Hunting

I may have grown up in a little redneck town, but somehow I never went hunting. My dad came from the big city, and while he did absorb some small town culture, driving a pickup truck, learning how to run a chainsaw, and getting a dog, he never owned a gun. I got a pellet gun for Christmas one year and it has claimed a couple crows and squirrels, but always only from the porch. I wasn't allowed to take it with me in the woods. I might've shot my eye out.

A few years ago, a friend and co-worker offered to take me along hunting. He was going for black bear and I was welcome to tag along. Of course I agreed, so that Saturday we headed out early. We drove around on backroads and overgrown paths in his 4X4 for most of the day, stopping a couple times to hike through promising country. I'm accustomed to hiking, but this was different. If things went according to plan, we didn't want to have to carry a carcass too far back to the truck. It was a sunny spring day, so there was only snow where the avalanches of winter had piled it up extra deep and packed it tight.

We had seen bear sign (poop) all day, and plenty of deer all day. It was getting into the afternoon and we had just decided to call it a day when Marc suddenly hit the brakes and killed the engine. Way up the open hillside on our left was a black bear foraging for dinner. If she knew we were there, she wasn't bothered by us. Marc grabbed his rifle from the back seat, slid in the bolt and a shell, and lay down on the side of the road. I stood there not quite sure what to do, but completely excited. I'm normally pretty level, but watching him aim a lethal weapon at this living creature overloaded my calm little brain completely. It was all I could do to keep from dancing from excitement.

Marc had been hunting since childhood. He saw every animal that day before I did, and tried pointing out some I never did find. His guns were a mix of quality inherited pieces and quality stuff he had bought for himself. He took better care of his hunting gear than he did of anything else he had. He was also a dead shot. So, in my mind, as he lay there lining up a difficult long shot up a steep hill, I had no doubt that he would make it. He didn't disappoint. The bear made one mad dash in a small circle and fell still before the echo of the shot was over. I found myself arguing internally about whether or not it was okay to be so excited about what we were doing.

The bear was kind of small, but that is the risk you take with hunting for black bear. They don't change proportion noticeably from young adult to senior, especially from a distance. We skinned and cleaned it and slid it into a special sleeve to keep it fresh until we could get to the butcher. Apparently bears are lousy eating as steaks or roasts, but they make a wicked sausage. The pepperoni was as good as any I've ever had.

I haven't hunted again since that day. I enjoyed myself and would go again, but I was also shocked and even a bit embarrassed at how exciting it was. There is a primal part of our brains that has learned over thousands of generations that killing an animal is a really good thing because it means survival of the self. My primal brain had been dormant until that day, but I'm glad to know it is still there. Spring is coming, maybe I'll get back out there this year.