by Andy Kerr
Why, on this lovely but cold day, am I
carrying this very high-powered weapon? It's
a crisp November morn in Oregon's Blue
Mountains. The light of first dawn is
creeping down the opposite canyon wall and
will soon reach me. It's about time. I warm
at the sight of the sun-struck old growth
ponderosa pine. If they have taken several
centuries of cold mornings worse than this, I
guess I can take this morning.
Not yet fully awake and still tired from a
long night in a down sleeping bag whose loft
is as down and out as they come, I walked
with James up the river trail well before
sunrise to meet the other four members of our
hunting party. A more hearty lot than James
or I (maybe just better sleeping bags), they
camped last night with light rations and no
tent.
The bivouac was our latest theory on how
best to kill a Rocky Mountain bull elk. We
rationalized that by being "out
there" before dawn, before the animals
were stirred up would provide the best
opportunity to provide some meat for winter.
I am standing in a half-foot of snow at
the mouth of a creek that pours into the
river. I stop and wait since I believe this
is where the others will eventually arrive. A
more energetic James has taken a mid-slope
sojourn through the pines now in full sun.
Not only will they come through here I
reason, but most importantly I won't have to
get my feet wet crossing the stream.
Why am I here? Oh yes, to kill an elk. Not
a pleasant assignment, but since I
choose— for now at least—to eat
flesh, I should at least attempt to
personally acquire some of it each year.
Since I currently eat and enjoy eating what
once very much breathed such as I, should I
not take the moral responsibility for the
slaughtering and butchering?
As I prepared for "elk camp,"
several of my liberal friends and associates,
when informed of my pending absence, said in
effect, "have a good time and I hope you
don't get anything."
I would smile and repress my urge to shout
"You hypocritical bastards! Where in
hell do you think meat comes from? Not the
goddamn supermarket all neatly sliced on
Styrofoam and encased in cellophane. No, it
comes from living animals who died by
human hands to bring it to you. Now, if you
haven't got the gonads to do it, that's one
thing, but don't give me shit for taking
direct responsibility for it."
Like I said, I suppressed those thoughts.
During the same period, I also encountered
vegetarians who said the same thing. That I
could better tolerate.
I shuffle around, taking a quick tour of
my stand. The river flows below, snow mounds
on the exposed rocks. The clouds tumble past
quickly overhead, evidence of the high winds
aloft. A noisy raven glides high to the
south. I stare at a melting icicle, timing in
my mind the drips.
Suddenly I get the feeling that I'm being
watched. That hard to describe creepy feeling
of being watched. Perhaps my paranoia, but
just because you are paranoid doesn't mean
you are not being followed. I slowly turn and
confirm my feeling. It's Tim, 30 yards up the
trail with one of his near continuous
cigarettes hanging out of his mouth. I now
catch the smell of the smoke on the wind.
He stands there with his Nordic
complexion, with hair more white than blonde
and his moustache submerging in four days
worth of beard. I nod and he proceeds
quietly. We meet. No blood on his hands. The
elk are safe again. We chat in whispers and
take nips from his whiskey flask. I don't
care much for the stuff, but it tastes good
now. We shift positions to better utilize the
warmth of the sun. He relates his bivouac
tale.
"Didn't see a thing. Fresh tracks
everywhere, but not an animal in sight. I
know they are in there. Heard some shots. I
was hoping they were you guys. Where's
Jim?"
"You know how he is," I
whispered.
"Yeah . . ., maybe the shots were
Tommy. Heard one shot, followed by three in
rapid succession."
We chat on quietly waiting for the others.
Soon, Tommy shows up. Just as Nordic as Tim
and a half-foot shorter, Tommy skips up to us
with a big shit-eatin' grin on his face. No
blood on his hands either. He always
has that shit-eatin' grin. We repeat our
earlier chat, this time not quite as quietly.
Tommy throws in lewd and obscene comments at
every available opportunity. He's the
horniest man in Oregon and makes no pretenses
about it. Rumor has it that he has a closet
full of negligees in all colors and sizes for
whomever may be at his cabin. It is further
rumored that he has a complete set of
diaphragms ("You look like about a
48") in case his woman friend didn't
bring hers.
