A First Of Many Lessons

“The beast was dead before the echoes of the shot yielded their reverberations off the canyon walls. 650 yards and smile…
It was both the sexiest and most terrifying thing I had ever witnessed.”

It was almost a year ago when I woke to a new morning, hoping my plan wouldn’t backfire. My son was barely two years old but I could see in his typical, everyday demeanor that his perception of reality was beginning to develop. For weeks I had noticed him investigating with logic and reason in a way I hadn’t, until then, noticed in him. It started with little things. The first instance I can remember; he had traced the power cord from the head of the vacuum and had followed it to the wall. In conclusion, he deduced that the socket in the wall was the source of the vacuum’s ability to operate. Beyond the socket was still a mystery however, as one step leads to the next.

While admiring his curiosity and intuition, I made note to keep a watchful eye on him whenever a socket cover was off in the future. Watching that epiphany wash over him was like witnessing his birth all over again. From then on, he started breaking down the source of all things. Like me, his interest was set to look past the function and instead, he immersed himself into the origin. The remote makes the TV change but it’s the batteries that make the remote work. But, what is it exactly that makes the batteries work? His instinct took hold and since then, he hasn’t grown any less curious or speculative. Every toy he encounters is taken apart, investigated and reassembled.

So, when I drew the 93, type 1 Antelope tag, I knew it would be a perfect opportunity to begin helping him in his pursuit for knowledge. No better place to start, I figured, than to show him exactly where his food comes from. After all, it’s my philosophy that our most primitive needs should take priority when forced to choose what skills are most important to harbor. Everything else is superficial and temporary. While arguably important now, maybe…modern infrastructure and the technological advancements our society runs on are temporarily disrupted all the time. Subsequently, that means there is always a possibility that any one disruption could be one which is prolonged. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to understand financial analysis in a world without any finance, now would it? No, far more important than money, is food. Teachings in financial analysis can be given on another day. This day was an opportune one to start with the fundamentals.

When we set out, the morning sun was just barely making its presence known beyond the eastern horizon. In the pickup, I modestly begged my wife for reassurance. It’s hard to know, without any doubt, that the choices we make as parents are always the right ones. Today especially, with so much cowardice and softness flooding the public nomenclature around parenting. It’s easy to get distracted or even discouraged by the social justice crowd, and that can lead to hesitation in making hard calls. What vexed me the most about introducing my son to hunting so early in life was that, until that day, he had never witnessed and, in that manner of translation, had never fathomed the idea of hurting anything.

He was the innocent, ignorant to reality, loving sweetheart that had cheered our lives for 28 months. I was hesitant to compromise the totality of that. I knew that what we were about to do was to take a little of that kind ignorance away from him. The thought of it alone broke my heart but, what hurt worse was the idea of him growing up behind the same veil that I see in so many others around the world. Again, with a stubborn “NO”, spoken to myself and under my breath, I decided that my child would not be someone who eats meat without knowing the sacrifice made to provide it. The same to be said for the labor which leads to vegetables, or firewood, or shelter. That morning was to be the first morning of Moose’s long career in learning. By the grace of God, my loving wife agreed.

We snuck my pickup through the mob of weekend warriors who had taken to hunting by way of UTV as the first bit of shooting light embraced us. Fortunately, we hadn’t been noticed as we clandestinely made our way beyond the easy access and into the rougher hills. With no obnoxious side-by-sides to spook game while trailing behind us, we crept into a narrow finger littered with golden yellow Quackie patches and trickling water sources. Before I could find a definitive place to park, my wife spoke.

“Stop here for a second.”

Her words were casual but carried the type of authority with them that only comes with certainty. With my Leupold Mojave’s against her brow she studied the north slope of the hog’s back just to the south of us. There was a moment of pause then, a definitive voraciousness in her action as she rolled out of my pickup with my Ultra Mag cradled tight against her. The sequentially fluid motion wreaked of intention. I watched her as she kicked the legs of the bi-pod out and rested the rifle on its shoulder stock.

“What the Hell are you looking at?”

I asked it with a hint of pugnaciousness lingering in the undertone of my words. I honestly couldn’t see a damned thing. Through the twelve power magnification of the Leupold’s all I was able to make out was a hillside covered in teal colored Sage.

“He’s 650 on the range finder, lying down in the shadow of those tall shrubs.”

