An Apology
A couple short shouts were exchanged. I could see a small resemblance of a smirk on his face, even though my eyes were locked in front of me, waiting for the first bird of the trip to flush in range. We had signed in a few minutes earlier, and driven up to where we normally park.
"Let's go this way, we never go this way first but I always see sharptails here on the way back," I suggested. Thirty seconds after we crossed the fence, his Brittany got onto some and they flushed wild. Maybe just shy of fifty. A good start. We dropped into the coulee and a single rooster flushed, then more grouse. All out of range, but walking these vast expanses and watching how the birds behave would be enough for a weekend.
After checking, and double-checking, all the thick fingers along the stubble field, we circled back to the truck. Neko, the wily Brittany who has slept on the floor boards for five hours that morning in anticipation of the hunt, pointed, and another large group of sharptails flushed wild. A quick grin as we mentally called it a night. Then a rooster bumped at my feet and the first bird of the trip was gently tucked into my game bag. Not a bad start.
We took the last half hour of shooting light to scout for deer. I had jumped the gun on my A tag a month ago, pre-rut, and seen a couple nicer deer since. Pete had his this weekend. We crested the hill top and I stopped the truck. Just under 400 yards was a large group of muleys, and, sure enough, a trophy buck amongst the does.
Pete geared up quickly. I watched from the truck with binoculars. The deer sat unbothered for minutes. Then the does spotted Pete and the group nervously retreated over the knoll. Pete gave chase, and as he started to crest the knoll the group came back over. The buck, senseless from hormones that are all too familiar, came first. Pete noticed late, and then dropped to prone. The deer shifted twice and took off, as Pete lamented on whether to take a shot. An errant quick draw he was not going to risk on such a beautiful creature.
I cracked a buckskin, cleaned my bird, and we made our way to the motel as the temperature dropped rapidly over a clear eastern Montana sky. The motel manager offers up all the ice we need and a freezer for game. We use the ice to fill up some styrofoam tumblers, and canadian whiskey with a splash of water takes the edge off of the late evening antics.
I've been here before, coming each year for the last three, and there's a bar in town that gets after it. I explain to Pete, and get a doubtful, "Really?" We make our way there and, unfortunately, one of the two other Johns bellied up to the bar has a personality close to that of John Candy in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.
As we're taking down bacon cheeseburgers and chicken cordon bleu bites, chased by Coors original and whiskey, another hunter walks in and sits down next to us. As we're eating, he gives us answers to many questions for which we didn't ask. His caliber of choice for deer hunting is .223. He can't seem to figure out why the bucks he's shot either get away wounded or end up being half eaten by coyotes the next day when he finds them. And peculiarly, he's proud of the deer he's shot but never recovered.
I suppose I've been fortunate. For the most part, I've taught myself to hunt. Both of my grandfathers hunted, my dad hunted, but the timeframe never overlapped. I sought out some mentors, friends, acquaintances. A lot of those acquaintances came through fly fishing, as well. Everyone I talked to recommended books about the experience, talked about how much they admired the creatures they stalked, and genuinely loved the idea of being able to share habitat with such wild creatures.
It didn't take long to form opinions. Realizing that hunting produces the most sustainable meat. Reading cook books and swapping recipes on online forums for cooking 5 different species of game birds. Going out into the woods and appreciating it for a walk in the woods, not trying to kill another living creature. Knowing what it meant to take a life when you did come across a creature that was mature enough to have lived a high quality of life and feed you for a portion of yours.
He appeared at the bar had never thought about what he was taking for granted. It was a game to him, and his enjoyment of telling the stories wasn't getting through to Pete or me. We politely left for another bar up the road.
I had never seen it first hand. I heard stories, but had never taken seriously the claims of my anti-hunting friends about those who were out for blood. Had never had a reason. I will say this: I'm sorry. I am sorry there are people out there who have such disrespect for the beautiful place we live, and the creatures that inhabit it. Those who have mentored me in this way of life have set a positive example, and I'll attempt to make up for the transgressions I've witnessed by doing the same for the next generation of outdoorsman.
