Archery season for deer and elk opens in Montana this weekend. It’s pushing out everything else in my head, making it hard to think about subjects that don’t have antlers.
A day or two ago I went scouting after work. Far up into the mountains, with the wind howling around my friend’s pickup as we drove back down the narrow forest service road, I found myself contemplating the elemental joy of hunting.
We saw a big cow elk when we got out of the truck and went up the trail. The wind was carrying our scent right towards her, and she startled when she caught wind of us. That’s what allowed us to see her. We were so near the trailhead we weren’t expecting it.
We spent a few moments crouching behind cover, calling and trying to get her back. I caught a second glimpse of her as she hung around for a while before bolting completely.
It was a beautiful moment, but as we drove back, one thought kept coming back: It wasn’t the same as if I’d had a bow in my hand.
Seeing wildlife in its natural habitat is thrilling, but the knowledge that life or death hangs in the balance is more thrilling still. It’s far more thrilling.
The very same experience, if I had had an arrow nocked, would have been sublime. Even if I never got the shot, even knowing it was a boring old cow and not a fantastic trophy bull, it would still have been sublime.
Hunting takes a person to the edge of life or death. The hunter’s purpose, his whole focus, is on ending the life of that animal. The animal is trained by a lifetime, programmed by the instincts of generations, to exploit any tiny error the hunter makes to stay alive.
I love to hike. I love to see wildlife. But the difference between catching a fleeting glimpse of an elk four days before it’s legal to arrow her, and catching a glimpse of the tiniest little whitey doe when I’m free to pull the trigger, is like the difference between the frozen reaches of space and the molten core of the planet.