Of Birds and Beau

I’M ONE OF THOSE girlfriends. I admit it. I’m capable of metamorphosis when confronted with a new boyfriend’s hobbies. It’s not that I don’t have anything in common with these men or that I don’t have hobbies of my own. I’m just a curious woman, open to new experiences, or so I say. This approach has taken me to some pretty unusual places, but none as far from my moral scope and comfort level as hunting.

A skilled hunter of bargains on shoes and expensive handbags, hunting with guns and camo was never a part of my vocabulary growing up on a tidy cul-de-sac in suburban Seattle. My image of a hunter was always a white man, redneck or not, and always country. Although, my mother is quick to remind me

that my grandfather hunted for rabbits and squirrels in the Midwest. Regardless, I approached the sport with some trepidation.

And yet there I was traipsing behind my latest flame on a cold winter day duck hunting in Eastern Washington. We shared a love of the outdoors; this is true. But for me, to go hunting was bridging a mighty, wide gap. This pastime was very much a part of my boyfriend’s vocabulary growing up in the wilds of Minnesota, where deer hunting is an annual celebration. Being a recent transplant to Seattle, he was still interested in exploring the city and the hunter in him was not apparent to me at first. We started out going hiking, then we went camping. I slowly became aware of his proclivity

for the sport when he went on solo treks into the wilderness to go scouting for the perfect hunting perches. Somewhere in between being curious and wanting to spend time together, I lost my way and decided I’d be up for a hunting adventure. I told myself that we were just being very rustic and hunting down our own Duck à l’Orange. And that’s exactly what I planned to tell any of my friends, should they discover our weekend activities.

My embarrassment at being involved with this non-PC ritual was only one aspect of my fear. The other was stepping out into the hunting fields as a black woman behind my white boyfriend without a bulletproof vest. Kevlar, he explained to me, highly amused, was not a part of the gear. After all, he said, no one is supposed to shoot at each other. Maybe that was logical to him, but certainly not to me. What if some hunters happened upon us and decided to have some fun? What if there was an accident? It seemed like an awful lot to entrust to strangers with guns.

Remembering all of this now, I think back to the 2005 incident in Wisconsin, involving a Hmong deer hunter who shot and killed several white men after racial of scenes from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. When you get out of your car and start to traverse the paths that crisscross the canyon, you discover hidden ponds, blue as a stone, and burnt-orange crevices that seem to cut straight to the Earth’s core. On this day, the basalt rocks and barren bushes were covered with snow and my vision of Spaghetti Westerns was frozen in ashen sage and a biting wind up from the lakes.

the next stakeout. Whether it was the cold affecting my brain or boredom, I was now actively participating in the hunt. How many bullets can your gun hold, what’s your duck hunting limit, I asked. All aspects of firing a gun and hunting were foreign to me, but the do-it-yourself nostalgia of hunting down your own meal and the power evoked in wielding a gun were becoming oddly compelling. By the close of the day, we’d walk away with

epithets and a stray bullet were fired in his direction. This kind of scenario is what I was sure would befall us. There was also another idea nagging me in the back of my mind: the long legacy of African Americans facing violence from white vigilantes. Was there any etiquette to hunting and what happens when people don’t follow it? Such questions swam in my head as we suited up in the truck. Every relationship requires trust; I had to trust that my boyfriend wasn’t leading me into certain and unnecessary doom.

My inhibitions started to fade slightly once we started hiking. It was easy to get lost in the landscape of the Gorge. It’s one of my favorite Washington settings and always reminds

And then it happened. My beau stopped several paces ahead of me and motioned for me to get down. We had just nearly reached the top of a hill that looked down over a pond. It was protected on all sides by a sloping bank. I crouched behind some bushes as he approached the pond, bending at his knees and aiming his shotgun. First, I heard a slight flutter of wings on the surface of the water, and, next, the loud, hollow echo of pellets being sprayed into the air. The two ducks escaped, but in the desolate, snow-cushioned quiet, the sound of bullets was strangely exciting.

As the hunt resumed, I picked up my pace and became more engaged in the pursuit, asking questions and eager for

an armful of ducks. I would also shoot a gun for the first and last time, a feat I found exhilarating because of the power and scary because of the consequences; I could not reconcile these two feelings. But, curiosity abated, I survived my first hunting experience and would get my Duck à l'Orange after all.

With my new tolerance for fowl hunting, we took more opportunities to travel with amusing results. We traveled to the Pend Orielle Spokane area in Eastern Washington to go turkey scouting and wound up at a Bates Motel-looking hunters' lodge, complete with a coin-operated bed—something I found both disgusting and hilarious. We traveled to the Bay of Anacortes for coastal duck hunting for Buffleheads and very narrowly escaped drowning in quicksand. On this trip, I encountered a fellow female hunter at a coffee stand. Standing in front of her, in my camo jacket, with my designer purse juxtaposed at my knees, I was prepared for harassment and discovery at my novice-ness to the sport. To my surprise, she seemed oddly happy at my reported weekend activities and excitedly told me about her new-found love of muzzle-loading. Could it be that women actually enjoy and actively pursue this sport? Some Google-ing led me to a statistic reported in a 2016 article by “NRA Family” that found

in 2001 there were 1.8 million registered female hunters in the U.S. and in 2013 that number doubled to 3.3 million. I’m hardly a fan of that organization, and “NRA” and “Family” in the same sentence seems like a conundrum unto itself, but the fact proved to me that hunting was yet another realm where women are staking a claim.

In fact, these forays with my beau were the launchpad for my own security and development in the wild. The five-year relationship with him dissolved for other reasons, but my love for nature remained. Being in the wilderness hunting, camping and fishing with him was a novelty. I am terribly fond of and forever grateful for those memories. It’s true my parents exposed me to many National Parks and Forests growing up. However, I had never taken the leap to explore the outdoors on my own. I’ll never be a hunter, but since those excursions I have continued to hike and fish on my own.

My ex never fully grasped my fear as an African American woman in the outback. And why would he, when there are countless examples of people like him enjoying the great outdoors in ads, movies, and books; of course he can see himself in that environment. It’s not as easy when your right to be anywhere is challenged, even in urban environments. People of color carry with them the historical legacy of violence from racism and prejudice, as well as present day fears of gun violence and police killings. How doubly scary is it to venture out into the wild expecting to encounter strangers carrying guns? You might consider this a leap in judgement, but I think it speaks to white privilege. When you’re in the majority, there’s no place you can go that people will look at you twice or ponder your reason for being there. All lands are open to you. Groups like Outdoor Afro are showing African Americans they have a right to be in these environments too and are sharing information about black pioneers of outdoor spaces. On a trek with the Seattle chapter last summer, I learned that the African American army regiments known as the Buffalo Soldiers were among some of the first national park and backcountry rangers patrolling the West. To me, this knowledge and fellowship with others who look like me gives me a firm foundation from which to keep exploring. I was once fearful of the unexpected presented by the wild; I now fiercely pursue the right to the adventures that await in the great outdoors.

By Tracey L. Compton