How do you get your meat? I’ll tell you how I get mine.
I’m a deer hunter. I kill and butcher my own meat.
Every Man Should Be A Hunter
That’s right. Every man should be a hunter.
I don’t mean every man should be traveling the world to bag trophies. I mean you need to experience what its like to hunt your own dinner.
Tracking your prey. Stalking through the wilderness alone to find and kill an animal to feed you and yours. Provision in the oldest sense of the word.
Forget about the trophy, it’s all about the meat.
It’s All About The Meat
Deer meat is the cleanest meat you can get. Bambi isn’t stupid enough to stand there while you inject him with who knows what.
Bambi is out running free, eating acorns, and breeding does. That’s actually the best time to put a bullet in Bambi.
When Bambi’s out making babies, you can sit in the woods and wait for him to bust.
You know what? Bambi makes great burgers. A whole lot better than the fatty hunk of gristle you get from beef.
The majority of my meat comes from the forest. Harvested with my own hands. Bloody, bloody hands.
A Word For The “Anti-Hunters”
I don’t want to hear the “anti-hunters” pooh-poohing about poor little Bambi.
I didn’t even know “anti-hunters” were a thing until I was well into adulthood and had some miles on my boots.
Where I come from, we don’t call them “Anti-Hunters”. We call them “Pussies”.
Something the anti-hunters don’t realize is that killing a deer can be really hard.
You don’t just sit there above a herd of fifteen massive bucks and cherry pick the one you want to snack on.
My First Deer Season
My first deer season was a three-month long season.
I was up at 3 AM every day so that 4 out of 7 days a week I could be in the woods and still go to work. I’d spend eight hours or more in the woods hunting deer.
I only saw one that entire time. Honestly, I was so excited just to see a deer that I missed.
I was so excited, I almost broke my jaw. I’d placed the butt of my rifle against my jaw instead of my shoulder.
It would’ve been easy to quit. Easy to give up and rely on the supermarket for all my meat.
Meat that was only on the cow because somebody pumped it full of hormones. Not fresh meat that was unmolested.
Remember, a deer isn’t stupid enough to stand there and let you jab it with a needle and kill it later.
It would’ve been easy to give up, but I don’t quit.
The Off Season
I packed up every bit of gear I had. It was honestly more than I needed. I fixed it all together on the frame of my portable tree stand.
It was damned heavy and I wanted it to be.
I strapped it on my back and practiced moving through the woods. Practicing moving from my entry point to my stand without making a human sound.
Soon, I learned to use a walking stick to make my movement sound like an animal. I would practice being still as death, no matter how uncomfortable I got.
I bought trail cameras and put them around the area in “high traffic” locations. This showed me what times I should be there. I learned about how the moon phase influences deer.
I turned the seat of my deer stand around. This allowed me to hide behind the tree instead of sitting there in the open like an idiot.
I learned to track so easily it became second nature. After a few weeks, I could follow a trail on hard ground with few tracks.
I had my rifle’s stock, trigger, and scope upgraded to the absolute best I could get. I’ve had cars that cost less than that scope.
I got smart and picked up a couple “tree steps” that you can screw into a tree to climb with. I didn’t get them for climbing. No, I got them to use as a rifle rest.
If you’ve got a problem with me screwing a three-inch-thick piece of steel into a tree, cry more. They’re my trees.
A 15,000 pound tree isn’t going to die because a tiny piece of metal poked it, and I wouldn’t want it to die.
If it died I wouldn’t get paid for cutting it down, selling the wood, and planting another one.
The Following Season
When the next season rolled around, my investments paid dividends.
I came in several hours before daylight and stalked my way through the woods silently. It took an hour to cover a span you could walk in twenty minutes.
I mounted the tree without all the scraping and metal-on-metal racket. Then I climbed high enough to look directly out over a hundred-and-fifty-yard opening in the heart of a dense forest.
I screwed in my rifle rest, removed my scope cover, and silently racked a round into the chamber. After that, I set my rifle on my rest and looked through my scope. I set my cross-hairs at deer height in the exact spot I knew they’d be.
I did not move from that position for almost three hours.
Muscle fatigue had set in. I was sore. Random itches and bugs peppered me.
I was soaked from rain pouring down on me, but I would not move.
At the moment where it felt almost too much to bear, the buck walked out into the open. In the exact spot I knew he’d be.
He took one step forward and his front left shoulder landed just forward of my cross-hairs. I pulled the trigger.
I know my rifle went off. It must’ve been loud. I don’t remember hearing it.
Neither do I remember him being heavy when I grabbed him and dragged his carcass over fallen logs.
I don’t remember straining to lift him up and throw him into the back of the Toyota Tundra.
You know what I remember?
That was the most delicious meat I’d ever tasted in my entire life, and I wanted more.