A Cold Hunt

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It was a cold Saturday morning. I woke up at 3:15am. Boots. Hat. Coat. Gloves. Shotgun. I was ready to hunt some Sandhill Crane. 

My friends and I loaded up two F-250s and drove to Wharton, a small city an hour southwest of Houston, TX. The cloudless night revealed a crescent moon and an array of stars—normally invisible from my hazy, polluted city. From the trucks, we transferred our gear to the outfitter's ATV and drove over uneven ground through sloshy mud and tall grass. The outfitter set up narrow blinds and applied his chainsaw to surrounding brush, which we placed in front of the blinds for additional camouflage. He also set up decoys which looked alarmingly similar to the birds we would be hunting. 

I thanked Poseidon for my rain boots as I trudged through the mud, trying not to trip, and took my spot next to the outfitter. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and the outfitter told us to duck, as low as we could. "Sandhill Cranes have amazing eyesight," he warned. "Duck down. Duck down! We have about 8 flying towards us."

We waited and my back started to ache from the strained effort. "Front right kill 'em," he murmured. We hesitated. "Hurry!" he said. We shuffled to our feet. I took aim towards the group of birds flying overhead to my right, disregarding my hat falling off, and fired. A bird seemed to hover in slow motion, wings outstretched as it sank to the ground. With a stroke of luck, I had brought down the first kill of the hunt; and we would go on to limit out by 9:30am—each hunter bringing down two birds apiece.

I thought I would feel empathy for the birds we shot, but if I'm being honest I didn't. I did feel bad when we couldn't bring down a crane with one shot. The wounded would hobble on unsteady legs, running as fast as they could; but we would always neutralize them before they got far. I felt bad for not feeling worse.

I heard an array of messages that day. Some said to avoid becoming a far, right-wing nut job. Hunting doesn't feel like a political activity, though. Others said man was "made to hunt", so this was a "natural" activity—as if there's a gene for hunting buried within us. Hunting was exhilarating no doubt. I felt like a badass in my camo gear, seducing my prey to the end of my barrel. But a genetic disposition to hunt seems like a stretch. If that's the case, those who don't hunt are going against their very genetic code; and that's not a judgment call I'm willing to make. 

Sandhill Crane did, however, live up to its nickname, "ribeye in the sky". 


I hope to hunt again soon. 

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