A hunter's twilight

October 2, 2019. That is a date I will remember. That's the date it crystalized in my head that I can no longer look forward to many years of hunting. It was a sad moment when I realized my hunting days were numbered. Maybe it was just a steep learning curve at play. Let me explain.

It was the second time I had been out antelope hunting. The season had started about a week and a half earlier. On opening day, I was out there, but the rain was relentless and driving. I stepped out of my car to pee maybe three times in an hour (I had a lot of coffee because I got up early), then I decided to call it a day. It's not much fun hunting in the rain, especially a cold, driving rain. 

Hunting on public land has its advantages; also, it has its disadvantages. Since it was opening weekend, there was a stream of trucks going down the road where I was parked on the shoulder. I decided if there was this much traffic on the weekend, even on a rainy day, I should try in the middle of the week instead. Not much chance I can compete with that many hunters. 




So I came back on a Wednesday, and this time the weather was fair. It was windy, but it's always windy on the Buffalo Gap National Grasslands where I was hunting. The wind is both concealing and revealing, depending on your position. Most animals will smell you long before they see you, so wind direction is always an important consideration. There were a few hunters out that morning, with one positioned near the beginning of the road I turned down, watching a buck with his ladies on private land, probably hoping he would meander to public land. It's uncanny how the animals know they're safe on private land. I kept driving.

I drove to a bend in the road and turned up a hill where I parked. This is where I told myself, after earlier scouting trips, I would find what I was looking for. I ate some food and got out on foot, which initially felt good. I was tired, but that's not unusual. And I walked. I walked until I saw them — a nice herd of antelope, led by a very alert buck. I stalked them a short time, taking note of the wind's direction until I had a good shot. I got in position and decided I could get closer. That was a mistake. The next stalk ended with me bumping the group, which took off, their white rumps bouncing jauntily until they were mere specks. They were at least a couple miles away now. I blew it. 

I walked back to my car, kicking myself. I ate some more food and decided I would drive the rest of the road to see if there were easier pickings, figuring I would let the herd settle down and in case I needed to return. I made note of where I could park to make another stalk on them.

So I drove and didn't see much else, turned around, annoyed. At least I had a plan. It wasn't a good plan, but it was all I had. I parked where I planned, and so began the longest stalk of my hunting experience, a round-trip excursion that was about 5 miles. It's not uncommon to walk more than that in an entire day, but for one stalk, that's pretty far for me. I made sure to give the herd a wide berth, as I was not about to bump them again. Behind them was a hill with many crevices, and my goal was to go all the way around and behind the hill and find a spot to snipe at them. That is what I did. It took a long time. 

Let me explain the terrain. It's not fit for much. I was on a walk-in area, which is private land leased to the state for hunting. There may be some livestock on it, but it generally isn't usable land. Except for me and other hunters. There are some scrubby plants that grow perhaps as tall as me. There is an awful lot of cacti — big ones (yucca) and little ones (prickly pear) that lay down. The stalk ends with the hunter getting in contact with the ground, so he will invariably get stuck by cacti. I plucked those embedded cacti tips from my arms and shoulders and elsewhere for days, but that was a mere annoyance compared to the pain of initially being run through by them. Just as I was in position to take another shot (and a long one, at that), the antelope, perhaps smelling me this time, took off. And, boy, can they run. They were gone and over the road to the other side before I could even stand up. I shook my head, dismayed they had evaded me again. Antelope - 2, me - 0. I had no choice but to walk out of there, skunked. 

My tradition is before I got hunting, I pray. I pray God will let me have the animal He wants me to have and to have nothing if that is His plan. I pray for a good, ethical shot. I pray for my own safety and the safety of others. I cover all the bases. So I have to be okay with coming away empty-handed. But I was miserable. The wind was blowing steadily and was now penetrating my coat and pants, chilling my already tired bones. I was stuck dozens of times over my body by big and small cacti tips, some still in me (and some that would stay in me for weeks afterward). I had just endured the longest stalk of my hunting experience, and I was preparing myself for a long walk back to my car, which I could barely see in the distance. Though it wasn't raining, everything was wet, and as I walked through the sagebrush and tall grass, water plastered my waterproof pants and penetrated my water-resistant boots, soaking my socks and numbing my toes. And this was all before noon. One thing sure to drive me up a wall is wet socks. It's the epitome of annoying discomfort. Why on earth do I do these things? 

Then it happened — I spooked a lone doe that was bedded down in the scrubby grass. I thought, "This is perfect. This is the one God set aside for me." But why wasn't she with the herd? Something was wrong with her, perhaps. I took a shot and — because she was close (probably too close) — missed. She looked bewildered. I should mention what hunters have to control when taking a shot. You have to have a steady place to shoot. There are a lot of positions you can be in, so you do whatever is comfortable or whatever the topography offers. But once you're in position, the challenge is to calm your breathing (which is hard if you're hiking around), then your heart rate has to fall. Every movement you can't control affects your shot. My heart refused to calm down. The rest of my body is in good shape, but my heart simply struggles. It continues to pound long after it should be quiet. Every thump of my heart shudders through my rifle. I can hold my breath, but I can't calm the ticker. 

