Hunting; I will go

It is deer hunting season again, a process and adventure I have participated in for most of my life. I am going to the deep woods and high mountains to get a deer. To eat. Some people don't like the idea of that. I don't like the idea of making someone else do the killing that my diet demands. Code of the West. If I wouldn't do it myself, why should someone else do it?

Because it's hard? Or icky? Or sad? Or because "I love animals too much to actually kill one"?, as I have heard people say. These same people aren't too fond of animals to forgo eating one. How the hell do they think it gets on their plate? Chickens don't selflessly eject their feathers, spill their guts, lose head and feet and wait to be packaged.

So, I will never say that anything I eat is too icky or sad to take responsibility for. I don't love seeing a magnificent animal felled. I don't look forward to the eviseration, the blood, the smell, the carrying, the skinning, the processing, the storage. It is icky. But it is real and challenging and close to my roots.

It is a hard thing to do, and results are not guaranteed. I become a visitor in an alien environment, every advantage to the animal. I must carry enough to stay alive, warm and safe. My feet are not designed for swift escape through trees, fallen logs, and snow. My senses are dim by comparison to my prey's. And yet I challenge my body and my mind to pursue the animal on his terms, his terrain. I leave behind the civilized place that meets all my needs. Hunting makes me work, think, and sometimes struggle. I learn to respect my limitations while simultaneously pushing the envelope of my skills and fears. It teaches me calm, patience, responsibility and, sometimes, triumph.

It is a wild thing to do. Not like 'girls gone wild'. Like untamed, atavistic, primitive. It speaks to my soul and my spirit and my pride. I kill responsibly, taking the best shot I can. I come close and deliver a kill shot if the dying seems protracted. I stay behind the animal as it breathes it's last mountain air, as it sees it's last glimpse of trees and sky. I have no desire to be that wild thing's last image. I owe him that dignity.

And, when he is dead, I lay my hand on him, feel his warmth spread to me, breathe in his rich tangy scent, and give thanks to him for providing my family with his flesh. I give thanks to God for allowing me to make a life and death decision over a beautiful animal. And I vow to use every part I know how to, to waste little, and to never forget the gift I have received.

I never want to forget any animal I have killed; the time, the place, the gift. It is the least I can do for the life I have taken.