In a round-about way she had answered my question though, I felt nothing that even resembled satisfaction as a result of her response. Again, I scanned the sloping rim of the tall, rocky formation before us. Still, I discerned nothing through the glass but Sage and random obscurities of dead brush. I was just about to sarcastically remark on her inability to read a piece of paper 3 feet from her face on most days when:

‘CRACK!’

The bullet pierced the air with a sonic shriek as it traveled its parabolic arc of flight until it ended its journey with the familiar ‘THWAP’ that all hunters associate with success. The beast was dead before the echoes of the shot yielded their reverberations off the canyon walls. 650 yards and smile…

It was both the sexiest and most terrifying thing I had ever witnessed.

While picking my jaw up off the ground and in a complete state of catatonic awe of my wife’s nonchalant precision, I noticed something in my peripherals that we had both previously missed. A second buck. He stood at the sound of his counterpart hitting the earth, so suddenly transformed into dead weight. Confused, he scanned the immediate vicinity for threats. The inability to acknowledge one confused him further. I placed my rig in park and opened my door slowly, assuring Moose in the back seat that everything is okay and to just stay quiet for a little longer. I stepped with silent intention as I meandered around the back of my pickup and off the road, beyond the drainage ditch, where my wife had just made her shot. She lay there prone, scanning the hillside with the 20x scope mounted to the picatinny rail above the action of my rifle.

“Have you got the other one in the scope?”

The crosshairs settled on his chest just as I asked the question. She gasped quietly.

“He’s a toad, too.” She proclaimed it on my behalf, as if speaking to an invisible audience. Then, with the same intention she exhibited moments before, she rolled to her right and reached up for my binoculars while clearing a spot for me behind the Ultra Mag. I handed the Mojave’s to her and took position on the trigger.

A deep breath in. A deep breath out. Then, having a brief thought, I pulled my eye from the scope and looked over my shoulder. My purpose was missing from the scene. Before anything could be done there, I had to remedy that. Double checking that the buck was still none the wiser to our presence, I low-crawled over to the truck and pulled the kid from the back seat. I placed my electronic muffs over his ears and powered them on.

In a whisper, “okay buddy, we’re hunting now and have to be quiet, do you understand?” He nodded in response. “Get down like daddy and let’s sneak over to mommy.” We crawled back to a resting position behind the rifle and I spoke to my son once again. “We’re going to shoot now. It’s going to be loud but your earmuffs will protect you. Are you ready?” With a smile he nodded again and I set up behind the shoulder pad of the Remington. Sugarfoot had kept tabs on the goat and by the time I had gotten comfortable again, he had moved up the hillside even further. With her help, I squared up against him again and focused on the impending shot. I could feel Moose on one side of me, rocking his leg back and forth, growing anxious. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. I rested my finger on the trigger as my cross hairs steadied just a few slight inches above the buck’s spine.

“Here we go, Moose.” I assured him. “One.” A deep breath in, a deep breath out. “Two.” A deep breath in, a deep breath out. Before I could follow up, Moose let out a whispered but excited, “THREE!” I squeezed the Timney, igniting the 100 grains of Retumbo inside the case of the .300 Remington Ultra Magnum, hand loaded cartridge within the chamber. In a fraction of a millisecond the 200 grain Barnes LRX, boat tailed projectile erupted from the barrel of the big gun and howled across the canyon. For what felt like minutes, the bullet shrieked through the air until it made its mark across the breastplate of the unsuspecting animal. It was finished before I could pull my eye from the sight. Moose had a docile but expectant smile on his face. To my right, Sugarfoot was wearing a triumphant grin. Between the two people I love most, in all the happiness that was flooding my body, I found a little piece of heaven that morning.

“Now,” I thought to myself, “will be the true test.” Was the kid ready for this part? There was really only one way to find out.

We opened up the cooler in the bed of my pickup and distributed a sandwich to everyone in the party. No better time to get some nutrition than right before you’re about to go get some labor. As we ate I explained to Moose that the meat in our sandwiches was from the body of an animal, much like the Antelope we just shot. I spoke softly and as warm as I could to ease off some of the harshness of that reality. I knew that for a toddler, the idea of one thing equating to another which, happened to be gory, was going to be difficult at first. I wanted the transition from confusion to understanding to be as smooth as possible.

