I come from a long line of hunters. If you think about it, we all do. However, less and less people are hunters, especially since grocery stores provide almost everyone with the food they need. Plus, there's been a rise in anti-hunting and radical veganism, especially after Cecil the lion was killed a few years back. However, some people, such as myself, need more than just farm-raised meats and locally grown crops. My body needs something a little more wild and free.
My grandpa Bob was a lifetime member of the local sportsman's club in Zumbro Falls, Minnesota. Before his aneurysm, grandpa went hunting every season he could. He went after deer, turkeys, geese, and pheasants, which are all animals that lived on and around the farm. After his aneurysm, grandpa made my uncle Wes do most of the hunting. The whole family still craved wild game, so Wes went out and became a master at hunting. My uncle Wade went hunting sometimes, and my dad went pheasant hunting a few seasons, but nothing like what Wes did.
Meanwhile, on my mom's side of the family, my great-uncle-in-law AKA uncle Courtney, was a game warden for over 25 years. He knows the best places to hunt because of his experience, and taught his son, Sean, how to hunt. Sean can talk to pretty much any animal, and coax it into range. One time, Sean called in six bull elk at once, and my uncle Courtney took the easiest and most ethical one. The antlers from that bull are mounted on my wall, and I proudly use it as a hat rack.
Courtney's cousin had a dangerously close call while elk hunting in the Rockies, many decades ago. While he was walking, he heard a tremendous roar, and saw a huge black bear spring out of the trees towards him. He had only one bullet in the chamber to protect himself. That bear skidded and died right at his feet. He still has its hide in his living room.
I have many, many more hunting stories from family and friends I've met. But, what about myself? I'm a hunter too, only, I don't hunt just because I want to. I don't hunt just to help out with the conservation and management of wildlife by taking the role of the apex predator. I don't hunt just because it's a family tradition. I hunt because my health depends on it. I live to hunt, and I hunt to live.
Cystic Fibrosis is a nasty disease, and my pancreas is basically ruined. My pancreas can still produce insulin by some miracle, but I've never been able to create digestive enzymes. I'm not allergic to anything, but my diet is very restrictive. I must have 7,000 calories a day, which is about as much as a fully grown lion eats on an average day, but I can't get that from sugar, carbs, dairy, or things like bacon unless I want to spend the next day curled up in a ball. I must get those 7,000 calories a day through something else, which comes in huge meals of rare red meat, even rarer wild game, and two bowls of fruits and veggies of my choice. I eat as much as a lion, so why not adopt his diet as well?
Wild game and organic red meat are super lean, so the fat doesn't bother me. Much of the meat I eat is also wild and locally pasture raised, so I avoid the added preservatives and antibiotics found in most factory farmed meats. Those added things mess with me pretty good. Part of me thinks I've lost my tolerance for it because I eat so well, but another part of me thinks it reacts to one of the 20 medications I take, since a few of those meds are reactive to many common antibiotics and over-the-counter pills.
I've only been hunting for a couple years, but I've been raised to love the sport. My uncle Courtney made sure to pound hunting safety into me as soon as I could understand what a gun was. He shared stories and meat from his hunts, and gifted me a few racks of antlers over the years. When I was seven, he started teaching me how to shoot using BB guns and rubber-tipped arrows. He started showing me how he packed his horses, and how he cut and cooked the meats. When I was old enough to understand how nature worked, he started teaching me the importance of conservation, and why hunting's needed for healthy wildlife. He started teaching me about poachers and what they are capable of. He started sharing stories from his years of being a game warden, and showing off all the taxidermy he's confiscated from poachers. Poachers are not hunters. Poachers don't follow rules and seasons, and more often than not, they just kill to kill, or at the very most, to only take the antlers.
When I was around 13 or 14, Courtney and a few friends started teaching me how to shoot real guns. My mom's friends from church taught me how to shoot handguns for the first time, Courtney showed me how to load and shoot many different rifles, and my old friend Doug gave me a 22. rifle and all the wild game he hunted before he passed away. I still think about Doug every time I shoot a gun and go hunting, and grandpa has crossed my mind a lot too, especially when I was shooting at blackbirds with a crappy 22. rifle at Wes's, the night and morning before the Wake. (expand and/or take out)
Over the years, I've learned a lot about how guns work, how ecosystems work, how wildlife works, how camouflage works, and how hunting in general works, and began to become an expert. I also began to learn a lot more about my own health, and today I understand why wild game is the best thing for me. Wild game is great for everyone, but it's an essential part of my diet.
Wild game is one of the few things I can eat without feeling sick. I'll eat pretty much anything since I don't have allergies and I love the taste of almost everything, but many foods come with consequences. I can only digest 50% of a normal meal with pills, and most of that 50% goes into fighting a disease that currently can't be beat. Because of this, I eat up to five meals a day to keep a healthy weight, and I don't always feel great. But, that's just life with Cystic Fibrosis. I love organic, all natural foods, and the only processed sugar I like comes from Mountain Dew. Otherwise, I've lost my sweet-tooth, in exchange for an addiction to wild game and organic everything.
