Most hunters with any amount of years under their belt have taken a shot they wish they could have back. I have taken such a shot and if had to do over again I would have been much happier unchambering an unfired round and calling it good.

On my first antelope hunt in 1996 I had an orange card in my wallet that said I was certifiably disabled and could shoot from a vehicle. This gave me a definite advantage over my companions. Everyone except me had filled their tags and the hunt became about me getting my first pronghorn. Somehow in the whole idea of having an advantage I lost sight in the very basics of hunting.

We spotted a small herd of antelope near a watering hole and quickly drove to within shooting range. The adrenaline flowed like a river cresting its banks. I was the front seat passenger and when the moment came I rolled down the window, flung the door open and rested my rifle on the door. I was on crutches on this hunt and slid my right leg out of the truck until it touched the ground. In the excitement, the truck was not even turned off. As I strained my eye to look through the scope while trying to keep my balance I could hear the pleas of the others for me to take the shot. I put the cross hairs of the scope on the small antelope, which looked much larger at the time, and succumbed to the pressure and squeezed the trigger.

The animal went down and the feeling of success overwhelmed me and those around me joined in the excitement. I shouldered my rifle and began toward the animal on my crutches. As we got near the antelope it got up again revealing that my shot had missed its mark and instead the bullet had found its right rear leg. It did not hesitate and ran off on its three remaining good legs, dragging the shot one behind it. I began to pursue it When it stopped and rested I stopped balanced on one foot, leaned on one of my crutches and tried an off hand shot. It too hit the small antelope, but did not bring it down and it ran off, this time shot in the lower jaw.

By this time I was out of breath and shaking hard with guilt ridden excitement. The animal stopped again and this time I got within fifty yards. The fawn was tired and I too was exhausted. This time I sat down and rested my rifle on a large fallen limb of a tree. I looked at the antelope through my scope and I could see its hind end was sagging its jaw hanging. It looked at me, waiting for me to end it. I could hear the sounds of the rest of the hunting party encouraging me to take the shot.

I took a few more deep breaths, and blocked out the voices until there was silence. I put the crosshairs once again on the animal and touched off another round. This time the antelope went down hard and did not get back up. My whole body began shaking as I relived the past five minutes that seemed like an hour. I got up and struggled my way through the grass and sage toward the dead animal and remembered the awkward, clumsy congratulations of my hunting companions on my so-called successful hunt. There was an uncomfortable, consoling humor injected into the disastrous event about the small amount of meat left to bring to the game processor.

I am haunted by the view in my scope just before that last shot for some time. I could have given up hunting at that point and put it all away. Instead I chose to use this unfortunate event to strengthen my resolve not to ever go through the turmoil of a bad shot again.

I have reviewed my thinking in the moments just before taking that irresponsible shot. What I found is that I was living in a form of fear. A fear that bruised my ego with what would everyone in the party think if I did not squeeze the trigger. A fear of not bringing home the meat for the table. There was a fear that there might not be another chance on that hunt to harvest an antelope. Al of this happens in a split second.

What I have found as I became more experienced in the art of hunting is that even in the hunts when I came home empty handed there always seemed to be the knowledge that I could have taken an animal, though not the species or sex that I had a tag for. If the basic necessity for survival was eminent, there would be food on the table.

I have resolved to not shoot from a vehicle and to ensure that I am completely comfortable with the whole situation before I take a shot. My rifles are sighted in properly and I will be as rested and relaxed as possible. I will not rush a shot.

I have resisted the temptation and several occasions since then to squeeze the trigger if everything about the situation was not right. There have been elk, antelope and deer in my crosshairs that have been spared the agony of a poorly placed shot. Whenever an animal is in the potential path of a bullet that I send its way, the memory of that antelope is brought to the forefront just before I touch off the round. I now can make a conscious decision, knowing the potential for bad memories if my shot is not true.

I wish I could honestly say that I have been faithful to this in every situation, but there have been times where I have taken the best shot that I could, even though the conditions were not exactly perfect. Adrenaline has a strange effect on one's mind.

From the conversations I have had with some people, I know that I am not alone in taking a bad shot. I have also hunted with some that appear not to have any remorse for the wounding of an animal. I will not hunt with them any more.

I will also relish the whole experience of the hunt for as long as I can. I want to meet the challenge of the hunt as I am. I do not want to feel as though I have a privilege because of a self-imposed disability. The fact is that personal responsibility for our lives should play an important role in our ability to hunt. Some may call it bravado, or ego that I choose to hunt without the comfort of a state issued privilege, but I choose to look at it in the realm of survival of the fittest. Yes, perhaps I have a need to prove a point.