To Hunt or Not to Hunt ?

Not. At least not for me. This is a big confession in my neck of the woods. I do not hunt. I do come from a hunting family and I guess that is why my neighbors have not shown up at my door with pitchforks to casually invite me to move away. I can speak the lingo. I will eat the meat. But, alas, I do not hunt. This was not always the case. I used to hunt with my dad. Mostly, he took me out road hunting  and saved the big hunts for the boys in the family. I did help him gut a deer once, though. I remember the heat and the smell. It can't have been all that bad, because I still wanted to hunt afterward. I turned twelve and signed up for the hunters safety course. My friend, Jane, and I were the only girls and it still tickles me, all these years later, that we out-shot every one of the boys when the time came. I passed the course with flying colors and I was, at last, a part of the club. I was invited to hunt with the boys - a real hunt with mountains and hiking and breakfast we picked up at the gas station and ate in a dark pick-up before sunrise. It was great.  We drove and we hiked and we drove and we hiked and then, there they were - deer, lots of them. They scattered the hillsides and the meadow in front of us, peacefully grazing through the morning hours. They were all does and at this time and in this place, does were not fair game, but we watched them for a while anyway. They were graceful and serene and big and powerful all at once. They were as beautiful as their surroundings. Dad handed me a rifle so that I could get a closer look through the scope. As I peered through the scope I realized a couple of things. First, I could so easily have lined up the perfect shot and taken that deer. Second, I didn't want to. I just couldn't see how I could appreciate the beauty of the moment or the strength of that animal more for having destroyed it. It was power I didn't need and didn't want and I was afraid that I would disappoint my dad if I told him. So I handed back the rifle and was quiet for the rest of the day, wondering if I would have the nerve to shoot should we find the elusive buck before sunset. I still wanted to be part of the club, but I was relieved when we went home empty handed.  When dad asked me if I wanted to go back out the next day, I worked up the courage to tell him the truth. I loved the hike and the hunt and spotting the deer, but I didn't think I could really shoot one. I think my dad had suspected as much from his tender-hearted girl because he smiled. He wasn't disappointed and I wasn't kicked out of the club. I was invited to go hunting again whenever I liked, but I never chose to. I was still a dead shot and my brother-in-law tried on a couple of occasions to get me to shoot at birds. I always gave the same response. "If you'll eat it for lunch, I'll shoot it." I knew he would never take me up on the deal. I didn't mind that my dad and my brothers still went hunting and I didn't mind when they brought a deer home and butchered it. We needed meat and they provided it and I didn't mind having venison for dinner. It just wasn't for me to pull the trigger, and that was OK.

I say was OK, because that was then and now things are different. In the neck of the woods where I now live, there are four distinct seasons: winter, mud, tourist and hunting. And hunting trumps them all. Men here get crazy. If they are not hunting, they are talking about hunting or planning the next hunt or finding new places on the wall for hunting trophies. If you see a group of young men at a wedding reception, huddled close and gleefully passing around pictures - have no fear. They are not "dirty" pictures of fallen women. They are pictures of fallen animals. You see, it is not so much about the meat here as it is the trophy. They all want to shoot the biggest elk, or deer or bear or moose or mountain lion and they want the trophy to hang on the wall and prove the story of the hunt to be true. The bigger the mounted  animal, the bigger the man in these parts. In the telling of the tale, I have heard men brag that they have "bested nature at it's own game." Isn't that only true if nature has a gun and is trying to shoot you? I have seen entire buildings erected to house hunting trophies, lit up like works of art in a private museum, and the wives of these men (many of them trophies themselves) have learned to use antlers in every facet of home decorating. Chandeliers and rocking chairs and lamps and coffee tables all made with antlers and there is never enough, even with stacks of elk horns behind the furniture and hides draped over every rail. It brings new meaning to the word "overkill".  The men all hate wolves here and though they claim concern for livestock, I think think the main concern is that every elk a wolf takes is one they won't. It is all about the tags and trust me,  there will never be enough tags. There is a blood lust about the sport in this area that is very ugly and unsporting. While none of them would ever admit to doing it, I have seen an entire antelope carcass, minus the head and the hide, tossed into a dumpster. This isn't hunting the way I grew up with it. This is something very different and more than a little bit disturbing. The respect for the animal is gone. The need, or even the desire, to provide for ones family is a non-issue. Unless, of course, your family of five really needs three freezers full of meat to feel secure. And as crazy as all this is, I am the nut here, because I chose not to take that shot. I still eat game, though. And while I will never completely understand the obsession these men have with hunting,  I am not suggesting we abolish the privilege anytime soon. There are men and women out there who know the kind of hunting I used to know. Men and women who respect the land and the animal they take.  But if you pose the question to me - to hunt or not to hunt - my answer will still be the same. It's just not for me.