Doug was actually the first guy to introduce me to wild game. When I was a little girl, I didn't eat very much because it made me sick. But, Doug's wild game was easily digestible and I loved every bite! So, he'd come back from hunting, and roll up to our front porch in his wheelchair with a cooler full of game on his lap. My mom reluctantly cooked it for me, but was pleased to see me eat all of it. A few years later, when my doctors were threatening to put me on insulin, my mom asked her best friend, a Harvard educated dietitian, for help. She recommended I went on an entirely paleo diet, that was mainly wild game. So, my mom passed this onto everyone she knew. Doug would only keep a few steaks and sent the rest of his kills to my doorstep, and my "stepdad" Clarke had a few oil rig buddies who would hunt for the trophy and send me the meats. I was doing really good until Doug died and Clarke's buddies moved to a different rig, but at that point, I was ready to go hunting for myself.
After passing the hunter's safety test with a 100%, I was eager to go hunting. Uncle Courtney read an ad in the newspaper inviting all youth hunters into an essay competition to win a wild turkey hunt near Meeker, Colorado. It was more than a state-wide contest and only 6 lucky kids would be chosen. I was one of those 6 kids. Every winner got their own private ranch to hunt on, as well as a highly experienced hunting guide. The tags were free, and we were gifted with slate calls as well.
The Friday my grandparents took me up, we were introduced to our hunting guide, given a couple-hour lecture on turkey hunting and conservation in general, given a tour of our hunting grounds, and allowed to sight-in our shotguns. It's not exactly an easy feeling to be around 5 other kids who were shivering with excitement and armed with loaded shotguns, even with game wardens and parents surrounding each kid. As soon as I shot my shotgun thrice just to prove I knew I was doing, I wanted to leave, so we did.
My grandpa Lyle and I woke up a 4 the next morning. It was a freezing, windy morning where our hotel was, but our hunting guide, whose name was coincidentally Tom, took us to our hunting blind which was completely silent and still. It was so quiet, you could practically hear the worms below our feet. In fact, when grandpa started opening a mint in the blind, it sounded like firecrackers going off.
Tom and I looked at each other, then looked back at my grandpa, who decided to put the mint away. We stared back out over the ridge our blind faced, and waited for a couple more hours. We didn't hear a single gobble. Tom led us out of the blind and down the mountainside, and then around the mountain to his truck. He knew about my difficulties, so he drove us to his cabin where he kept a side-by-side.
Riding in the side-by-side was one the funnest things ever besides a dirtbike ride. We were racing along unkempt mountainside trails, running over 8 foot tall saplings and launching over the smallest bumps. While Tom and I had huge smiles across our faces, and I chewed on some beef jerky, my grandpa was in the backseat behind us, holding onto both sides of the side-by-side and cringing. We spotted some turkeys, and followed them over mountains. But those birds would be gone by the time we got in our hunting positions. I'd sit in the remains of animals that didn't make it through the winter, and took a few bones as souvenirs. For most of that day, Tom and I survived off of Mountain Dew and beef jerky, and my grandpa (who hasn't been blessed with the hunter's spirit quite as strongly) finally made us go to lunch with him.
Tom and I wolfed down our meals and waited for my grandparents to finish slowly. Grandpa was already bragging to grandma about our hunting experience, even though I hadn't even gotten close to anything. Tom sorta ushered them along, and offered my grandma to come with. My grandparents would sit and watch from the car on the county road while Tom and I went hunting off the mountainside. We were running out of daylight, and Tom desperately wanted me to get a turkey that day.
So, that's what they did. As my grandparents watched on the roadside in the shelter of their heated car, Tom and I trekked across the muddy floodplain in 40 mph winds and sleet, and I chased him on all fours along a dangerously steep mountainside, and almost fell off a few times. Every time I slipped and made a noise, Tom would glance over his shoulder and just keep jogging. Eventually, we hunkered down in a wooded gully, and Tom started using his box call. To our surprise, a huge lone tom turkey talked back, and started strutting towards us. He was puffed up and had a glorious fan, and every few struts he'd grunt and gobble. I was hit hard with buck fever as I aimed the loaded shotgun at the longbeard gobbler's outstretched neck. I pulled the trigger, and to my absolute horror, the forestock slipped back and the bright yellow round fell into Tom's hands. The turkey was alerted, but my guide called to him some more so he'd calm down.
Tom helped me slip the round back in, and this time we made sure the forestock was shoved forward all the way. Meanwhile, Tom was using a throat call to keep the turkey nearby, and we watched the turkey circle above us, and then strut down below us. 45 minutes after the first failed shot, I had a second chance, and this time I was certain I'd have dinner.
*Click*
I died inside. Once again, the forestock slipped back and the round fell out. But my guide was ready, and had a new round inside the chamber before the turkey even realized what was going on. Before he could spread his wings and fly, I aimed for one final shot and the world went silent. I saw that turkey tom blink one last time, and as he reached his neck to gobble some more, my guide whispered, "Kill." into my ear, and the shotgun finally kicked back.