The flask passes again and our
conversation is at a near normal level. Out
of the corner of my eye, I see another
walking body. We turn to see a lanky, tall
man of 24 who acts a rightful 30, lumbering
toward us with his rifle strung over his
shoulder. A large pinch of Copenhagen serves
to give the effect of a fat lip. No blood on
his hands either. Again, we repeat our tales
to Steve, who adds a few of his own. Our talk
is now at a roar and is liberally aided by
Steve's George Dickel "sippin'
whiskey."
"Who the hell fired those
shots?" roared Steve. "I thought it
was you," as he points with his whiskey
bottle to Tommy.
"I wish," grins Tommy.
"Our only hope is Marty. And where is
Jim?" says Tim.
"We'll find him on the way out,"
I offered.
The conversation is now at a full tavern
roar. We finally hear a wild whoop down by
the creek. Our eyes turn and it is Marty
saluting us with an upraised fist. The other
hand holds a yellow government-issue plastic
litterbag. A chorus of cheers commences, for
we all know what's in the bag. The heart and
the liver of a bull elk.
"Fresh meat in camp," shouts
Tommy. Marty wearily stalks up the slope to
our caucus site. He sets his big frame on the
log. He looks tired, and before he speaks he
takes an offered cigarette. Another round of
the flasks before we get down to the bloody
details.
"It wasn't a half an hour after I
left you guys. The snow was so damn crunchy
that rather than walking slow and quiet, I
just bulled through the stuff for a while,
and then I'd sit real quiet until I got cold.
"So I was sitting looking across this
meadow at this badger. The little sucker was
playing in the snow, trying to get over this
log. Hell, I must of watched him for 20
minutes. Finally I got cold, so I get up and
start rolling up my sleeping pad that I'm
sitting on. I see something out of the corner
of my eye. I turn my head and there is the
big bull elk standing right in the middle of
the meadow. I just about shit. I reach down
for my rifle, raise, aim, and fire. He goes
down."
"But I heard four shots,"
interrupted Tim.
"Yeah. I shot him three more times.
He was laying there flopping around. It was
making me sick. I couldn't stand it."
"He was probably dead. It was just
reflexes," says Steve, who knows all
about that kind of stuff.
"Shit, I don't know. I just couldn't
stand it. So, anyway, it's time to gut it.
God, I cut him open from bow to stern. I
never seen such a big paunch. It was huge.
The gut pile must be three feet high."
My paunch, still well attached, gets a bit
queasy by the details. But dammit, I think,
this is what being a carnivore is all about.
The story and backslapping ceases and we
start our long trek back to the rig.
That night in camp, all of us with Marty's
wife, Catherine, ate heart, liver, and gonads
for dinner. Some of us passed on the
"oysters," since there were only
two to go around. Since there wasn't enough
ketchup in camp (or the county for that
matter), I passed on the liver as well. I
concentrated on the heart, while Steve waxed
eloquent about the ventricle and aorta.
Around the fire in the teepee, Marty
explains the gutting in even more detail.
"Shit, I never gutted anything before.
Seen and read about it a bit. After it
finally stops flailing around, I roll it over
as best I can and pull my knife. I slit its
belly from prick to neck. Out comes that huge
paunch. I thought it would never end."
There it goes with the paunch stuff again.
"So I get that out. But I knew you
had to cut its throat to disconnect the heart
and lungs from the windpipe. I cut out the
heart and liver and set them aside. I know
you have to be careful about the bladder, but
I had a hard time finding it. Finally I get
all the stuff detached. I tried to maneuver
him for a better position, but he's so damn
heavy. I didn't want the meat to get tainted,
so I must of washed the chest cavity out with
snow about six times."
"Christ, it will be shining,"
says Jim.
"Did you have any trouble skinning
it?" asks Steve.
"Skin it," says Marty. "I
was supposed to skin it there? Oh shit, I
hope I didn't blow it."
