Old Habits Die Hard

Old habits die hard. The nights are getting chillier, now, and even though I haven't hunted in over twenty years, I still find myself thinking about the coming hunting season.

This came from my father, as hunting was his main, if not his only, passion. The season opens near the middle of October, but beginning the first part of September he would start worrying about having tracking snow on opening day.

In the 1950's until the 80's, elk were both scarce and wild. Many good hunters went a year or two without taking one. In those days, the most effective way to find game was to track them. That was why my father was obsessed about having fresh tracking snow when the season opened.

During dry weather, hunting consists of little more than poking around in likely places, hoping to surprise something, but with a track to follow a person can be reasonably sure of at least getting close to the game. My father was proud that over his years of hunting, he had caught two bull elk while they were still laying in their beds, totally unaware of his presence.

We always watched closely as we drove the logging roads on our way to the area where we wanted to hunt. If we cut fresh tracks, one or both of us would get out of the vehicle and follow the trail. A lone track was most exciting, as it was probably a bull, which was what we were after even though a cow elk was much better meat.

In those days the legal hunting age was 11 years old. When younger than that, I was often allowed to accompany the adults on easy hunts when they were looking for deer. I carried a .22 on those occasions, but when I reached 10, I was allowed to take a real hunting rifle. The legality of my age didn't bother my father, it was the fact that I probably couldn't keep up in tough country.

When I was 11 I blundered into a spike bull and was lucky enough to make a good shot. It was a major rite of passage into adulthood.

It was when the animal was down that the real work started. An elk is a large animal, and dragging one over dry ground and through thick timber with deadfall is not civilized labor. We usually halved or quartered the game and made a number of trips, but on occasions we drove to the local bar to look for help. It was a common practice and social protocol to participate if a person had the time. Most people in the community knew that they would need the same favor in the future. My father usually bought a bottle of blackberry brandy to share after the game was loaded into the pickup. The liquor was a token of gratitude and fellowship – a regular occasion in the community.

It was in my thirties that hunting began to lose its appeal for me. I enjoyed the hunt itself, but suffered a lot of melancholy after the elk or deer was dead and on the ground. I gradually eased away from the sport, but if coerced into accompanying someone like my father, I usually split up from them and found a warm south slope where I could get an afternoon nap.

I was past 60 when I finally hinted to my father that I didn't hunt much anymore. It took that long to muster the courage to disappoint the old man, as I knew it would.

When I told him hunting didn't interest me like it had, he gave me a look of sad contempt and then was quiet for quite a while. Hunting was such an integral part of his life, he couldn't understand those who didn't see it the same way.

I don't regret the game I killed, as I hunted honestly and walked for almost every animal I shot. It was serious business for me, but both things and I changed.