Before I could begin to process what I just did, Tom had taken the shotgun out of my arms and was in the willows below me, wresting with my turkey. While the turkey was dead, his nerves were still jumping. As soon as I realized this, I tried to stand up, only I was sitting on my foot for almost an hour, so I fell as soon as I tried to walk. While I was unable to walk, I decided to start smashing my foot against a tree while Tom continued to try and hold my bird still. After a few seconds of this, I decided I needed to get down there, and just slipped down the mountainside. My turkey finally rested on his back near a brambly bush, and I picked him up by his feet. Tom congratulated me with a hard pat on the back, and then offered to take the turkey to the car for me, so I could focus on walking on a numb foot that was slowly coming back to life.
I didn't stop shaking for almost an hour. I filled out my tag, took a few pictures, and helped Tom clean my turkey back at the cabin, all the while struggling to hold my cleaning knife steady. I took the beard, feet, tail fan, and a few fist fulls of feathers from my trophy turkey, as well as all the meat I could get including the heart. Tom also gave me a few turkey tail fans he had in his garage, and told him to call him anytime with any questions I might have about hunting. I went home that weekend with a cooler full of game and a deeper love for hunting.
About 6 months later, while I was struggling to fight against Pseudomonas, my passion for hunting overrode my instinct to stay home and sleep. I was out of wild game, and knew I needed some more if I was gonna get any stronger. My uncle Courtney reluctantly agreed to take me hunting, but said I could quit anytime. He agreed to drive me everywhere the pronghorn roamed, and said he wouldn't push me to do anything.
We were out the door by 5 am, and were at the ranch we were hunting at near Walden, Colorado at 7 am. There were pronghorn everywhere. I didn't think I'd have a problem hunting with all the pronghorn roaming around. I had several chances, but only took one shot which I missed by a few inches. The final chance I had, I was starting to feel weak and discouraged, but I just knew I'd get it that time.
I was laid down with the 243, staring through the scope at a lone doe. As soon as she turned broadside towards me, I aimed just behind her shoulder and fired. She immediately went down. We found her laying down in the sage about 30 yards away from us, and Sean drove the truck over to the doe. Within a half hour, we had the doe butchered and packed away. I only had a few minutes for pictures, before I let the men pack her into the cooler for me. I was feeling pretty weak and nauseous by then, and was sitting in the heated truck with a bottle of water and the windows down, but I was satisfied and had a little more hope.
My grandpa drove me home, and I had several severe nose bleeds on the way back, but I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. As soon as I got home, I took a few pills and went to bed. A week later, the cooler full of game arrived at my doorstep, and it included all of the meat except for the burger, which Courtney made for me a couple months later. Within a month, all 35 pounds of meat in that cooler was gone, and I was feeling a lot better too, so I returned to school (big mistake, honestly, but I didn't realize I caught Pseudomonas from the school). (talk more about Pseudomonas, life and death, etc.)
Since then, I've patiently been waiting for the hunting season to return. As of yesterday, I found out I'll be able to go pronghorn hunting again, thanks to an organization Doug introduced me to, which helps disadvantaged and disabled people go hunting every season. Hopefully, I'll be just as successful as I've been the last two seasons I've gone hunting.
Wild game is essential to my diet, and hunting has definitely given me a different perspective on things. It's a different feeling to eat the meat I hunted myself. I've gotten to see the side of the wilderness not a lot of people see today. It's not innocent, but it's not corrupt either. It's just pure survival, and it's beautiful and amazing to come face-to-face with it, and be part of the ecosystem as the apex predator every season. Not a lot of people can say they've come within arm's reach of any wild animal, let alone an animal like a turkey that has amazing sight and hearing. Not many people can say they've been slightly disappointed, yet in awe of stampeding elk chasing away turkeys before an approaching storm, and even less people can say they've been so close they could feel the rumble below them. Hunting isn't really about killing. It's about becoming one with the surrounding ecosystem. It's about tapping into our primitive brain, and doing something that predators have been doing for millions of years, and will do for millions more. For as long as I can, I'll be out hunting. I made that promise to Doug, and later on to my grandpa, and will make the same promise to all the guys that have taught me and provided me with the opportunity to hunt.
Hunting is life changing. It saved me from feeling so sick all the time, and gave me something to really enjoy. Hunting isn't just about going out and killing things. It's about getting out into the true wilderness, hanging out with your buddies, sharing stories, sharing food, and learning more and more. Killing is one of the last things on my mind whenever I go hunting. In fact, I'm more interested in the lessons each hunt teaches me, and the stories and food I'll have for later.
Hunters love telling stories. It's our way of respecting and remembering our prey beyond the meat and taxidermy. When hunters talk about hunting, we usually talk about our prey like it was an old friend. We can spend hours talking about and describing one animal.
(talk about the respect hunters have for prey more)
(hunters love sharing stories)