This is what I believe in.

[Dakota]

I know some of you are probably saying it's messed up, the style does that so I've done a bunch of editing to fix it. Remember, it looks much better printed out as a paper than copy/pasted onto the forums.

It’s More Than Just Pulling the Trigger: I Believe in the Power of Hunting

With a loud echo, a rifle shot rang out late in the afternoon of September 17th, 2006 in the Rochelle Hills of Unit 123 in northeastern Wyoming. The bull, a very respectable 6x6, buckled on the park 280 yards away and ran down a trail leading into a ravine about twenty yards away from where he had stood grazing prior to the shot. Five minutes later, after climbing the park and following a spectacular

blood trail down into the ravine, my guides and I located the bull towards the bottom of the ravine; it wasn’t that hard in all actuality due to his ragged breaths echoing up the ravine like that of some primeval creature. His antlers were entangled in a young pine due to his attempts to lick his wound. The bull, mortally wounded with a double lung shot, attempted to flee, heaving his colossal 900lb. frame to his feet within a yard of me. One quick shot and the .30-06 150gr. Hornady Custom put the bull down for good, breaking both shoulders.

What a fitting and exciting end to a once-in-a-lifetime hunt! We had seen hundreds of elk in an extremely hard unit to draw; we had opportunities at several B&C class bulls, though I had a scope malfunction on my Savage .270; and, after switching to a .30-06, I was able to harvest a good 6x6 the evening of the third day of the hunt; the same bull that had evaded us opening dayevening. He wasn’t the biggest bull we saw on the trip but he was the perfect fit for our living room wall and our freezer would definitely be full for a while!

What a trip, what a perfect little parcel of elk country that not many people get to hunt; but most of all it had been the first trip of many that would result in connections made and friendships that will last a lifetime. This is what hunting is all about: camaraderie with friends and family; passing on your heritage to the next generation; sunrises and sunsets; fond memories of the one that got away or the trophy that is hanging on the wall; experiencing each “first”; seeing and learning vital lessons taught to us by God through His creation.

Some of my earliest memories of hunting have involved my Dad, who was an occasional pheasant hunter at best before I came of age. We moved to Watertown, South Dakota when I was either five or six and my uncle, who is a big outdoorsman and has been one of my heroes since day one, took Dad out duck hunting. It was a terrible day for hunting, from what Dad tells me, and only a few ducks flew within range, but, when Dad pulled up on a pair of Gadwalls and fired, a duck hit the water with a loud smack and my uncle’s chocolate lab retrieved it. When Dad called to tell us the news I was ecstatic and got a bowl of water, some newspapers and a plastic knife and pretended to field dress my toy animals.

When we moved to Parkston, South Dakota in ’98, where my Mom got a job teaching music at Parkston High School, my Dad and I were invited by one of the ladies my Mom worked with to go pheasant hunting at their farm. We had a lot of fun and Dad shot two of the most beautiful and heaviest roosters I have ever seen; of course, I was eight at the time and Dad was my hero.

In 2002 it was my turn to hunt and I was shooting a little 20 gauge single-shot break barrel Dad bought for me for $125. I never got a pheasant that year, but I probably deafened quite a few long tailed roosters! I never did shoot a pheasant with that gun and have since moved up to a double barreled 12 gauge. However, that little 20 is still my go-to “scatter gun” of choice for squirrels and rabbits.

Our way of hunting pheasants has slowly adapted over the years from walking field after field without success to cruising gravel roads for a glimpse of a purple head or white neck ring of a beautiful rooster pheasant. Long weeks of school work gave way with great anticipation to long Saturdays in the field and Sunday afternoons cruising gravel while listening to the Minnesota Vikings game. Usually we didn’t get a bird—sometimes we didn’t even see a pheasant let alone a rooster—but we had fun anyway. All that changed this year, however; we didn’t walk a single field and shot more roosters than we ever had.

In 2003 I started going after big game with my uncle and Dad and, after three deer hunts, I had three deer in the freezer with a grand total of four and a half hours spent in the field that year before harvesting all three deer. After harvesting and dragging my first whitetail—a young buck—back to the truck one cold November opening day afternoon, Dad and I met two other hunters, another father-son team, who had been hunting more public land close by. The four of us each had a buck in the back of the truck, albeit one with a decent 4x4 rack of an adult deer and one with the buttons of a yearling. Looking back on that moment—the congratulations, the back slapping, the shaking of hands and the grins on the faces of both of us boys—still brings a smile to my face and will always be etched in my mind.

