Hunting Matters: Judgement & Social Media

Editors Note: I wrote this after reading a post over on MeatEater.com, the first in what looks to be a series of upcoming essays, labeled Hunting Matters, on hunting, conservation, and cultural issues . The topic at hand was social media, etiquette, and interfacing with non-hunters. I highly recommend it, check out the post HERE. This isn’t necessarily a response, and certainly not a rebuttal, but more my thoughts and experience with social media as it relates to hunting. 

Growing up in the Northeast, vacillating between Massachusetts and Connecticut, I dread the usual Monday morning question, “What’d you do this weekend?” At a time of adolescent insecurities I always hesitated to add one more judgmental opportunity to the lengthy list my peers already had to choose from. “I went hunting.” Three simple words became forged in my perception as something to guard, to only trust with those close to me.

I shied away from the debates, tired of explaining why my Grandfather, Dad, and I spent the weekend “killing Bambi.” I learned this pursuit made me an outsider. And so, I built a habit of coming up with something else, trying not to stand out, like every other teenage kid, wanting to blend it.

This is a habit I carry with me to this day, despite relocating to the much more (overall) tolerant point of view on hunting here in Wisconsin. It is also hard to completely hide as an adult, the plethora of conservation organization stickers on my truck give it away to those in the know. And, as I mature, I care much more about authenticity than I do placating acquaintances.

My biggest hiccup, however, is social media. Having started college with the advent of Facebook, I learned, quite quickly, that people go there to form their judgments long before meeting or even speaking to you.

Recently, I’ve taken to it as a platform for advocacy, but still tentative. My posts more about conservation and promoting stewardship and rights organizations like BHA, RGS, PF, and others. I can count on one hand the number of photos I’ve posted involving game, and never a grip & grin. The photos so public “worthy” it would meet even the most stringent publication criteria.

Despite my trepidation on Facebook, I do however maintain an active Instagram account that centers around what I’ve placed in the short “About Me” section, New Englander Living the Dream in Wisconsin; Dogs, Food, and Outdoor Adventures. Even those words were carefully chosen, hunting noticeably absent. But if you look at my feed you will not miss that I hunt, from the photos of my bird dogs to the filtered shots of ‘what’s for dinner?’ highlighting whatever wild game we’re eating that night. It’s a cat and mouse game of saying it, but not.

I often debate about posting things. My “followers” consisting of real world friends from every generation of my human experience, and total strangers, at least in terms of meeting in real life, who share my passions. Over the four years I have been on Instagram I have found a common bond with many people, all outdoors and hunting minded, and I find myself with a sense of belonging. And, for once, a desire to share. I still make sure its tasteful, and aim to promote the positives, but, it is still far more than I would have shared in the past. The amalgamation that comprises those tuned into my feed presents a unique opportunity. It bridges the gap.  I have found a like-minded, supportive network, and I am able to promote a hobby. A way of being and interacting with the world to some of my peers who, otherwise, may have never thought anything of it.

The funny thing is, despite all of my worry, my insecurity and concern over judgement, I have never received a negative comment from any of my non-hunting friends. They may just scroll on, they may not like my post, but every now and then I see a username next to the little red heart symbol I never would have imagined would be there. And I smile.

For all the judgement I was worried about, and all the preconceived notions I had about how people would take it, I fear that I was the one with prejudice all along.

Hunting Matters, Conservation Matters. And I’ve learned that if those things make you happy, post away. The happiness and emotion conveyed transcends the subject. The cultural divide between non-hunters and hunters is smaller than we think. We should be making this less about battle lines and attitude. We should be promoting our story without fear of judgement, and without judgement of those we have not shared it with, yet.

Enough.

Our last day ended with my brute of a wirehair curled up in the passenger seat, wrapped in my Woolrich licking a busted nail, worn raw at the quick, while I sat in the drivers seat, watching the sunset, and trying to come to terms with a season cut shorter than I’d like. Nine more months until we can do this again?

Over the last five years I developed a purposeful restlessness who’s worst enemy is sitting still. So I’ll spend the next month or 2 tying flies, writing, and hopefully running the dog in some productive cover, fully expecting the sideways glances as she casts by, “What gives, no gun?”

Maybe that’s one of the reasons we all love this so much. The nine months spent waiting, and dreaming, and preparing.

Some would say four months is plenty, perhaps most would. But for the handful of us who spend stolen minutes in the office plotting out new spots to check out and guarding our weekends as if we’re surrounded, figuring out creative ways to say no to the second cousins baby’s birthday and the wedding of a college buddy whom you haven’t spoken to in years, the end comes too soon. The fires still burning.

It burns in the dog, too. The crusted snow may have gotten the best of her today, but if given the option of a tomorrow before the gun her answer would be abundantly clear. And so it goes. We’ll rest up, heal up, and spend time mimicking the real thing for the next nine months while we work diligently to lower the flame to a manageable level.

She’s sprawled out on the couch now and is running in her sleep, and I choose to think she’s running toward the blaze of autumn, full out, poised for her best season yet.

Patience, I remind myself. Soon enough.

 

 

Good and Cold

Note: I wrote this about a year ago. I’d been toying with the idea of this blog for a while, Every now and then opening Word and spilling out some thoughts. Given the wide 10 I saw on the drive in this morning and the impending snow, I thought it appropriate to share. 

