicated section so far, we saw the deer stumbling on the trail in front of us and we instantly knelt down. Our hearts were about to pounce out of our chests, and the intensity of this moment remains unforgettable. The massive animal’s legs collapsed under him. We had finally found him.

My father hugged me, fist bumped me, and high-fived me more times than ever before.

Experiencing the two-mile adventure with him by my side is not only one of my greatest memories, but the bond we shared that day is something I will forever cherish—a proud father. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to pinpoint another moment of sheer, intoxicating happiness with my father, so I’ll take this one and continuously rewrite it like it happened yesterday.

Together, we stumbled over to the motionless animal. I was overjoyed, but that small feeling of guilt was still a burden. As we knelt by the antlers, my father made it clear about the importance of honoring the deer. He told me to apologize for the deer’s sudden death, and that the purpose was to feed our family. I felt relieved after fulfilling this, but wanted absolutely no part in the next process.

I found solitude on a rock further up the hill. Let’s just say the knife did its job.

Upon completion, I was called to come down and was astonished by the pile of organs on the ground next to the deer. It was repulsive, and I imagine I would’ve been sick if I watched the process unfold. Although my brother would tease me, I knew in my heart (and stomach) that I had made a wise choice.

Luckily, Cat’s Run was an easily accessible road, and wasn’t too far of a trek down the hill. I called my mom multiple times, hoping she would pick up at least once before my phone died. She finally answered and said she would bring the truck down Cat’s Run where we could meet her. My father and I agreed, understanding we would then have to drag the deer down the steep hill. The weight of the deer insisted on us stopping every few feet, and unfortunately, my pathetic arms couldn’t provide much help. When we reached Cat’s Run and lifted my 11-point into the back and began our journey home. I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the eyes behind my dad’s smile in the rearview mirror, for he, too, realized we had just shared such a fragile, memorable, and significant father-daughter moment together.