In Journalism they teach you to write for a specific audience. Today's missive is intended for those too young to read yet. I'm writing for my Grandchildren and perhaps yours. Now that my few remaining hairs are mostly gray and I have most of my hunts behind me, my hope is to leave something of value behind.
I have been a hunter and shooter for the better part of fifty years. I keep learning and refining technique in my new quest to see my sights through bifocals. I still drool over the slick glossy advertising in the sporting magazines touting the latest and greatest new gun, accessory or gadget. Having been a shooter as long as I have, I have witnessed a fair amount of evolution in sporting goods, guns and "must have" widgets. Doubtless the new guns are vastly superior to anything we ever had in years gone by. …and that's the problem!
The issue of Killing, even within the context of Hunting has become somewhat politically incorrect even though it is an integral component. Being a Hunter is synonymous with the act of Killing, albeit ethically done. "We don't hunt 'em down to shake hands." The most effective way to do that is to "slow 'em down", altogether.
The words "hunter/killer" are nearly unspeakable in today's "politically correct" society yet as humans we must kill something merely to survive as a species. That some of us still do it, as a sport is an acknowledgement of our history and of the reality. I am a Hunter; therefore I am also a Killer. You cannot be a Hunter otherwise. Killing is an incidental part of hunting. Acknowledge the fact and get on with it.
Let's turn to the subject of Bag Limits. You know, as a Hunter, you are only allowed to kill six ducks, eight doves or two pheasants and so on; it's constantly changing. I have known several otherwise skillful hunters who could and did "kill" double limits during duck season when there was a storm in. They bragged about it. I admit it, I said nothing and held my tongue. I won't do that again.
As a nimrod Hunter, I'll never forget the first time I filled my bag and shot a full limit of ducks! Oh the joy; surely there could be no greater measure of prowess as a Hunter. I had learned the lessons. I had mastered the skills. I could kill with the best of 'em, sleet, snot or freezing rain! And then a curious thing happened over time. I matured, both as a person and as a Hunter. One year, my Hunting partner Keith and I were in a particularly good spot in a duck club. Ducks were plentiful, especially Wood Ducks.
The "Woodies" were so thick, they were a joy to watch. I wondered if the fact that some years before we had built Wood Duck nesting boxes with plans from Ducks Unlimited had contributed to the population. Might I have in some small way been responsible for adding to their numbers? Did that somehow make me a parent? Nah, couldn't be! The Woodies got "harvested" along with any other duck who appreciated the "music" of my call a little too much. And then a strange thing happened. There was no plan to do it but as I recall, simultaneously Keith and I stopped shooting the Wood Ducks. Oh, we'd still call them in but they were so easy or so dumb that ya could have captured them with a butterfly net. It wasn't any fun because the challenge was gone; it had become too easy.
Now Wood Ducks are little critters. They're not much bigger than Teal. They are about as easy to call and decoy as Teal too if ya whistle just right. As eatin' goes, Wood Ducks are high on the list because they diet on a lot of acorns and the like. In fact, the more I learned about Woodies, the more nesting boxes I built, the less I wanted to shoot them. Mallards, Widgeon and Sprig beware, I was still a hunter! I could still "limit out" with the best of 'em. Keith and I had become fairly skilled hunters. We could out call, out decoy and out shoot just about every hunter in the club…on a good day. Killing a limit as defined by the State of California was no big deal. And then it became pointless.
We became so skilled that we could routinely kill ducks, whatever the species at a fair range, sometimes farther than we should have been shooting. But it worked, so we continued. We became quite adept at killing.
I have this strange quirk of palate. If it swims or flies, generally I don't eat it. I'm severely allergic to fish and as for the fliers; I just plain don't like them. It always pleased me to think of myself as an ethical hunter. For me, that meant no game should be allowed to go to waste. Needless to say, I have given away a lot of ducks, pheasants, doves and quail. Frequently I'd have to clean the game for folks because they either didn't know how or otherwise found it distasteful. It seems that all they know is that food comes from a supermarket unless Dennis delivers!
So there we are, Keith and I are sittin' in this duck blind. I'm enjoying some savory Nacho Cheese Soup that my wife makes, we're sitting there, noses up into a forty-mile an hour breeze and we're watchin' the ducks fly. The Woodies go by and we don't shoot. Then a pair of "fighter pilot" Teal whip past, nary a pop. A half-dozen Mallards roar past and still, we let 'em go, just delighting in their soaring. We suddenly snapped out of it! "Hey, wait a minute, those were Mallards we just ignored!" We got on the calls…FAST.
The Mallards wheeled around as if on a string. They flew to within (the now requisite fifteen yards)…and the darnedest thing happened. We both just let them keep on flying. We didn't fire a shot. It had become too easy. At that point, it would simply be killing.
We both looked sheepishly at each other. I'll claim that I said it first (but I may be incorrect) and I said something like "Why didn't you shoot? I was waitin's to back you up!" And then the discussion went on from there. We had both reached a point were we loved to be out there and Hunting. The Killing;? I guess we'd both had enough.
The whole point of this story is that when we go afield, it's
about Hunting. It's about the challenge, the skills and being "out there".
That's why the sport is called Hunting and not Killing.