What makes you Tick

Every morning when I come downstairs to go to work, or stay in and make coffee, I see it. Every evening when I come home and put the keys in the island drawer, I see it. Every time I stand at the kitchen sink and look up, I see it.

I see accomplishment.

I remember the feeling of exhaustion and that pain in my elbow that just never goes away. That savory flavor of nourishment lingers on my tongue. Or at least I think it does.

A sense of trust in those who are close to me is never far out of my thoughts. I would never have gotten to step foot in that wild place without them. And the warmth and humbleness of the opportunity to do something that not many will get to do will not be forgotten.

It did not come without a price. In the literal sense, something like this takes a minimum of 5 figures. That is five digits left of the decimal in terms of dollars. The endeavor is not always that expensive in more accessible areas and for those with less lofty goals.

In terms of time, I lost moments with some loved ones and gained moments with others. I spent eleven days away from our dogs whose lives are too short among us already.

In the physical sense, a once living being now lays in pieces in several freezers, though not in vain. The moose provides a form of sustenance required for survival for several families. His skull and antlers fight gravity against a lag bolt and wall stud in my kitchen as a reminder of perseverance.

The very act of hunting is more than pulling a trigger and is engrained in who we are as a species. Many will argue that hunting is not a necessary action for living in the 21st century but these people live in highly developed countries where the reality of life and death is masked by push button menus, meal delivery apps, drive through windows and microwaves.

Reality for many involves zero application of fight or flight responses. Zero struggle to live. Comfort engulfs with the tap of a screen.  

Hunting and trapping is not for everyone. Those of us who choose to incorporate the acts in our way of life would be remiss to degrade the population of people who do not believe in it. It is not something that every human in industrialized countries need to do. But it is something that every single person on this earth should understand. Many fail.

In life we struggle at times to find our calling and to feel fulfilment. What are we doing daily to feel alive? What makes us tick? It is risky for me to have written those sentences since someone can take them and republish that killing animals makes me feel alive. Those gifted with intellect would never be that daft, so I am not horribly worried.

Hunting creates memories for me. Connects me to our world. Provides an avenue for my contribution to conserving the wildlife that so many from all walks of life enjoy.

It gives me goals to strive for both physically and mentally. Practice never ends. Just when I believe my archery skills are mediocre enough to hunt with, the arrows I use are discontinued and I will need to find a model to replace them with. And then I will have to re-tune my bow to match them.

And hunting with a rifle is not easier. That is if you care about ethical shots. There are so many factors to consider in preparation for pulling a trigger. Is the rifle sighted in? Is there actually a round in the chamber? Is the safety off? Have I adjusted for wind speed and direction? What about rise or drop in elevation? Is there anything behind what I am aiming at? Have I practiced at this distance enough to feel confident in what I am doing? What could go wrong?

When lucky enough to get to hunt and then lucky enough to be presented with an opportunity to take a shot, the ever-lingering question comes to mind. Have I done everything possible up to this moment to make the best shot I possibly can? If that answer is yes, I take the shot. If not, I have passed. And following those passed shots, I have wondered what would have happened had I pulled that trigger. But it takes discipline to regard those passed shots as lessons and not regrets.  

I did not grow up hunting, but from a young age the livestock we raised provided for us. It was hard work. And while my parents facilitated my dreams, the responsibility to care for the animals was mine. My day started in the dark and often ended in the dark. And it was beautiful while all was going well, and it was devastating when an injury or illness cut a life short.

Even in the remorse of a loss of life, my hands would be stained red after a thorough investigation and education from our veterinarian. Jeans, or often sweatpants as these things never happen at the most opportune time, stained with mud after a shovel prepared a hole for burial. Cheeks stained, with all emotions that are raw and real when the magnitude of life is placed in front of us. And not one moment of it do I wish was different.

It is not a light undertaking to kill an animal. It is not absent of some level of sorrow. For some it can consume and for others it is not as difficult. To name a successful hunter a blood-lust psychopath is a fairy tale and indication of a mind devoid of reality.

Contrary to anti-hunter beliefs, hunting is not easy.

I have been caught amid a mosquito orgy and forgotten to spray Deet on the inside of my pants pockets. Those pockets were closed when I was standing and applying the only valid anti-mosquito chemical to my entirety. Once I sat down however, they were exposed and bite after bite came for the remainder of the evening in those inner pants pockets. I longed for more Deet which was a plane ride away across the tundra. I am highly allergic. I am itching my hips while typing this.

Chasing elk as the seasons turn is not for the faint of heart at high elevation either. Pre-dawn ATV treks at temperatures below freezing turn into a 4- or 5-mile game of cat and mouse on foot while we have stripped to our base layers as the thermometer hits 80 degrees by 8:00am. And no matter how hard we shake that water bottle, it is empty. And no matter how many hills I climbed that summer, I was still out of shape.

The half-dozen bulls I passed the first ten days of a fourteen-day hunt will haunt a person when you spend the following two days seeing absolutely nothing. The temps soar and the air is stagnant. Could have should have. I contemplated quitting hunting altogether. Resolved myself to possibly going home empty handed. Day thirteen yielded luck.

On two occasions, an animal had to be retrieved the following morning. The nights are sleepless spent hoping nature will not get to that animal before you do. In some cases, the predators win an easy meal. The snow falls, sort of predicted, but keeps you sequestered to a tent for three days playing rummy on cards made from Rite in the Rain notebook pages because the deck of cards is 300 miles away.

It is exhausting. Mentally taxing. Frustrating. Defeating. But all those things are in their own way encouraging a person to keep going. They do not overshadow the joy, fulfillment, gratitude, comradery or elation that I have felt on every hunt or after every hunt. And every time a meal is prepared with the fruits of a hunt, a story is told. A memory is shared. Another goal is set.

This is why those remnants are hung on the walls in my home. Whether it is the goal I met, have not reached yet, or just set, I can walk in and see it. Share it. Remember it. My goals. My desire to live and connect with the world around me.

Accomplishment.

When are you going to see your it?

Written by Jessica Manuell. Photo Credits Jason Manuell.