To be a hunter takes a lot

As many of you know, I have become a hunter. Well, at least up until the very last aspect of a hunter. I have all the required things a hunter needs: a gun, a camouflage jacket, a hunting accent. I even have a great hunting pose and a pretty good hunting creep. Yeah, totally a hunter. I’ve got everything – except a kill. This is the story of my attempt at a first kill and thus my induction into the world of hunting. 

The rain eased up enough today to allow Robbie and myself to get outside in search of some ducks or swans or geese or anything else that my license covers (read: snowy owls – no joke, also no limit). Robbie is the husband of one of our new teachers, hailing from Idaho, and has slightly more hunting experience that me. We were ready to get some dinner. Wandering through the tundra brought back memories of last year walking to Toksook. Ben in that deceivingly deep puddle…good times. Karma to follow, however when I, while watching an airplane, took a step backwards into a knee-deep hole.

I was excited to try out my new image. Robbie was trying out a new image of his own. Being in the Wild West, Robbie was packing some serious heat – a .44 mag pistol strapped to his hip. John Wayne – yep, that’s Robbie. Umm…a 6-5 red haired version. Turns out, neither of us lived up to our attempted images.

Sometimes I wonder why I am such an unsuccessful sportsman. Reflecting on these thoughts always bring me to the same answer. I have yet to go fishing, and now hunting, without any irony. Always it follows along, scaring away any potential prey, obviously. Perhaps it’s a safety net for my inevitable failure, or perhaps it’s my response to the cognitive dissonance I feel with a gun of my own cradled in my arms. Who knows.

I’m learning a lot of things about the great outdoors. Each trip teaches me important lessons. For example, safety glasses are awesome. But a more recurring lesson that I’m slowly coming to understand is that I am the worst sportsman in the world. I’ve been fishing about six times since getting back here in early August. I have caught nothing – except my leg. And that while trying to prod George with the end of my rod. The latest reminder came today, while hunting. I took one shot with the shotgun. I hit nothing - except my face. Seriously. Some freak ricochet sent a shotgun pellet back at me and struck me directly in the right lens of my glasses.

And so now I sit, waiting for my hamburger buns to rise – or I should put more accurately, my black bean burger buns to rise because that is what I am having for dinner. My induction has been put on hold – in all liklehood indefinitely. It’s okay. I’ve come to a realization. I’m not a hunter. I never will be. I may kill some animals. But I’m not a hunter. I also am not a fisherman. I may catch some fish, but that won’t make me a fisherman. Guns, rods, reels, cammo, accents. These are just things sportsmen have. And me I guess, I also have those things. The big difference between those people and me, however, goes beyond an image. I don’t want to be a hunter of a fisherman. My constant irony and sarcasm are proof enough. The real reason those are there is because I’d rather be doing other things. To a true hunter or fisherman this, of course, is never true.

I have friends who give me a hard time for my less typical Alaskan subsistence activities. Things like breadmaking and a hydroponics garden in my living room, not to mention my vermicompost and semi-vegetarian diet. Weird maybe. Unusual sure. But if I had to survive on my sportsmen’s skills alone I’d be dead or at the very least very hungry. And so I’m okay with my way of life.