
A hunter’s reflection on the complexities and associated emotions of the moment we find ourselves bird-in-hand…
In the closing minutes of the last day of Wisconsin’s ruffed grouse season, I shot a beautiful mature gray bird that flushed wild high out of a mature aspen. Holding that improbable bird, part of me wanted to let out a wild barbaric WHOOP, one which would rip through the surrounding woods, but doing so never seems quite right to me in this sober moment when I have just ended the life of such a wildly noble creature. On top of the elation, I felt regret, twinges of guilt, I even foolishly wished we hunters had a shoot-and-release. Part of me wanted to throw that bird in the air and watch it fly away, but hunting requires pulling the trigger or at least the intent to do so, otherwise it isn’t hunting. It’s something else, I don’t know what, but it’s not hunting.
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