It’s a cold morning in Wyoming, just South of the Wind Range. Robert and I are hunting antelope and are, as usual, classically under prepared for a weekend of camping when it comes to meal preparation. We forgot to bring breakfast, it’s freezing cold. Hence, the icy apple.

…..

It’s been a long night. We have parked on a low ridge above a BLM guzzler* on the undulating sage flats of Wyoming. Desolate, cold, barren country. I’m very warm in my down sleeping bag with Robert beside me and Penelope curled up behind my knees inside my bag. I usually wake up freezing on nights like these while camping but after eating dinner around a sage fed fire the only part of my body that is frigid in the night air is the very tip of my nose.

At one point in the night I wake up to star shine pushing through our tinted canopy windows and the low grunts of an antelope buck ushering his harem to and from the guzzler a quarter mile below our encampment. It’s magic. I sit up in my sleeping bag and attempt to peer out the window, hoping I can see the herd in the starlight. Tawny ghosts move with a wild sort of choreography down by the troughs; I shiver, and whisper at RW, “Can you hear them?”

Robert is first out of bed in the morning. I roll over and try to squeeze the last of the warmth out of my sleeping bag before peeling myself out of that feathery cocoon to put on a second long underwear layer, a windproof fleece, a down jacket, and down booties; my hiking boots are solid blocks of leather and rubber in the corner of the truck bed. They’ll stay there for the rest of the trip. In the night a cold layer of snow has descended upon us. A blanketing of the eyesight is what it really is. White precipitation blended with golden grasses and ink blots of sage, as far as the eye can see, will make spotting antelope more difficult. We round up the dogs, hop in the truck and begin to drive.

In all this hunting and stalking and laying bare of primal sense in a desolate landscape I can feel a wildness stirring in parts me; wildness that has, for years, been laid to genetic rest in my tightly coiled chains of DNA. The urge to stalk, hunt, gather and harvest seems to wash over me, solidly, and I take pleasure in squinting hard into the snow scape to spot white rumps, black cheek patches, bucks on ridge lines watching over the womenfolk — pronghorn.

When Robert finally fires his shots, we hurry to make sure life has ended swiftly. We follow the split hoof tracks over sage and snow, blinded by fists of weather as it plants firm, frigid punches in our eyes. The wind rises up and pulls invisible words from our mouths. We resort to waving our hands in the air in order to communicate in the wind and snow. We push through a small scale blizzard with low visibility to our first doe. She lies still on her side, her last handful of breaths are shallow and then cease all together. Her eyes are calm and jet black. I inspect her countenance, her last glance up into a flurry filled sky is gentle. I’m overcome by the holiness of the moment, by the harvest of a magnificent animal, by her matchstick legs, the stoutness of her body, the swirls of vanilla in her tawny coat and the coarseness of her eyelashes. I lay my hands on her face and feel the resonance of her animal warmth before it fades to cold. Right there, in that blizzard, on my knees in the sage, I offer my thanks. I take up the energy of her dwindling body heat into my cold hands. I thank the Creator.

As the snow falls and the wind blinds I’m more aware than I’ve ever been of life cycles, energy cycles, my place as a human, my call to promote and practice ethical hunting, my instincts as an animal.

I’m overwhelmed by the courage it takes to be part of the food chain in this manner:

To be the one to strike the fatal blow upon a wild and free animal.

To view the beast as an animal and to be free, in that moment, from thoughts of anthropomorphism and childish sentiments.

To view my food as more than the busy aisles of a grocery store.

To be part of the process in harvesting it, without a cashier giving me a sum at the end of my checkout, without unwrapping my food from plastic packaging, without being asked, “Will that be credit or debit?”

To be filled with sympathy when a bullet isn’t as true as intended.

To sometimes have to end a life with bare hands when the bullet fails — like my husband does when his second shot at our second doe fails to kill immediately.

This omnivore has no dilemma, but she does have a spiritual connection to the tenderloin medallion she’ll eat for dinner tonight.

When she consumes that hard won meal, she’ll whisper thanks and then she’ll join a circle of energy that’s older than herself.

Older than the hills.

As old as the breath that first breathed it.