Then there was the time, after harvesting my first muzzleloader deer, my uncle was talking on the phone with one of his friends and called me “deer slayer”. These memories will never leave me and what may seem so small in the eyes of others meant the world to me and still does. This is what hunting is all about.

Since I started hunting in 2002, I had shot two whitetails, a mule deer and an elk whereas Dad, whom had been able to get outdoors more than he had in previous years and had shot a lot of pheasants was never able to get his first big game animal until the fall of 2007; I was fortunate enough to witness this and will never forget how it happened. One beautiful crisp October afternoon in far northwestern South Dakota a rifle shot rang out from below the hill I would crest a split second later. As I stood on the hill I was astounded at the beauty of the western landscape; a wide and shallow valley cut across the slowly rolling hillsides glistening with sun-touched waving prairie grasses and, as I took this in, I noticed the most beautiful pronghorn antelope doe I had ever seen rearing on her hind legs and fall to the ground. Dad had his first big game animal and a beautiful one to boot and I couldn’t have been more proud!

Since 2005 I have lost two of my best friends in car accidents and that has affected me deeply. Lee and Dylan both went to my church and were in youth group with me and we had a lot of fun together. Lee was an occasional hunter and lived on a farm with his Mom and Dad and two older sisters. He always enjoyed “trimming” the rabbit population with his .22LR and definitely kept them in check. Since he passed, the rabbit population has exploded and several of us church guys have taken the task upon us every opportunity we get not only to hunt but to do our part in taking care of his family and keeping his mom company, who has become a mother to all of us. This past Easter Break, Julaine—Lee’s mom—invited several of us high school and college age guys for a Friday morning breakfast and we all brought our .22s and shotguns as well to take care of the rabbits and barn pigeons. As always, the food was superb and the hunting was excellent. Two pigeons dropped and four rabbits bit the dust as well, though we would have had close to a dozen bunnies if all of us had been wielding shotguns as we pushed the hardwood lots.

Dylan passed in the fall of 2006, a few weeks before I would go on my elk hunt. He was a big time hunter and was his Dad’s oldest son and best hunting buddy. Doyle has not been the same since and has been struggling with his faith because of losing Dylan. It is very hard for our church family to see him going through this and we are afraid Doyle may have turned his back on the church for no good reason. Dylan and Doyle were the best of friends and Dylan always wanted to be like his Dad and he was certainly turning out that way before he was killed. They shared a bond not just through hunting, though that was a major part of their lives, but through the relationship of a father and son that cannot be replaced.

This past April, I was able to go turkey hunting in the Black Hills of Wyoming and South Dakota with one of my biggest hunting heroes, now friend and mentor, Jim Zumbo, the former hunting editor of Outdoor Life magazine, the author of over 20 books, host of Jim Zumbo Outdoors on the Outdoor Channel and North America’s top elk hunting authority. We had some hard hunting and the turkeys were not cooperating. However, I could not hide my enthusiasm and gratitude after Jim complemented my calling after a failed set up on South Dakota forest land saying that if he was a gobbler he would be gobbling his head off and that I could call for him any day and that he has heard many of the best turkey callers and that I am one of the best he has ever heard. A day later I rolled a beautiful once-in-a-lifetime hermaphrodite Merriam’s at 150 yards with Jim’s old .22-250 bolt action. In all his years of turkey hunting Jim had never seen anything like it and was also impressed with the shot.

Heritage also plays a big role in hunting in my family. On my Dad’s side my Grandpa Case hunted pheasants and would often shoot his limit of ring-necks while road hunting on the way from Watertown to Huron when he and Grandma and all seven kids took a day trip to visit Grandpa and Grandma Abler. Though he doesn’t hunt any more, two of my uncles and my Dad still do. There are even pictures of my Grandma holding a couple of roosters and my Grandpa Abler’s little .410 bolt action shotgun he bought in 1936; that shotgun now sits in my gun cabinet waiting for the day she can dump pheasants again.

