Many blogers write about their hunting experiences. One of the best is Brigid at http://www.mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/
I enjoy reading their accounts but rarely relate to their enjoyment. My father and his relatives were, simply put, poachers. Not for profit, for food. We ate venison nearly every day, elk when we could get it, and pronghorn when we visited my grandparents in Wyoming. One of my earliest childhood memories was waking up in the backseat of our car as a freshly jack lighted deer was tossed in between the seats. As a toddler, I called deer “bang, bang cows.” Hunting, to me, was always a job of work. Sometimes pleasurable work, but none the less, work. My enjoyment was more the admiration, sometimes envy, of friends and relatives when I was successful. The biggest motivator was parental approval.
My father was a guide for several years after leaving the railroad. This was a critical endeavor, to have money for the winter months, that dominated our lives for many weeks each year. I came to understand the experience his clients wanted and, with his not too gentle tutelage, help him deliver the experience. In later years, he used that skill in real estate sales, and taught it to my sister.
When we hunted for ourselves, the goal was maximum results with the least expenditure of time, money, and effort. We would take a spike elk for the freezer, not a trophy. A fat two point buck; good eating. Only once did I see my father shoot a trophy buck for himself. We still ate the meat. You never shot a deer if you couldn’t drive to the kill in a pickup. Elk we would take where we could and I’ve quartered and packed out, on horses and mules, many animals as a teenager along with the occasional dude.
I never developed a passion for hunting. Instead, my passion was machinery that burned gasoline and could maim or kill you.
I haven’t hunted for years and don’t miss it. My very best wishes to those that do. If I run out of money I may start again.
