Back in my native land, today is a most holy day

Back East, in Pennsylvania, today is the biggest holiday of the year. Bigger than Christmas, or Easter, or New Years, or any of a thousand other holidays, the first day of Buck Season turns towns into empty wastelands and leaves women temporary widows. Men across the state wait with baited breath, high-powered rifles, and countless cases of cheap beer for the first rays of frigid November dawn. The tradition of deer season is passed from father to young boy; at the age of 12, with a parent's consent and a class on gun safety, any pre-teenager is legally allowed, and in many cases socially pressured, to leave the comfort of his home and seek glory in the death of native wildlife.
Deer are a pest in Pennsylvania. There are too few large predators left, having been cleared out by worried farmers in centuries past. Now, left alone, the white-tailed deer would deforest the thinning woodlands that give Pennsylvania its name, and turn from nuisance into real danger on highways and in rural homes. Hunting season, though seemingly barbaric, is the State's way of balancing this out. For the individual, the reward of killing a large animal seems to assuage some primal male need, and most have whole rituals to accompany their hunt. For others, it is the meat necessary to feed the family through the lean, hard winter. But whatever the reason, schools and office buildings across Pennsylvania are empty and lonely, as the majority of the State's male population is out in the woods, freezing cold and mostly drunk, carrying deadly weapons and scenting blood.