I like to hunt. I really like to hunt. A lot. You could say it’s who I am. Why? The normal cliched answers might be that I enjoy the recreation, exercise, spending time with friends and family, the taste of game meat, or even that I’m satisfying primordial urges. All of these are important, but what I enjoy most is that hunting melts the stress of everyday life from my body. When I hunt, whether I’m sitting in the whitetail woods or the goose blind, or following my dog through a CRP field in search of a rooster pheasant, I’m solely focused on the task at hand. I have no worries. That’s the only logical reason I sometimes subject myself to extreme wind chills and sore feet after long walks, knowing that in many cases the odds of success are stacked against me.
But in truth, that’s not why I hunt. The sole reason is simply that someone asked me to go. Actually I blame it on three different people who asked me, and another who taught me to shoot and let me borrow his shotguns until I had my own. You see, my dad, Dave, doesn’t hunt. I don’t fault him for that – he wasn’t exposed to it as a youth growing up in Indianapolis, and it didn’t stick with him after a few trips in Nebraska.