Honoring Family Tradition

My father’s family engaged in a practice at the epicenter of the rural economic market since the beginning of the 20th Century: farming. Harvesting wheat, barley, and alfalfa accrued a trivial income. Survival required frugality. Hunting allowed for the collection of protein-rich meat at the expense of a single round. My initiation into adulthood, influenced by these hunting traditions, is marked by the moment an animal’s life is extinguished, and I assume responsibility for the creature’s spirit. I am obligated to honor the life of the animal that brings sustenance to my family.

The first of July not only represents the pinnacle of Arizona’s repressive heat, but the deadline for all Arizona Game and Fish hunting applications. Putting in for an elk tag initiates the annual nerve-racking period in which one must wait to determine whether or not they overcame the steep odds of being drawn for a tag. This past March, my luck prevailed. My childhood friend and I were both drawn for female elk tags, and preparations began for an October hunt. Trips to the shooting range, scouting expeditions, and the hiring of a professional guide quickly ensued. When October 9th arrived, day one of the hunt was underway.

My friend fired the first, and his only, shot of the hunt. Within a few hours of daylight, he downed his first elk. The pride beaming from my friend’s father’s eyes was overwhelming. After an initial wave of jealousy crashed upon me and retreated, two emotions remained: elation for the success of my friend and pressure to fill my tag. That afternoon, walking ridge over ridge, I stumbled upon a beautiful cow elk. My safety came off. She strolled into my crosshairs. Suddenly, a six-point bull sauntered in front of my potential prize. Reluctantly, I stood down refusing to sacrifice my integrity for the kill.

Up before the sun, listening to the distinct bugle of the elk, day two began. Within an hour, I fired off a round, failed to hit my unsuspecting target, and sent the herd into a frenzy. Surrounded by a wall of disappointment, failure consumed me. For an instant, I wallowed in my failure, and then pushing it aside, I trekked on until darkness forced my regression to camp. Only a half-day remained, and the prospect of failure loomed ahead. My naturally ultra-competitive self wrestled with the thought of being unsuccessful. I considered that perhaps it is not the kill that makes the man but the hunt itself. Wisdom attained during the hunt forces a child to face adult issues: lack of guaranteed success, celebrating a victory that is not one’s own, learning to take orders from a guide, going all in with the possibility of disappointment.

The question lingered, what would it mean if I came up short in the morning? I awoke, determined to finish the hunt with all the audacity and vigor that remained in my drained body. Five miles and two hours after daybreak, I downed a five hundred pound cow elk. Looking at my father, the pride I was once envious of radiated from his eyes.

Looking back, I had assumed the spirit of the elk long before the kill. Regardless of success or failure, my integrity remained intact throughout the hunt. Before departing camp, our guide pulled me aside and told me that if I extend the same effort and drive into my future that I exercised on the hunt, I will have the opportunity to accomplish whatever I set out to achieve. Proud I did not push a bad shot, he was captivated by how my friend and I worked together, each constantly looking out for the other. I drove down the mountain a different, more mature, person. I now embody the spirit of the elk: strong, graceful, confident. Ready to attack life, I descend to the desert, poised to overcome any adversity that awaits.