Hunting Season

(Bob) Saturday morning some bowhunters asked my cousin Tom for permission to track a young buck on his property; they'd shot it on a neighbor's property. He agreed, went with them, and after an hour they found the arrow had worked itself out, and the deer had crossed the highway.

It made me think about when I hunted vs. how I feel now.

Then, I was in my mid-teens, and hunting was a trip to Big Sandy, MT with my dad, to his uncle Ed's farm, the Blazek homestead.

Now, I'm a 41-year-old homeowner on land that's been in my mom's family for 65 years, and hunting means listening to shotgun and rifle blasts that sound pretty darn close.

Then, it was tracking mule deer near the Missouri River breaks.

Now, it's seeing big trucks and laden ATV's going after white tail deer around the Flathead Valley.

Then, it was me hoping for the opportunity to take down a big buck with my 30-30.

Now, it's me hoping "our" deer, especially the dork brothers Mutt & Jeff, survive to next fall so I can shake the apple trees and give them more sustenance for the winter.

Quick note: "shake the apple trees" is not a figure of speech or a metaphor. I mean, à la bears, literally shaking a tree so ripe apples come a-tumblin' down.

I appreciate that Tom let the guys on his property and went with them. And I appreciate that they were bowhunters. At 17, with my rifle, I was skilled and lucky enough to get a trotting buck from about 125 yards away. Had I needed to be 95 yards closer for a bow shot, it never woulda happened. Here in western Montana it's easier hunting with bow and arrow because there are so many places to hide. Out on the rolling open plains of eastern Montana, I can't imagine how much more difficult it is.

I love venison, and have no problem whatsoever with deer hunting. Play by the rules, act responsibly, respect the property you're on, use the meat, and it's fine with me.

I have zero respect for hunters who break the law, act like idiots, or only go for "trophy" bucks. My dad and great-uncle Ed taught me well.

P.S. If your soul, your self-respect, and your doodle are so infinitesimally small that you hunt on game farms, well, you're just a putz.

P.P.S. About 6:30pm, as dusk hit its stride, Jeff wandered by the deck, eating some bird seed on the ground. He looks good, and while I hope the arrow-wounded deer wasn't Mutt, it is that time of year, and bucks should head for the hills.