Dear HCN,
I grew up with men;
somehow, much to my mother’s disappointment, I ended up walking the
fields with them instead of making pies in the kitchen. I shot the
pheasant instead of staying in and stuffing the turkey. I spent
weeks on the banks of rivers or the shores of lakes waiting for the
big one to bite. I was taught how to carry, clean, gut, pluck,
filet and cook the game I took. I owned my own gun, the stock
custom-cut for my small size, and I loved the feel of it under my
arm in the fields, even if my ears rang for half an hour every time
I fired it and the kick nearly knocked me over. I was a lousy shot
and probably never hit a quail after flushing out a covey; I’ll
never know.
What I do know is this: the days
spent walking across frozen ground with my father were sacred days
to me. Those days I had him nearly to myself, and I had to wait
until I was an adult to know that pleasure. The only other time I
had him to myself was when I read to him while he died slowly of
cancer. Early morning rising for fishing expeditions or moonlight
fishing for Midwestern catfish provide happier memories of a
marriage that ended in divorce. Maybe it was those days in the
field or on the river with men that has kept me genuinely liking
men instead of giving up on them and joining in the bashing like so
many women I know.
Which is to say: The
importance and ethics of hunting in our culture cannot be easily
judged. It goes beyond testosterone. It even goes beyond the need
for food. There are ways we bond and love and heal as humans that
are totally inexplicable. Hunting together may be one of those. I’d
guess I’d just like essayist Craig Heacock (HCN, 12/11/95) to think
about that a little harder, and to accurately and honestly rewrite
the last line of his essay to read “a son won’t hunt with his
father,” not “my father won’t hunt with his son.”
Janet Lowe
Moab,
Utah
This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline Beyond hunting.