“See son,” I gently explained, “all the things we eat are living in some way, at some point in time. The carrots you love so much were once a living plant. When we take it away from nature and eat it, we swallow that life and then, that life becomes a part of our lives. We grow stronger and happier because we have put more life inside of us. The Antelope we just shot, they ate the vegetables and, in return they put more life in their bodies. When we take the Antelope home, we’ll eat them just like the Antelope ate the grass and, then the life of the grass AND the life of the antelope will be part of us and, we’ll grow stronger and happier for it.”

He gradually began to show signs of assimilation so I continued. “Everybody kills something to eat. Everybody. Some people don’t eat meat, but they still have to kill vegetables to feed themselves. Some people don’t hunt their meat like we do and that’s okay. They choose to have someone else do the hard part for them but they aren’t eating anything different than you are. They just simply will not appreciate it the same because they don’t understand what it takes to get it and, really, the meat they eat isn’t as good as ours. It comes from a place where the animals aren’t very happy and they don’t eat as good of food.

Ours comes directly from our backyard and, until we take it home, it lives a free life in the wild. It eats good food and makes plenty of babies to replace himself with. When we eat, we know exactly where the food came from. One day you’ll appreciate that.” It was a lot for a two year old to comprehend, I knew that but, I figured if I started reciting this little speech now and continued to do so every season, maybe by the 5th or 6th it would start to resonate. No time like the present to get started, after-all.

We finished our lunch and geared up. The trek was only slightly slowed by Moose’s adolescent pace but we had nothing but daylight to burn so, I wasn’t too concerned about it. When we got close to the animals I used my usual tactics to ensure they were dead. By the looks of it, they both turned out the lights before they hit the sage brush. There’s a lot to be said about the 200 grain projectile and a hot load. Moose watched on as I rested my hand on the chest of the first beast and recited a prayer. One that I have made tradition of but will not share here. Those sincere expressions of gratitude are between myself, my family, the animal and the Big Dog upstairs.

When our thanks were offered and we were ready to get bloody, Sugarfoot and I instructed Moose to stand near and to watch us as we cleaned our animals for transport. The change in Moose as he watched us skin the beasts, harvest the meat and bury the remains wasn’t as dramatic as I anticipated but, it was definitely there. Until that day, he had only ever considered animals friends to be gentle with. It was exactly the moment of clarity that I had expected for him. He made the connection that day that God provides all things with utility. Some animals are companions, some are food.

Within a few minutes of our work, he transitioned through a few rudimentary emotions and he did so like the competent, young warrior I know him to be. The initial horror of seeing the goats dead then, watching us carve them came as expected but, passed quicker than I could have hoped for. Then came the curiosity. He immersed himself into investigating our procedures and actions. Anytime we would change direction, he would ask what we were doing. When we cut the quarters, when we bagged the meat, when we dug a hole to bury the leavings in. Each time he wanted an explanation so, we gave it to him. I was both relieved and proud that he was taking to it. When we slung the heavy packs across our backs for the haul out, his curiosity turned to excitement. He was ecstatic with triumphant euphoria. He had learned where his food comes from.

Back at the truck, Moose was absolutely tuckered. He had had such a long day, after all. Physically, mentally, spiritually. All are deep rooted, essentially principal muscles in which he worked hard. He earned that nap, by God. I wondered to myself on the way home if we had made the right choice. As assured as I felt by the experience, that doubt that the common narrative around parenting institutes slithered itself into the window of my conscience. I thought hard about the benefits to Moose in all this. I reminded myself that sheep are sheep because to sheep-dog is hard. I reminded myself that before I can build the towers to defend against wolves, that first I must pour the foundation that grows a sheep dog from the antenatal instinct of the sheep we all start as. I looked to my wife and her warm, knowing smile reignited the mantles in my colloquially dark tunnel of consideration or, in this case, doubtful worry.

“I know what’s on your mind,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

I confirmed. “Do you think that when he’s our age, he will recall this day?” I hadn’t thought about the intention in that question before spilling it. I just spoke what silliness first slipped my lips. What I meant to wonder aloud was, of the experience we placed upon my son that day and, for all the little burdens it placed on his shoulders, would the knowledge gained from it even be available to him in the future when he supposedly will need it. Did we needlessly expose him to the trauma of taking life at such a young age?

“Let me ask you something,” she responded with matriarchal authority, “why did you give thanks to that animal like that? Why don’t you just pack it up and walk home with it? Why must you stop to reflect on what you’ve just done then, validate it by verbally expressing your gratitude to a lifeless vessel?”

