Retelling tales of the hunt.
The old man’s face was wrinkled and weathered, born of a hard life in Montana. With a spark of excitement glinting in his eyes, he leaned against the bed of the well-used and rusted-out 1986 Chevy. Bright orange suspenders over his plaid work shirt wouldn’t pass as acceptable fashion today, but they somehow seemed to pair together perfectly then. He held a can of cheap beer in one hand and a roll-your-own cigarette burned between tar-stained fingers.
My whitetail deer lay in the back of the pickup. Together, we hung on every word as we listened to my dad retelling the story of my hunt from earlier that day. I felt proud. I stood tall. I knew we were going to eat this deer, and that knowledge brought about a powerful sense of accomplishment. I was somehow more than just a kid sitting in the back of a pickup. I was a provider. My mom cued in on my sense of achievement, and miraculously, every venison meal that we ate that winter somehow came from “my” deer. There’s a powerful change that takes place somewhere deep within us as we begin to understand the connection between the animals we hunt and the food they provide.
Decades have passed since those early days of my hunting journey. Smoking has passed into history, and while we may drive pickups that rattle less and get better gas mileage, some things never seem to change. We still hunt. We still love to retell the stories to anyone willing to listen. We still cherish the meat that we share with our family and friends. I love to see the pride in the eyes of my children as they share the food that they’ve provided.
This last spring, my youngest son, Ryan, was able to hunt for the first time. When the season opened, my brother-in-law and I loaded up a pile of kids and headed out into the turkey woods. The first day was a bust. There was a lot of walking. There was a lot of wind and an occasional nap in the warm April sun. The second morning, we broke into groups. Ryan and I slowly walked west as we called our way through a thin strip of timber along the southern edge of the field. It was a slow start to the day. No gobbles were heard. As we walked, I whispered and talked about all the things that I could think to say, “Stay in the shadows. Walk quietly. Look and listen. Always be ready.”
We eventually covered the length of the field and slowly crossed through a thin strip of trees that defined the western edge. Like a pair of nervous turtles, we eased through the trees and slowly poked our heads out the other side. To the north, a small, dark object appeared to be moving. The binoculars came up and a tom turkey was in sight. The hunt was on.
They were meandering our way, in an area I was very familiar with, so I felt sure they were headed toward a small break in the timber that lay between us. Our window of opportunity was narrow, and we needed to get set up in that opening before Mr. Thunder Chicken and his ladies passed through. Suddenly, all my talk about “walk slowly and quietly” was thrown out the window. We slipped back through the thin strip of timber, and with the cover between us and the turkeys, we ran like wild men. The turkey call in my vest pocket bounced and squawked as I ran. I dropped the inflatable decoy. Ryan lost a glove. It was total chaos. As we approached the opening, I rattled off a tirade of last-minute instructions. We had made it in time, and the setup was perfect.
A solitary pine tree sat in the middle of the clearing. We watched as the tom slowly walked our way and disappeared behind the tree. His hens were still out of sight. With Ryan behind the 12 gauge, I let out a few soft hen yelps. The morning silence was instantly shattered by the tom’s response, and my knees started to shake. The turkey hissed and drummed. Gradually, he reappeared on our side of the pine tree. Breathlessly, I managed to whisper, “Wait … wait … let him get closer.” He gobbled again. There was more strutting. He gobbled again. BOOM! The shotgun roared. The turkey flopped about, and in an instant, we were running again.
It was a fantastic morning! Ryan was swarmed with hugs and high-fives from his brother, his cousin, and his uncle. We giggled and laughed and retold the story. We reveled in the moment. The spurs. The beard. The gorgeous fan. Everything was exciting. After the photos were taken, we retraced our steps and regathered our lost belongings. Ryan teetered a bit as we slung the turkey over his shoulder and walked back to the house to share the moment with his grandparents. There were more hugs and more stories and a phone call to mom. After the excitement settled down, we processed the turkey and put it in the freezer for safe keeping. We would save it for a special occasion.
Montana is a beautiful place in the summer. We say that if you live in Montana, you get nine months of winter and three months of company. Everyone loves to visit Montana in the summer. This last July, the hay harvest was in full swing. My uncle was in the field at my folks’ house selling hay. My brother and his wife were in town. My cousin’s wife brought their boys over for a visit. The kids were fishing and swimming and playing in the yard. We agreed that this would be a good time to share Ryan’s turkey.
When my wife and I are cooking for a large group of people, we try to prepare something that can easily be tailored to accommodate a wide array of preferences. Turkey nuggets are the perfect example. You can eat them plain. You can season them with your favorite spices. You can dip them in a homemade sauce. It’s a meal that’s easily customized.
While the deep fryer heats up the oil, I dice the breast into small squares about ¾ inch in size. The chunks of meat are then buried and stirred in a bowl of beer batter. Since my wife is from the South, we highly prefer peanut oil, but any oil will work. On this day, we ended up using the cheapest oil we could find. As the oil starts to get hot, I drip batter into the pot until I get the right response. I want to see the oil bubble and sizzle when the batter hits the surface. It sounds easy, but it can be tricky. When you drop in the first batch of nuggets, they absorb a significant amount of heat and lower the temperature of the oil.
After you fish out the nuggets with a ladle, the temperature quickly rises again. Since the oil temperature is constantly changing, I rarely wait on a thermometer. It takes some practice, but once you find the sweet spot and hit your groove, you can churn out a lot of nuggets.
The meal was a success, with the scene looking like a Norman Rockwell painting. I could hear stories and jokes and laughter. Family was taking place. Memories were being made. As stomachs were filled with food, my heart was filled with joy. I relish these connections. It was a special moment. I watched my dad and my son share a meal together that was made possible because of hunting. I heard my mom make a big deal about how delicious Ryan’s turkey tasted. And as I watched my wife float around the yard and make sure everyone had what they needed, Ryan was the man of the hour. He wasn’t just a kid sitting in a lawn chair. He was a provider.
Editor’s Note: This article originally appeared in Carnivore Magazine Issue 4.
