Figured you guys might appreciate this.
http://www.nrasharp.com/columns/where-the-trail-doesnt-lead-keith/As we broke over the ridge at nearly 10,000 feet, the wind hit us like we were standing on the wing of a moving biplane. We piled on the layers we�d shed for the brutal climb and did our best to get comfortable among the rocks. Over the next few minutes, Brandon and I experienced the black Wyoming sky slowly morphing into a brilliant sunrise. It was one of the most stunning landscapes that I�d ever seen � jagged peaks, plunging slopes, and a faraway glimpse of Grand Teton, but I would have never witnessed it if it hadn�t been for the deer tag in my pocket.
Seeing that sunrise took countless hours of preparation in the gym and on the trail, hundreds of rounds fired on the practice range, careful equipment selection and years of financial savings. Anyone would appreciate that view, but how many would endure the 3 a.m. wakeup, the three-hour horse ride in total darkness, the leg-smoking hour-long climb, the hefty price tag and the brutal cold to see it? Most of the �nature lovers� I�ve encountered consider rolling down their rental car window to take an iPhone photo interacting with the wilderness.
I�ve seen some truly beautiful and unique sights in the wild: things you�d never see at a roadside �observation area,� things seen only after spending hundreds of hours alone in the wilderness. I�ve seen Golden Eagles soar, though I�m not a birdwatcher. I�ve walked silently among the quakies but I�m not a �leafer.� I�ve heard cougars scream, watched lions feast on a kudu and I�ve followed fresh wolf tracks in the snow.
I�d venture to guess that I�ve quietly observed more nature than a Subaru-load of self-described �tree-huggers,� purely as a byproduct of being a hunter. When you spend days on end tracking, sitting, hiking, climbing, freezing, sweating, waiting, observing, you are in-tune with the hustle and bustle of the natural world in a way that most other humans can�t identify with. An artist may see a meadow as an image of a perfect landscape to be immortalized in oil or pixels, while a hunter with the same view sees the elk tracks, smells the musky wallows, hears the bugle, tests the wind and plans the perfect stalk. The hunter is afield when the sun rises, and still there when it sets. In pursuit of the kill, the hunter sees so much life.
I reject the image that hunters are the destroyers of nature, and I came to this conclusion honestly � I didn�t grow up hunting. In my hometown you were supposed to be a surfer or maybe a fisherman. Television and movies told me that hunters, drunk and loud, rode around in 4x4s, tearing-up the landscape and shooting at every living thing that moved � the bastards even killed Bambi�s mother.
Real life experience contradicted those images. I learned that hunters, by necessity if not by choice, must become part of the habitat in order to be successful in their pursuits. I view the exceptions � the way an honest cop views a crooked one. I live at Sea Level, and the animals that I love to hunt live high. That means thin air, steep mountains and heavy packs. In practicality, that means heavy squats, box jumps and stadium runs. These honest hours spent in the gym earn me my ticket up the mountain and make me appreciate tenderloin the way others can�t fathom. I have no apologies.
Hunting has taken me to some remote corners of this continent, and this Earth, that few non-hunters have tread. I�ve had non-hunters in Birkenstocks and socks try to lecture me when they see my rifle case at the airport in Jackson or JoBurg, but I�ve never seen them side-hilling on a ridge when the hail is blowing horizontally or bumped into them when I�m tripping my way through the darkness in grizzly country with a pack full of bloody meat. I�m not saying that no one ventures into the harsh backcountry without a gun or bow � those who climb the mountain purely because it exists get as much of my respect as I hope they give me, I just don�t encounter many.
Lest you think I�m trying to justify myself as a hunter by suggesting some special altruistic bond with nature, let me assure you that I�m not. I enjoy the hunt, all of the hunt. That my dollars help keep the wild places wild is not why I spend them. A co-worker once asked me if I �felt bad� for the animals that I hunted. I told her that I felt as bad for them as I felt for the pig she was eating or the cow she was wearing; at least I do my own killing. The fact that I�ve seen so much that nature has to offer while hunting is to my benefit, not to nature�s. I�m not asking forgiveness, I�m saying thanks.
Until you�ve looked down at the mountain goat, listened to the lion roar from your open tent, or stumbled into camp at 1 a.m. with your boots bloodied from the hike, don�t talk to me about nature. Enjoy your latte.