“Because I appreciate the sacrifice and, I feel it’s right to express it or honor it in some way, I suppose.” I was beginning to see where she was going with this.

“Right. You do so because you believe in the imbalance between you and the animal after you take its life. It hurts you a little to kill that animal but, you understand it is necessary to survive so, you do what you must and you idealize the creature that sacrificed everything so you could feed your family.”

“Well,” I insisted, “I always take every effort to make the kill quick and as painless as possible.”

“Another chime to my point,” she reassured. “You take care and you respect this sport… this lifestyle. And, you carry that demeanor and you approach it this way because why? I’ll tell you what I think. I think you do it because that sentiment is engrained inside you. I think that those values are a part of you and that the reason they are so predominant in your style is because they were solidified within you immediately, and at an early age. I think that you grew up being taught to think this way.” She was driving it home at this point.

“Yea… maybe.” I thought aloud.

She wore a look of astonishment that her assertion hadn’t set in, through my thick skull. “Okay, let me ask you this. Do you remember the first fish you caught?”

I didn’t. I have the picture though. It was a trout caught on a lake somewhere in northern California when I was about 3 years old. My dad took my mom and I out one weekend in his old, fire engine red F-250 and, over the course of three days we caught fish, cleaned them, and ate them around a campfire. Photos from that trip littered the walls of the different homes I grew up in over the course of my childhood. They were important to us all because they sort of signified the time when our family started. My mom and biological father had recently divorced and my step-dad and mom had started seeing each other right around that time. He went to work teaching me the fundamentals almost immediately.

That weekend being only the first of many lessons to come. Now, if I’m entirely truthful, I can’t even remember the actual words spoken over those days. I couldn’t recall, no matter how hard I try, what the exact instructions or phrases used were. All I know is that particular weekend was the beginning of my love affair with the outdoors and it was the time when I learned to see animals and, more so, nature in a different light. It wasn’t so mysterious, or frightening or unfamiliar anymore. It wasn’t the massive void out beyond the paved parking lot or fenced community, in a sudden change of perspective. It was something beautiful and comforting. It was a treasure, swelling with utility. It was a greatness that should be respected, and a wildness that could be explored. More than anything however, it was a gift that would be appreciated. For all the things I can’t remember about that trip, I remember the epiphany in that sentiment well. I remember the lesson, even without recalling the words used to teach it.

“No,” I responded, “but, you’ve seen the photos and you’ve heard me and my mom tell the story a hundred times.”

“True.” She asserted. “When I try to imagine you at that age, crouched down on a lake shore with your dad, cleaning the guts out of a fish… I imagine the same look on your face that Moose wore today. I imagine you probably lost a bit of enthusiasm at the initial sight of that fish being killed. Then, I’m sure there was a brief moment of horror when you saw your dad cut it open. Then, I’m sure the excitement re-birthed itself when you understood that what you were doing was catching and preparing your food. That’s such a powerful revelation. I remember its power from experience; the first time I watched my dad clean a deer, up off the Sweetwater River when I was barely older than Moose is now. I imagine that the little boy who rode up that mountain in the middle seat of that old truck, in a lot of ways, stayed up there that weekend and, I imagine that the boy who rode back down was a little more grown and developed. I imagine the person that you would grow to be, the person that I love so much, that he started his life that day. That’s what I imagine when I hear you or your mother tell that story.”       

My mind was at ease. I gently crawled my pickup out of that high desert and directed the wheels towards home. We arrived at our little place a bit after dark and I carried Moose to his bed where his diaper and clothes were changed.

Absolutely beat and without disturbing his dreams, I laid that sweet little boy into his bed, as he was in that stage of his life, for the very last time.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. I write these stories as a supplement to my lifestyle as a sportsman and guide, and with them comes a certain accountability. The details of my stories are purely based on my recollection alone and in no particular way do they reflect a chronologically factual, indisputable timeline of events. They are in no way intended for official use or as a reference for official purposes. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

All the photos and content featured in my tall tales are my own, unless expressly cited otherwise, and the unauthorized use or reproduction of them is strictly prohibited. 

That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

On another quick note: I’ve launched a new publication on Substack, specifically to showcase my serialized fiction and poetry! 

I hope you’ll join me there! Follow THIS LINK to have a look. 

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