The Reluctant Carnivore

Matt and I went out in the woods grouse hunting this beautiful, warm, sunny Fall morning. 

Let me rephrase that. 

Matt went grouse hunting this morning; I merely existed to unintentionally impede his success.  He hoisted his 12-gauge over his shoulder, donned a blaze orange vest with enough ammunition to wipe out a small village of grouse and walked along vewy, vewy quietly (or would Elmer Fudd say quietwy?).  I tagged along gamely, attempting to not scare off any potential “provisions for winter” by kicking at the crunchy red leaves or by randomly blurting out thoughts that popped into my easily distracted, overly-caffeinated mind.  “Hey Matt?  Where do grouse go in the winter?  Do they just burrow in the snow?  If they do, do you think I’ve ever accidentally smooshed one snowshoeing?”

I really don’t make a good hunting partner.  After all, how encouraging can it be when a grouse is spotted and your hunting partner closes her eyes, covers her ears and starts making wincing noises before you’ve even pulled the trigger? 

My guess?  Not very.

On the Iron Range, one consistent statement I hear when I ask men (and some women) why they live here is “huntin’ an’ fishin’.”  With a multitude of lakes and an abundance of public lands, this area is like a Mecca for those interested in hobbies that involve (pause).

And here is my struggle. 

My first inclination is to say “hobbies that involve the killing of animals.”  My bias is semi-, a little bit- or, oh wait, completely and totally obvious.   When a grouse pops up, my first thought is “please let Matt miss, please let Matt miss.”  Not because I secretly harbor ill will towards Matt, but because I don’t really want to be present when another living creature loses their life, even if their life is already predestined to be relatively short.  In my overly imaginative little world of a brain, I envision a little family of grouse (grease?) wondering why their paternal figure didn’t come home for dinner that day as they all hope he’s just caught in traffic or road construction.

Sigh…  It’s not that I don’t eat meat.  I do.  It’s not that I don’t support hunting rights.  I do.  It’s just that because I’m apparently lacking the gene that grants satisfaction from hunting, I simply don’t understand the appeal of (another pause).  Perhaps it is the ego-driven, testosterone-laden hunters that put me on the defense.  The ones who you see on the early morning hunting shows talking about the so-called “sport” of hunting while using expensive, high-powered rifles and accessories all designed to seduce the creature into coming closer and closer to their imminent death right after this commercial break.  Or the hunters who genuinely believe they have superiority over the animals that they kill.  It’d be a little more impressive if it had been hand to hoof/paw combat, but somehow the technology involved leaves me just nodding my head with a look of feigned interest.

So during this season of many hunting seasons, I will reluctantly cheer on my hunter as he attempts to satisfy his internal drive to hunt wild animals.  I will eat the grouse, duck, deer and appreciate that he is providing food for our table.  However, I will probably still question the need for hunting in an agriculturally-advanced country and wonder just what it is in human’s DNA that drives them into the woods and onto the shore of the lake every fall in pursuit of animals that aren’t pursuing us.

“When I was twelve, I went hunting with my father and we shot a bird.  He was laying there and something struck me.  Why do we call this fun to kill this creature who was as happy as I was when I woke up this morning?” – Marv Levy