When I was asked to write about hunting, I responded with “Not a hunter.” Rather curt and final. Yet, upon reflection, I realized I had hunting stories, because I had been on hunting trips with friends, participated to some degree—and had thoroughly enjoyed the experiences.

Hunting in Montana is a respected and honored tradition. It is more than a sport. The word lifestyle has been degraded into costumes and attitudes lacking any substance. Hunting can be better described as a generational craft passed on within families. Over the years, I hunted with three different friends. They did not know each other but had similar backgrounds. They were all native Montanans who had learned to hunt as teenagers with their parents. They all followed a code of consistent behavior and respect toward their craft. This code included the way they handled firearms, approached the hunting ground and, above all, cared for and respected the game.

Ironically, my first encounter with hunting in Montana, which did not involve any of these friends, was with people who did not observe this code. A few weeks after finally finding a job when my wife and I moved to Bozeman, I walked into a warehouse cooler to find two deer carcasses. I was not used to this. Turned out that one of the younger guys and a friend of his had shot deer on opening day. Then they lost interest. I was interested in what came next in the process and asked one of them and was told I could have both deer. I had no idea how to proceed, but faked it. I transported the deer to our rented garage, hung them up, removed the hides and butchered the animals with no knowledge or experience at all. Somehow, it all worked out. We took the meat to a processor, had burger made, rented a freezer. We had chili and spaghetti sauce for the winter. 

The following year I went on an actual elk hunt. We drove to the north end of the Crazies and set up a camp. That weekend, my friend Bill shot his first bull elk. I had never seen him, or possibly anyone, so excited. We had to drag the elk close to a mile but it was all downhill and there was snow to slide on. I received credit for doing my job, which was to thrash around in the brush and scare something up. It was some time before I went along on another successful hunt but I retained that job for my entire hunting career, regardless of who I accompanied. 

Years later, I went along with a friend who had secured a tag for the late hunt around Gardiner. This was a tradition when hunting was allowed, as the Yellowstone elk herd ranged out of the Park in the winter months. The political and environmental aspects of this hunt were beyond me. I just remember how early we had to get up in order to arrive at the base of Crevice Mountain at first light. It was dark and it was cold, and we began walking up the draw. When there was enough daylight to see, probably a bit before that, we heard a sustained volley of gunfire across the ridge. It was so intense that we ducked down, though we were nowhere near the firing.

I suppose some hunters got their elk in that melee. We continued up our draw for an hour or so just for something to do after our dawn drive. There was no way that there were any more animals within miles. My friend got his elk a week or two later. I did not ride along.


For seven or eight years I hunted with my friend Bob in the Wolf Creek area. He owned property there and had cousins and friends who had lived there all their lives. Our outings followed a script. I drove north from Bozeman on a Friday after work and bunked in his guest room. We rose early on Saturday and hiked up the hill behind his house on MT Hwy 434. We always stopped at an old whitebark pine that marked the edge of his land for a sip of coffee from the thermos. We spent the morning there, walking the draws on his neighbor’s property. I remember seeing deer on those mornings but we never got a shot. Still, we did not change our routine.

Down the hill for lunch at the house. We loaded ourselves and the dog in the truck for the afternoon hunt. Mostly we drove around in the National Forest and listened to either the Grizzly or the Bobcat game on the radio. At dark we headed back and spent the evening on the couch or recliner with TV football and chatted back the day. We must have bagged some game in there somewhere; Bob was a good hunter, so we usually got something. But that part of the memory is obscured by the easy routine we followed. The familiar depth of friendship.

When I am not in Montana, I miss it. I believe that I missed Montana when I was younger, though I had never been here. That makes no sense but sometimes feelings do not make sense. My image of Montana when I am not here is usually of a couple people in a pickup on a dirt road in the low light of late afternoon. Just driving, the destination unimportant. Chatting quietly or silent. Comfortable, yet expectant. Those hunting afternoons typified all of that.

In hunting, there is a concept called ‘permission’ which is, of course, an okay to hunt on private land. I once participated in this process. Bob and I drove to a ranch house. The first step is to not exit the truck until the dogs stop barking and sniff the tires. Then there is the walk to the house with much dog petting. The owner opened the front door just as we reached the porch. He invited us in. After the greetings, we sat and talked for about fifteen minutes. Neither hunting nor entering his land was mentioned. I said little; most of the conversation was about family and friends, people I did not know. As we stood to leave, the rancher mentioned to Bob that if he was ever up on his north section could he check that a couple gates up there were closed. Bob said sure. I had already set a bottle of whisky on the entry table. That was not mentioned either. When we got back to the truck I asked about the ritual and if we got permission? Bob said, “sure.”

Another ritual seemed to be complaining about the dullness of knives. I was shown how to field dress an animal more than once. But I never did perform that task alone. I helped and observed. Every hunter I saw wielded a knife with an edge a surgeon would envy. Yet they all groused about not spending enough time sharpening their tool and cussing their own laziness.

As a lifelong hiker, I have a familiar and comfortable approach to entering the mountains. A glow of anticipation, the first steps onto the trail. The sights, sounds, and smells are mostly aesthetic. Usually the only practical consideration is what is in your pack and how the weather is. Hunting is completely different. All of the nature ideas remain but they are pushed back by the main task. Firearm safety becomes paramount. Almost everything is serious. As one walks into the forest, the trees are not the focus. The focus is what may be within or beyond the trees. Silence, even stealth is necessary. I was amazed at the complete change in outlook that was required. The familiar forest became a different realm. The forest usually makes one pay attention, but hunting brings a laser focus. I suppose that my ineptness at the silent steps earned me that flush ‘em out job. A hunter is never without a purpose.

One season we stopped to visit Bob’s Mom on the way to our hunt in the Missouri Breaks. She presented me with her old saddle rifle to use for the weekend. I realized that this was a rather big deal and acted accordingly. We had a great couple days driving all over one of the most impressive landscapes in Montana. We crossed the river on the ferry. Somehow, late one afternoon I spotted a buck deer, yelled at Bob to pull over, jumped out of the truck, and fired the rifle. Because I simply acted and did not think, I shot straight and brought the deer down. No one was more astonished than me. We stopped to return the rifle and Bob’s Mom admired the deer. Again without thinking, I asked her if she would like to have the meat. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, sure. That is hunting in Montana.

No, I am not a hunter. But I have been on hunting trips. I have scratched the surface of a long-revered Montana tradition. The best part was the people who taught me their skills.