No Kinda Hunter

When I married into my wife's family - because that's what you do when you get married - I knew my father- and brother-in-law loved to hunt. "Loved" here, especially in the case of my father-in-law, is meant in the obsessive sense, much like Dolphin football was/is loved in my family. Obviously, I had sat through plenty of dinner conversations listening to hunting stories before I was married and then into our marriage, and all that was okay.

First holiday season in, at the annual Christmas Eve present exchange, you can guess what my wrapped gifts were. That's correct: a 12-gauge shotgun and hunting camos. Being a sport, I agreed to go and get a Hunting/Fishing license. Still, I steered clear of hunting conversations as best I could and gave non-commital answers to any "When you gonna go hunting with me?" questions. I made it out of my first winter (deer hunting season) without going.

Come spring... I finally got cornered and consented to go turkey hunting with my father- and brother-in-law. At this point, they weren't great turkey hunters (my father-in-law has gotten really good since), and I remember doing a ton of walking up and down my father-in-law's land. Mountain-walking, that is. Well, even though they weren't great, and I el stunko, my father-in-law did manage to run a couple turkeys in my direction. I still remember the turkey waddling across the hill between two trees. For those who don't know, in turkey hunting, you shoot for the birds' heads. As luck would have it, I had a clear shot. Finger on the trigger, I, thinking the shot might get even better or else not really wanting to shoot, one or the other, waited for the turkey to clear a tree. I saw him for a moment after clearing, but then, the gobbler strut down a hill disappearing. When my father-in-law (f-i-l) came down, I was honest enough to say I had a clean shot, but I was hoping for better. Boy oh boy, you'd have thought I let a baby drown. Accused of hunting's unpardonable sin, I left that day with my proverbial tail between my legs, after receiving my tongue-lashing and still debating inwardly as to whether or not I would have ever pulled the trigger.

Well, as it does, the next deer-hunting season rolled around, and once again, especially after receiving more hunter-type gifts, my f-i-l asked me to again go hunting. I consented out of feelings of obligation. Woe unto me.

Here's how it worked. Long before the dairy farmers arise to milk their cows, I was woken up, lethargically dressed in my camos, and tottered, shotgun and sack lunch in hand, out to my f-i-l's truck with four-wheeler in back. Before heading to his land and cabin, my f-i-l stopped by a convenience store where he had ordered some sausage biscuits from the girl on the prior night's shift. My f-i-l is the nicest guy in the world, but he has a vitriolic temper. So when the store didn't have the biscuits, my brother-in-law and I waited outside for fifteen minutes for the argument that ensued between he and the new shift clerk. We drove away biscuit-less. The political discussion that broke out along the way, for me, was only a fraction better than the hunting discussions that filled the rest of the way. Oh, and then the rain and sleet started. When we arrived at the cabin (still before McDonald's had opened on the East Coast a timezone back), several other hunter buddies of my f-i-l had spent the night there. I was treated to conversations about bucks, game, ten-pointers, doe days, turkey, and the big one that got away and NOTHING else. Seriously. And speaking of game, the late December NFL games with Dolphin playoff implications all over them, well, those games I would miss for this. After breakfast, I rode out with my f-i-l on his four wheeler. He drove me to a place called "The Big Rock" where you could "see for miles"... when day broke, that is. Then, telling me he'd pick me up at 10 a.m., he took off.

Five hours. I had to make it five hours. Did I mention it was thirty below? Well, it was below thirty, anyway. And being new to the hunt game, all I wore was my camouflage suit with a turtle neck and tee shirt underneath. Nothing plastic to protect me from the elements. I had none of that. Sitting on a huge rock, in the middle of winter, freezing to death in slush and rain, wet to the bone -- that was me. For a while, I realized the giant rock had an overhang, so I climbed down and sat under it where it was dry. However, the pouring rain slowly started to drip and then run down my rock cover, inching its way toward me. In a quarter of an hour, I had curled up in a fetal position to avoid the ice water. Another quarter hour, and I was drenched again. So little help was the coverage, I marched back to the top of the rock and sat there... in the dark.

I really came face to face with my personal depravity over those first couple of hours. A lot of internal cursing, both of the cuss word variety and the cursing of all things hunt-related. Bitterness. Even hatred flowed in and out of my mind as I shivered and quivered in the slush and cold. Those cinematic heroes that brave the winter cold sprung to mind. I was no hero, quite the opposite, in fact. I swore to myself that I would never, ever go hunting again. Told myself the people who did it were sadistic.

As the day just started to break, I pulled a Jonah and went to the Lord. The prayer didn't stop the rain and sleet, but I did sort of become numb to the world afterward. All thoughts stopped, good or bad -- and I hadn't been having any good ones. I watched dawn and the morning's offering. Next thing I knew, at 10 a.m., true to his word, my f-i-l picked me up.

"See anything?"

"No," I spoke between chattering teeth.

We drove back in, and I figured at least someone would mention how miserable it had been out there as I peeled clothes off of me and tried to hog the lone heater they had in the cabin. All the other guys came back, and once again, I heard the stories of bucks, game, ten-pointers, doe days, turkey, and the big one that got away and nothing else. Who were these people that could do this and love it? I don't think I'll ever know, but I sure felt like a wimp. Probably because, I am one, at least when it comes to the cold.

I've never been back, at least not deer hunting. If I ever went, I realize now, I'm not shooting anything. Nothing against hunters, in fact, they're about the most nature-loving people I know. And I'll eat what they kill, I've got no problem with that. My f-i-l does regret not having me clothed better that day, but that's not his fault. And he has gotten me once or twice more to go turkey hunting with him, and though I carry my shotgun, I won't be shooting anything. Don't know why, but it's just not in me.

But it does seem to be in my children, which is probably why I've put this story to paper. Both kids have gone up on the mountain, and they love it. Carson definitely wants to hunt (when he gets to about twelve), and he has an older cousin who loves it. Davis is feeling it out, but he sure loves to go up on that mountain. For them, it's an adventure; obviously for me, it's not. I know I'll never love it, but maybe I can tolerate it if it's something that thrills them. I won't be the one to take away time that either one of my boys can spend with their grandfather and commune with nature, or whatever it is hunters do. If my kids are loving it (sigh), chances are, I'll break my promise to myself and let myself be dragged out there again. And then, the time will come, though I hate to think about it, when their grandfather can't go anymore.

What then? Can't we just go to the gym and shoot hoops together or throw the football or toss baseballs around or even pass the soccer ball to each other? But if hunting is their thing, what am I to do? Suppose I'll cross the bridge when I come to it, but if anyone has a remedy, be sure to let me know. Thanks. And I appreciate anyone who's read this for letting me vent. This has been cathartic.

Fish Out of Water