"Let's go this way, we never go this way first but I always see sharptails here on the way back," I suggested. Thirty seconds after we crossed the fence, his Brittany got onto some and they flushed wild. Maybe just shy of fifty. A good start. We dropped into the coulee and a single rooster flushed, then more grouse. All out of range, but walking these vast expanses and watching how the birds behave would be enough for a weekend.
After checking, and double-checking, all the thick fingers along the stubble field, we circled back to the truck. Neko, the wily Brittany who has slept on the floor boards for five hours that morning in anticipation of the hunt, pointed, and another large group of sharptails flushed wild. A quick grin as we mentally called it a night. Then a rooster bumped at my feet and the first bird of the trip was gently tucked into my game bag. Not a bad start.
We took the last half hour of shooting light to scout for deer. I had jumped the gun on my A tag a month ago, pre-rut, and seen a couple nicer deer since. Pete had his this weekend. We crested the hill top and I stopped the truck. Just under 400 yards was a large group of muleys, and, sure enough, a trophy buck amongst the does.
Pete geared up quickly. I watched from the truck with binoculars. The deer sat unbothered for minutes. Then the does spotted Pete and the group nervously retreated over the knoll. Pete gave chase, and as he started to crest the knoll the group came back over. The buck, senseless from hormones that are all too familiar, came first. Pete noticed late, and then dropped to prone. The deer shifted twice and took off, as Pete lamented on whether to take a shot. An errant quick draw he was not going to risk on such a beautiful creature.
I cracked a buckskin, cleaned my bird, and we made our way to the motel as the temperature dropped rapidly over a clear eastern Montana sky. The motel manager offers up all the ice we need and a freezer for game. We use the ice to fill up some styrofoam tumblers, and canadian whiskey with a splash of water takes the edge off of the late evening antics.
I've been here before, coming each year for the last three, and there's a bar in town that gets after it. I explain to Pete, and get a doubtful, "Really?" We make our way there and, unfortunately, one of the two other Johns bellied up to the bar has a personality close to that of John Candy in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.
As we're taking down bacon cheeseburgers and chicken cordon bleu bites, chased by Coors original and whiskey, another hunter walks in and sits down next to us. As we're eating, he gives us answers to many questions for which we didn't ask. His caliber of choice for deer hunting is .223. He can't seem to figure out why the bucks he's shot either get away wounded or end up being half eaten by coyotes the next day when he finds them. And peculiarly, he's proud of the deer he's shot but never recovered.
I suppose I've been fortunate. For the most part, I've taught myself to hunt. Both of my grandfathers hunted, my dad hunted, but the timeframe never overlapped. I sought out some mentors, friends, acquaintances. A lot of those acquaintances came through fly fishing, as well. Everyone I talked to recommended books about the experience, talked about how much they admired the creatures they stalked, and genuinely loved the idea of being able to share habitat with such wild creatures.
It didn't take long to form opinions. Realizing that hunting produces the most sustainable meat. Reading cook books and swapping recipes on online forums for cooking 5 different species of game birds. Going out into the woods and appreciating it for a walk in the woods, not trying to kill another living creature. Knowing what it meant to take a life when you did come across a creature that was mature enough to have lived a high quality of life and feed you for a portion of yours.
He appeared at the bar had never thought about what he was taking for granted. It was a game to him, and his enjoyment of telling the stories wasn't getting through to Pete or me. We politely left for another bar up the road.
I had never seen it first hand. I heard stories, but had never taken seriously the claims of my anti-hunting friends about those who were out for blood. Had never had a reason. I will say this: I'm sorry. I am sorry there are people out there who have such disrespect for the beautiful place we live, and the creatures that inhabit it. Those who have mentored me in this way of life have set a positive example, and I'll attempt to make up for the transgressions I've witnessed by doing the same for the next generation of outdoorsman.
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