Читать книгу Never Cry Halibut. and Other Alaska Hunting and Fishing Tales онлайн

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“You didn’t even see him! He was off to your side,” Luke said, still ecstatic for some reason.

Contrary to many folks’ beliefs, meat hunters are neither dimwitted nor lazy, nor do we shoot anything that moves. In fact, meat hunting is one of the most ancient forms of art. Someday soon, highbrow museums will devote large exhibits to the subject. Ironically dressed intellectuals smoking cigarettes and drinking kombucha will browse the displays.

“Hmm, yes, the caribou hunting painting is so post-archaic garde.”

“Hmm, yes, primitive but bold.”

“I only see a bunch of colors and squiggly lines.”

“You’re not looking deep enough.”

As a meat hunter concerned with my nobility paunch and the paunches of those I care for, I have great respect for the animals I harvest. My dad, in raising three half-feral sons, reiterated certain lessons over and over.

“Know where your gun is shooting before you go into the woods. When you see the right animal, take a good rest. Don’t rush. Make a clean shot. It’s better to watch an animal run off healthy than to miss and wound it,” he told us as we learned to handle the responsibility of being hunters. I soon found that killing as swiftly and humanely as possible was only part of becoming a good hunter.