On my Mom’s side hunting plays a vital role as well. My great-great-great-grandfather, Doc Jones, and his cousin, “Little John" Cable, were legendary bear hunters and hounds men in the great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina towards the turn of the 20th Century. John Cable even developed his own strain of the Plott hound specially designed for bear hunting by mixing Plotts with Currs that is commonly known today as the “Cable Plott” or the “Cable Hound”. Many of my Mom’s cousins and uncles hunt and so did Grandpa Jones for a while, even dabbling in bow hunting. This same grandfather is also part Cherokee Indian, his mother—my great-grandmother—was at least half--perhaps full--Cherokee. Perhaps this is why I feel so at home in the woods with my longbow or muzzleloader. Perhaps not, but I’d like to think so.

In my seven years of hunting I have learned numerous lessons while in the field or wood. How can I not come away better prepared as a future husband after watching a wise old gobbler deciding not to commit to my seductive calls but rather stays loyal to the one hen accompanying him? One could almost argue that a turkey has better morals that most in today’s society; the sad thing is that this is probably not far off the mark. A lot can be learned about love from a shared tender moment between a mother antelope and her kid on the sagebrush flatlands. I even learned a lesson in humility and not to be too greedy when I missed a pronghorn doe seven times after dropping her two companions while trying to fill all three of my tags. Even more practical and light lessons can be learned as Tom Walsh, owner of most of the local Burger Kings, learned to his misfortune. Don’t make a shooting bet against me; Tom learned this the hard way and lost a beautiful double barrel shotgun.

Since I started hunting I have experienced many thrills while in the woods and still get tingles down my spine when I think of them. How can I forget missing my first deer with the bow from my tree stand at 25 yards and then 20 yards? Long after that little spike buck had snorted and ran off I just sat there, my whole body shaking with adrenalin. Then there was the time my guides and I watched a big bodied bull elk tearing up a small pine just below timberline half a mile away and then bugle in our faces before walking back up into the trees; what that particular tree did to that elk I’ll never know. I can’t tell you how much pride and appreciation I felt for the National Wild Turkey Federation and my part in it as I listened in shock and amazement as eleven gobblers thundered from the southeastern South Dakota river bottom below where Ben, Honey Creek Outdoors Junior Staffer and camera man, and I had set up just five miles from the biggest city in South Dakota.

There’s something so soothing about hunting or being in the outdoors in general. I feel at peace, at home, in the woods and fields. I look forward with anticipation to the coming fall as I think of the brilliant colors of a flushing pheasant or the rut-induced antics of crazed antelope bucks on the South Dakota and Wyoming prairies, and who knows what my trap line may produce each trip along the line this fall and winter; let’s hope fur prices don’t plummet.

You never know what will happen in the outdoors: whether you may flush one rooster or twenty; that big buck you’ve been scouting for three years might show up or an even bigger buck you’ve never seen before may succumb to your bullet or arrow; you may catch a coon or a skunk in your trap, you may not; you may hook a giant rainbow on the fly rod, or it may decide to swim between your legs. This is why I love the outdoors, it brings man on an even footing with nature and God’s creation. This is hunting; this is the outdoors; this is what I love and this is what I believe in.

Dakota

Edited June 29, 2009 by Dakota

[redkneck]

Man I'm supposed to be working, you don't have that in Cliff's Notes do you?

[The_Kat]

nice article dakota!

[Doe-ee]

Dakota, your passion is evident. I have yet to bag my first animal but I will keep some of your thoughts in mind when or if I do. Thanks.

[Dakota]

Thanks all!

Dakota

[NS whitetail]

good stuff Dakota

This is what hunting is all about: camaraderie with friends and family; passing on your heritage to the next generation;

Amen to that

[wtnhunt]

Good job putting all that into words Dakota.

[aksheephuntress]

-this is awesome, Dakota!

-you definitely have the right attitude and perspective.....

-thankyou for making my day, with this!

[redkneck]

That was a good read, once I got home and had time to go over it all. I can remember taking about 3 deer in 3 weekends when i was about 11 or 12 and carrying the nickame "deerslayer" for a while too. Those early memories and pictures are priceless.

[stevebeilgard]

excellent, dakota. just excellent.