So, I missed — again and again and again. She ran away, though slowly, and I watched where she took refuge. It was where I originally parked by the bend in the road. I walked out of there, perplexed by why I had been unable to connect a shot. Did I bump my scope? 

I drove near to where I saw the doe meander, ate some bacon, and stepped out again, my path more familiar than the first time. I saw where the doe had bedded down and made a short stalk to her. I got within perhaps 50 yards, and there she was, looking at me, her eyes large and unblinking. There is such beauty in God's creatures. At that moment, I asked myself again why I was doing this. And I hate taking a shot on an animal bedded down. I shot, missed. Kept shooting, kept missing. Finally, she stood up, looking sick. I had shot her through the gut, I later found. I calmed myself with all of my might and took one last shot, dropping her for good. It was an awful end to an awful hunt, but it was over. 

Such a unique and beautiful animal, and completely suited to its environment.

I walked up on her and marveled at her small body. Perhaps this is why I kept misjudging distances and, perhaps, my shot placement. North American antelope are not related to other antelope around the world. They are their own thing, completely unique. The closest relative is the goat (thus, the moniker speed-goat). And they are wicked fast! There is nothing faster in North America than the antelope (actually, more accurately called a pronghorn), and the only thing faster in the world is the cheetah, though an antelope will win every time in a long-distance run because of their large heart and lung capacity. 

I field dressed my doe, taking the liver but not the heart this time. I put her on a tarp with some towels in the back of my Honda and drove off, calling my dad and telling him I needed to use his hose to wash out the body cavity because the first shot was a gutshot (luckily went through the stomach and not the intestines). I counted up my shells (I always pick them up), and there were 10. Eight misses? That's unheard of for me. I almost never take a follow-up shot. I was humbled in so many ways by this hunt, and the end to it was an animal that suffered longer than it should have. But that's pressure I put on myself. How much suffering does an animal experience when it dies of natural causes such as starvation, disease, or predation? A lot more than the few seconds I counted between shots. 

My day was long. I had the long drive home, then to the processor in Rapid City, then back home. I spent most of my day walking and behind the wheel, reeking of speed-goat. But when it was over, I was happy enough. Just miffed at myself. And then fought through some lingering questions. Why had it been so difficult? Was it just an off day for my body? Was I not prepared? I was physically miserable and alone all day. That was all I knew.

Yes, it was my first antelope hunt. I had witnessed antelope hunting before, but this was my first time with a tag in my pocket. And since moving to South Dakota, all my hunting has been solitary, which isn't as much fun as with a partner. Antelope are notoriously hard to hunt, and I had chosen to hunt them on foot, putting myself at a disadvantage. It was clear to me, after much thought, why I had missed the many times before my final stalk on the doe. If I had shot her way out there, I would have had to drag her or carry her back to my car, which was probably 1.5-2 miles away. As tired as I was and as hard as my heart was working that day, that would have been extremely difficult. As it was, I shot her in an area that allowed me to drive within 30 yards of her carcass. So God was looking out for me. 

Still, it was hard to shake the idea I'm not going to be able to do this much longer. My heart is hard to argue with, though. I run regularly. I hike consistently. The rest of my body (depending on who you ask) is in shape, but my heart is out of tune. Maybe it was the bacon I had that morning. Maybe the salt did something funny to my heart. Or maybe it was just the way things are now. 

As I write this, I have two deer tags left this season. One is for a West River whitetail doe for a unit that has, apparently, no whitetail deer at all. I saw mule deer and antelope when I scouted down there, but no whitetail. So that tag won't be filled. And I don't want to hunt one here and use that tag because that's illegal. Lots of whitetails here, though. The other tag is a muzzleloader doe tag, for which I bought a muzzleloader this year. If I get a deer with that, it will signify many firsts. The first muzzleloader deer, clearly. My first deer taken with a rifle without a scope (you can use a 1X scope for muzzleloader season, but what's the point?). And the first time hunting deer so late in the year (I think the season starts Dec. 1). After sighting in my rifle, it's pretty clear I have to be much closer to my prey than what I'm used to. It's not impossible; it's just harder. And that's why the muzzleloader season is a long one, perhaps. Lots of challenges there.

In case you're wondering, antelope tastes good, at least it does in the forms I've had so far (burger, jerky). It does initially smell a little like deer when you cook it (and maybe a little like goat), but a rich sauce can mask that if you're sensitive. A lot of people complain about "gamey" meat when referring to wild meat. That usually results from poor handling of the meat, and that's why I rush the carcass to the processor. If people handled their beef from the supermarket the same way they do their wild game, it would offend sensitive eaters, too. 

