I come from Montana. The land of mountains and meadows. Where there’s always fish in the rivers and powder to turn on. I grew up in a hunting family, going out in the early hours with my dad since I can remember.
It became ritual.
Powdered sugar doughnuts and a mug of hot chocolate at 4am. Rising well before the sun and bundling up with every warm layer I had. We’d drive out into the cold Montana morning for about an hour or two until we met the dawn at our destination.
Off we’d go, into the crisp morning, following what signs and insight we had to hunt a group of white tails.
I loved these mornings, I loved the hunt. I earned my name of “Hawk Eye” spotting dear nestled behind sage brush on distant hills. Proud to feel connected to my fraction of Native American roots.
A few hours of hunting, walking, drinking hot cocoa, and we’d finally close in on our target. Before I was old enough to shoot, my dad would station me somewhere where I could see the action unfold. He would crawl, walk, whatever he needed to set up the perfect shot. Then BANG. I’d watch as the animal kicked its final kick and surrendered to the bullet.
A pang of sadness (thanks, Bambi) was not unusual, but it passed quickly once we approached our kill. This beautiful creature lays before us, an offering for our hard work. My dad would start to gut the dear, and a lesson of biology and anatomy would begin.
We would go on a tour of the insides, showing me the heart, with an echo of its last beat minutes before. The lungs, powerful and profound. The liver, intestines, and other masses of unidentified importance. We would open the stomach, seeing a snapshot of the last few meals.
The warm pile that we explored was left behind, a hint at what had happened here, and a feast for the wolves, coyotes, raptors, and on. The cycle of life continues without a blink.
Hauling our catch back home was a proud moment, in Montana, you give a nod of respect when you see a truck with legs and antlers jutting out. It’s a sport, an art, a way of life, and a means of providing food for your family.
I felt so lucky growing up in a family that knew exactly where their meat was coming from. We would process it ourselves too, which only enriched the whole experience. From beginning to end took a ton of work, late nights bled in to early mornings as frozen fingers loaded fresh cuts through the grinder. Mom would treat with fresh butterfly fillet back straps cooked in garlic. I can still taste it.
This was our family, this was our life, our history. This was my Montana roots at it’s finest. I love(d) steak, burgers, tacos, stews, anything we could make out of our freezer full of venison, and I never thought that would change.
Yet here I am, day 6 of 14 on a vegan experiment. Turning on my proud roots and upbringing to chase a plant based life. I’ve finally become the person who was a long running joke in my old world. “I’m from Montana, we don’t breed vegetarians there,” and on. My Montana upbringing is very important to me, it’s a huge part of who I am and the inspiration for most of my tattoos. So trying something that goes against the grain of my identity is something I don’t take lightly.
But in the last year I’ve woken up. Through a series of unfortunate events and snowballing life changes. I am here today. The hunting vegan (in training).
More to come on my vegan experiment.