"No big deal," assured our
resident anatomist. "It's just that
tomorrow morning the whole thing will be
frozen solid. Tough skinning is all. In
warmer weather, you should skin right away to
make sure the meat cools properly.
More eating, drinking and finally sleep.
It was up at the crack of midmorning for
the big pack out. Marty managed to slew the
beast in the wilderness as far from a road as
possible. We loaded pack frames, lunches and
beer into Tim's father's 1954 Willys four
wheel drive station wagon and drove to the
nearest road's end. It was two steep downhill
miles to the kill.
We are in excellent spirits on the way
down. All seven of us headed out choosing to
discuss the lovely day rather than the
tortuous loads we would carry on the way out.
Steve carried the lone rifle in case we saw
something else.
It was indeed a glorious day. A few clouds
drifted by to the northeast. The snow was
powdery and knee-deep as we headed down the
slope. We were soon all strung out, with
Marty leading and I bringing up the rear. No
chance of getting lost, since I have six sets
of tracks to choose from.
I am not looking forward to the quartering
and boning. I actually prefer to think of the
killer pack. But, I reason, it's only right
to have blood on your hands if it's going to
be in your mouth.
My thoughts turn to my youth and my first
big kill. Hunting was serious business in my
family. My mother wasn't keen on it, but I
grew up mainly on venison and elk supplied by
my father. If not wild game, it was mostly
beef or chicken for dinner. My grandmother
shot her last deer when she was in her
seventh decade. Before I carried a gun at 13,
I always clamored to accompany my father on
his hunting trips.
With a rifle in hand, however, I was
confronted with the stark reality. Yes, the
goal was to shoot that very beautiful and
very living mule deer. After that, one had to
gut it, skin it, cut and wrap it, and of
course eat it. I always was grossed out when
I had to assist in the family gutting. Up to
your armpits in hot, still living guts,
blood, hair, and other indescribable tissues
and liquids.
But what really bothered me was the
killing. Put the defenseless animal in the
sights and blast it to death with a .30
caliber bullet. Would I have the
"guts" to do it? It bothered me
greatly, since I could detect no such
reluctance from my fellow hunters and role
models.
Due to fortunate circumstances for me and
the deer, I never had to confront my
cowardice for the first two seasons. My
reluctant cowardice was two-fold. The
inability to shoot the animal and the fear of
telling my father of my fears.
In my 15th year, I came up with what I
thought was the perfect solution: I'd just
shoot and miss. Embarrassing, but
face-saving. Rather a bad shot than a pansy.
Then I'd phase myself slowly out of the
hunting religion.
However, it didn't work out as planned.
About 20 miles south of where I now stand on
the bank of the North Fork of the Malheur
River is Antelope Mountain. My father and I
had dropped off some fellow hunters and were
driving the rig around to meet them on a
"stand." Stands are great. You can
sit against a tree and pretend to be
seriously looking for the mere movement of a
deer. I usually contemplated more serious
matters, such as the jigsaw pattern of
ponderosa pine bark or my budding sexuality.
Come to think of it, I still think a lot
about sex on the stand.
We are cruising along and a forked horn
buck runs across the road. My father hits the
brakes and looks over to me and says to go
it. I jump out and run behind the vehicle.
Although I intend to shoot to miss, I
nonetheless am very excited. I raise my
Remington 760 "Gamemaster" and peer
through the 3 to 9 power variable scope.
The primeval instinct took over. The prey
was trying to escape me, the predator. Kill!
Kill! I had the blood lust. I squeezed the
trigger. Nothing happened. Forgot to release
the safety catch. I squeeze again. I feel the
recoil, but don't hear anything. I focus
again. The buck turns and looks toward me and
drops to the ground. It's still moving. I
shoot (unnecessarily) again. It doesn't move
any more. We run up to it. I stand staring
with both pride and revulsion. My first shot
was right out of the textbook. Right through
the shoulder. The second, however, was a gut
shot. Very messy. As a result, my father
gutted it to make sure the meat didn't get
tainted. Fortunately, I missed my full
immersion baptism in guts.