So, why do I hunt, considering all the difficulties? Well, it's in my blood. My last name means "To hunt," or, "To chase a defeated foe," which implies my ancestors were hunters. My namesake ancestors came from Prussia, and I think they had designated people who hunted for the villages. I may be wrong about that. Also, I love nature. That may seem antithetic. If I love nature, why do I want to go out and kill it? I don't want to kill anything, actually. I don't know any honest hunter who will tell you they savor taking a shot on an animal. It's a dreaded moment. But it's over fast. The North American conservation model is hinged upon hunting/fishing participation. It is funded primarily by licenses. The walk-in area I got my antelope on is leased by the state with money funded by license sales. Public lands set aside for hunting and fishing are disappearing because hunters and fishers are disappearing. Those are lands we won't get back if the trend continues. Hunting is closely monitored by Game, Fish & Parks. They know how many animals can be culled for the health of the herd. Many factors go into deciding those numbers. The heath of the herd is what is important. Hunting is an important tool in maintaining herd health. Loss of habitat is not good — for hunters and the herd. Losing access to land set aside for hunting is cited as the main reason why hunter numbers continue to fall.

There are trends showing growth in hunting. Traditional hunters are losing ground, but nontraditional numbers are growing. More women want to hunt than ever before. That segment is growing. Also, the sort of hipster, back-to-the-land crowd is growing. They want sustainable, free-range, non-factory-farmed meat. Some of them are even vegans or vegetarians except for the meat they harvest themselves. It is, truly, the cleanest meat you can get, and you can't go to a supermarket and buy it. 

Hunting injects a lot of money into local economies too. And without them, even non-hunters wouldn't be able to enjoy as much public land for whatever they do with it (birdwatching?). 

People hate trophy hunters. I get it. They have a bad reputation. I'm not one of those. I hunt for meat (one of my favorite shows is Meat Eater, and I've even read many of host Steven Rinella's books). I probably should have mounted the rack of the last deer I shot because it was truly a magnificent animal, but I didn't. I took a picture, and that's good enough. Trophy hunting in Africa has an even worse reputation, but that's not fair. The money the hunters pay to those outfits goes to protect the animals from poachers, which are a far more destructive force than any hunter. And the meat goes to the villagers. Basically, the money goes toward protecting the herd and ensuring a healthy population for years to come. 

I've watched a lot of hunting shows and movies with hunting as a part of the plot. What I see is a huge disconnect from reality. Hunting is almost never portrayed accurately by Hollywood. That's really disappointing. I know they can hire someone who can get the details right. It's hard not to believe they are trying to portray hunters in a less-than-favorable light. I think that is irresponsible. No one cares more about the resources they consume than hunters. Even hunting shows seem disingenuous. The music is often fast-paced and thumping, but the reality of a hunt is a measured calmness and harmony with nature. I know they have to make it entertaining, but it just comes off wrong to me. To each his own. I know there are a lot of different styles of hunting. But mostly it comes down to being patient and lucky. And loving what you're doing. 

There is an intimacy with hunting that only hunters know. It is a dwindling, yet intensely knowledgeable group. They understand things others will never know. The reason I like watching Meat Eater is that Steven Rinella is what I consider a typical hunter. He's not the Hollywood redneck hunter. He's not a maligned poacher. He's deeply respectful and knowledgeable and waxes poetic when describing the land and the prey — and hunting itself. He is the man I've met many times before. Many hunters are well-spoken, humble, soft-spoken, and gracious. They aren't the rubes portrayed in movies. They are men like me — men in love with the land, the animals, the resource, their country, and their way of life. 

Forcing a half-smile through the fatigue.

I have more vivid hunting memories than when I lost my virginity or my first kiss; it's that kind of a visceral experience. It's far more than simply putting meat in the freezer. It's sacred. It's perfect in its completeness. First-time hunters marvel at the range of emotions they feel. Old-timers sometimes weep over their fallen prey. No matter what a hunter's skill level or knowledge level, they will walk away changed. Perhaps that's the power of hunting. Perhaps that's why it's so maligned. In our jaded world of unaffectedness, hunting makes one feel humble, vulnerable, strong, yet intimately aware of our eventual demise, and, for lack of a better word, transcendent. It shows you the true cost of living and dying on this planet. It forces you to acknowledge your place in your environment. It forces you to grow and adapt and change and feel. It's analog — time spent in real space surrounded by God-made, ancient landscapes, smells and sounds that awaken something ancestral and necessary and lacking in our digital-overkill world. Out there, there's no one to impress and no one to make you feel less than adequate. Ultimately, it makes you feel grateful.

I feel my hunting days are numbered. As my son grows, he may show an interest. More than likely, as hinted by the prevailing trend, he will not. He was greatly interested in my muzzleloader DVD, however, and even helped me swab the barrel. I've taken him target shooting with a BB gun, which was his first time with a gun. He's not afraid of guns. He knows what they are used for. I'm teaching him the rules. But the world he will inhabit is not the same as the one I grew up in, and it's not the same as the one we inhabit right now. Still, I will savor these days because they may very well be the last days of this hunter.

Thank you for reading.