Growing up in North Carolina, I was never drawn to the idea of deer hunting. As a young kid, it all seemed pretty boring – get up before sunrise, sit still in a cold tree stand for hours on end, (hopefully) shoot a deer, throw it in the back of a truck and drive home. Not particularly adventurous or challenging, especially when you consider the ridiculous numbers of whitetails in eastern North Carolina.
As a boy, I was in perpetual motion and chose to spend my non-school time participating in more “interesting” activities – chopping trees, building trails, and exploring the woods behind my neighborhood, fly fishing for Tar River bluegill and bass (while avoiding copperheads), and becoming proficient at rappelling out of my 2nd story bedroom window.
The adventures intensified through my teens and into my early twenties – a college semester spent mountaineering in the North Cascades, a climbing trip to Argentina’s Andes Mountains, pushing myself through long distance triathlons. Through those years, I always enjoyed fishing and bird hunting, but never really considered them to be truly adventurous, challenging, or hardcore.*
When I moved to Wyoming in September 2005, my perspective on hunting quickly changed. All of the guys I worked with were devoted elk and mule deer hunters, and, when I arrived, bow season was in full swing. The elk were in full rut and at dusk I could hear them bugling up in the hills above town. My coworkers told stories of hiking off-trail for hours – sometimes days – on end, up and over “hills” that were thousands of feet taller than the east coast’s biggest mountain. If they did actually bag an elk, which was by no means guaranteed, they would work quickly to field dress the animal and pack it out on their backs, all while trying to avoid grizzly bears that loved the smell of fresh blood.
I quickly realized that big game hunting in the Rockies was a completely different pursuit than the limited version of hunting that I had in my head. After hearing those guys’ stories, my climbing, hiking, and endurance feats seemed not just tame, but, to use a T.R. term, downright “unmanly.” Sure, I climbed the highest peak in the western hemisphere… but I sure as hell didn’t have a grizzly stalking me as I descended from the summit.
——
If I had a time machine, I’d set the Flux Capacitor to 1987, hammer the accelerator to 88 mph, and take a copy of Stephen Rinella’s newest book Meat Eater back to my younger self. After reading his tales of hunting deer in the Missouri Breaks, stalking Dall sheep in Alaska, bonefishing in Mexico and tracking mountain lions in Arizona, the younger me would never make the mistake of calling any form of hunting (or fishing or trapping) boring.
The book, subtitled “Adventures from the Life of an American Hunter,” is just that – Rinella’s autobiographical accounts of some of his most exciting adventures hunting, fishing, and exploring everywhere from the Rockies to Southeast Asia. It follows his life growing up hunting and trapping in Michigan to some of his wildest and toughest adventures pursuing game around world.
But adventure books are a dime a dozen. What makes this book special is Rinella’s insights on the hunting lifestyle – the historical context of hunting as it relates to the settling and expansion of the United States, his ethical failings as a young hunter, and how hunting (or lack of hunting) is affecting our society. Rinella has the unique the talent of delving deep into the philosophical side of a subject without coming off as some kind of dreamy, head-in-the-clouds philosopher.
I’m not enough of a talented writer to give the book its due, but this review from the Wall Street Journal does the trick.
If you like adventure, history, and smart writing, I encourage you to check out this book. And when you’re done, read his other book, American Buffalo (I mentioned it in a previous post). You don’t have to be a hardcore hunter to enjoy and learn from Meat Eater. In fact, I think open-minded non-hunters may enjoy and benefit from this book more than any other group of readers.
——-
(*The most memorable hunting adventure I ever had was not a result of the wild animal or severe weather, but a result of the crazy-ass people involved. It’s a long story, but the basic gist is that I worked for 3 weeks at a duck hunting camp in the bayou of SW Louisiana. I lived in a trailer with a bunch of Cajun dudes, one of whom would keep a zip lock bag of fried chicken under his pillow, and would gnaw at greasy drumsticks until he fell asleep. Every night, just after collapsing in his bed and just before the gnawing began, he’d say, “Eddie, this is where I do my best work.” Another one of my roommates jumped out of a moving jonboat and wrestled a swimming deer to its death. There are plenty other stories, all R-rated. I should write a book.)