I can feel it as soon as I step out the door with the dogs for their nightly routine, the chill wraps around my unguarded neck almost immediately. I can’t help but open my mouth and blow steam like a child fogging up the car window. It’s here. It’s good and cold. I’ll be sick of it in February when the seasons are closed, but they’re open now, and the best is upon us.

My drives are now, more than ever, focused around scanning the landscape and yards for cruising bucks, and the skies for flocks of ducks seeking open water. My upland hunts begin with the frustrating ritual of finding what gloves I can wear to warm my frigid digits, yet still get one in the trigger guard, only to shed them after 30 minutes of following the Dog. And She loves it. She isn’t panting after an hour and gives no thought to breaking ice on retrieves.

The full parking lots of October openings are behind us. The eagerness now worn off for many, vehicles sit idle and unwarmed in the driveway, owners mumbling over morning coffee about the weather.

This isn’t for fair weather fans. They don’t deserve it. Mallards are pooled up on any open water they can find. Coveys are merging for warmth. The antlered ones are thinking of their genetic survival instead of their surroundings, or if it’s cold enough they’re focused on filling up the tanks after burning them dry with lust.

The time has come. It’s here. The peak of the seasons. The hunting’s good, and cold. And we’ll be out enjoying every minute of it.

Camp

Restless. The dog and I. The bags are packed, unpacked, checked again before stuffing everything back in. I even cleaned the gun again, not that it needed it from the last time I passed oil and swab through the barrels. Anything to keep from idle hands. She keeps looking up at me, pacing. Looking out the window, through to the next room and out that window, too. She knows… we both have this sense of hurryup nervousness.

“Work” is a sham. I click through e-mail, checking it back to unread… the silent acquiescence. It’ll wait ’til Monday.

The truck backs into the drive and we start loading up. The dog is standing at the screen door barking. Something not in her normal repertoire. It’s the high-pitched, “Hey, look at me. Don’t you forget me!” bark. If the door wasn’t heavy I fear she’d burst through it.

One last task; stop and water the grass. OK, kennel. And in a flash shes battened down and peering through the grate with purpose. Time to go.

The leaves are coming down, the mornings frosty, and the thunder of wings and the twitter of feathered knuckle balls await, Grouse Camp.

Perseverance.

Pushing forward, one foot in front of the other, through briars, over downed logs, and weaving through tomato stakes, the pull is easily felt. Chasing the rush like a junkie, one more point, one more thunderous flush, one more flash from the gun. Before you know it, darkness has fallen and so begins the trudge back to the truck.

It’s easy, really. We don’t even think about it. I know of no one who does the math on effort and funds exerted chasing birds. It’s not even a thought.

Lately, I find myself restless. I’m running a race and constantly wondering if the finish line is around the next corner or over the next hill. I try and focus on what’s in front of me, work no one else will do. Wondering where’s the pull? what’s pushing me forward?

I’d rather have the briars.

But it’s necessary. The bank account says so anyway. So I do it. Looking around the bend and over the hill. Fidgeting in my office chair waiting for the opportunity to get the next fix.

Stagnant

If pressed, I would argue that the next 6 weeks are the absolute worst in the 52 week calendar for the American bird hunter/dog person.

Heat, humidity, and time form the trifecta of terrible.

Heat and humidity make simple and enjoyable tasks just downright annoying, and the already annoying ones that much worse. It introduces an otherwise unacknowledged variable into anything done with the dogs. Ruining my happy places… not cool, madame weather.

And time… This is the crux of it for me. Already annoyed, the season opener is not close enough for excitement and not far enough away to put it at the back of my mind and pretend to forget it. I can see the finish line off in the distance, but looking at the road ahead there are still a few heat hazed hills to climb.

September will be here soon, the finish line for the race to October one downhill slope away.

But for now, pardon my irritability as I begrudgingly continue the sweaty slog towards fall. What else am I supposed to do?

Daybreak

Lined on both sides by dark-windowed, quiescent dwellings he sips his coffee as the truck flows through the artery, extremity bound. He’s found a spot that isn’t phenomenal, but on the list of go-to’s it holds its own. The irrigation system long failed, the overgrown sod farm doesn’t look like much, and there’s a bigger tract just down the road where success is much more likely. The state increasing the odds once, sometimes twice, a week, but with those odds comes much more orange. A color he doesn’t mind, sometimes, his tolerance saved for when the guys are in town or they caravan westward.

Today the cab is quiet. The chatter from the news and the low rhythm of breathing from the kennel in the back seat barely audible over the whir of the tires. Going solo today.

Pushing the truck around the curves, his torso sways in the seat from the force. And the dog is up, she’s knows what’s coming.

Last corner now and he’s peering through the trees ahead. The headlights show no reflection, no sign of betrayal from the pull off.

He fidgets, takes another pull of coffee, and soothes the anxious dog as the sky starts to lighten. Almost girl, almost.

Close enough, he says and swings the door wide, pulls on his vest, and checks the front pocket for shells. He tops off the bottles from the jug in the bed, and unzips the case under the backseat. Light’s coming on fast as he depresses the latch on the kennel and he catches her before she can leap for freedom.

Collar on, barrels broken, rays of light starting to poke out from the east, he settles her down. This is the part he always looks forward to, the anticipation, the unadulterated start.

Hunt ‘um up.