The deed done, I placed my duly authorized
State of Oregon deer tag number 144328 on the
animal. We carted it to the rig and drove
off. The magpies already eyeing the gut pile.
Later my grandfather mounted the tiny
antlers, and they hang still as a reminder in
my front room.
The canyon narrows, and it's necessary to
cross the stream several times. I hear voices
and know I'm near the kill. I sit to rest,
out of sight of the others.
That didn't end my hunting. It took a more
spiritual experience while hunting chuckars
on the east side of Steens Mountain. The
following Christmas vacation was a time to
slew this exotic Asian bird. The chuckar is
fair eating if you shoot enough. The little
devils were tough hunting, since they always
flew uphill. I am again walking along with my
father, this time on foot through the
sagebrush. The old man notices that I'm not
into it and proceeds to chew me out.
So I take the long route back to camp. I
sit down on a big boulder covered with orange
lichen and have a talk with myself. It was a
beautiful day. The Alvord Desert, a barren
alkali flat to the east, framed cloud shadows
on its white canvas with ease. The sun was
warm, the air cool and crisp.
But I was just pissed. Mad at my father,
mad at myself, and mad at the world. Just
then a jackrabbit hopped by, and I simply
blasted it with my .20 gauge double-barreled
shotgun. Both barrels. For no other reason
than I was pissed off. The rabbit was just in
the wrong place at the wrong moment. I walked
over to it, kicked it over and then started
crying.
Oh well, I can't avoid it any longer. I
walked around the bend in the creek with my
comrades in the meadow. They were rolling up
their sleeves. We discussed the task. Steve
assumed the unspoken command, since he was
the anatomical fanatic. He directed work
crews top and bottom.
Catherine built a fire, more for
atmosphere rather than any needed heat value.
We named him Herman. I quickly volunteer to
be the sawyer. Less chance of touching blood
and flesh, I figured.
There was a short silence where I and, I
suspect, the others said a short prayer of
thanks in our own religion for Herman's
sacrifice. I am standing over this recently
living elk. Its rich golden brown fur coat
hides a third of a ton of blood and guts and
brains and brawn. "Let's go,"
someone said softly.
I was directed to saw off the horns. Tommy
held while I hacked first through hair then
skull and then brain. My stomach was slightly
queasy. Not too bad, though, since Herman was
stone cold dead. I sawed incorrectly, and the
rack of antlers broke in two.
Soon the hide was off. As we cut and
hacked, Herman gradually turned from a
once-living being to pieces of meat. Tommy
stripped off the meat from the ribs. Tim,
Marty, and Steve wrestled with the massive
hindquarters. Then the front quarters. Jim
cut at various parts, more like a surgeon
than a butcher. Catherine shuttled between
creek and fire, washing and bagging meat.
Finally, it is all cut up. The sun is
getting a bit low in the southwestern sky.
Herman isn't Herman anymore. It's just piles
and piles of meat, bones, hide and, oh yes,
let us not forget, guts. As I stare at the
bare rib cage, I realize why it got
progressively easier for me to handle the
meat as we went along. It wasn't that I got
used to it in the sense of becoming callous
to it, but rather that the animal turned
progressively from a once-living being to
simply cuts of meat. With some Styrofoam and
cellophane and some rose-colored glasses, we
could be at Safeway.
But we aren't. We are two miles down in
this deep canyon and it is getting dark. To a
chorus of groans, we lift our 100-pound
packs. One step at a time. No problem. Just
take it easy. As we trudge up the snow
slippery slope, the rest stops become more
frequent. Each step is becoming a serious
chore. Damn this pack aches. I am relishing
each brief rest and every flat spot in the
trial is a brief paradise.
I suggest that Steve pass that gun around
so we may take turns holding it on each
other, so we may force each other up the
hill. The sun is down now and it's getting
cold, but the pouring sweat insulates me
well. Left foot, right foot. Ah, the last
stretch. I hear the others. By their
boisterous yells, I know they are at the
Willys. Someone touches off a rifle shot in a
one-gun salute.
