By Delynda Pilon

Talking to Wendell Mills recently got me to thinking back to when I took environment education in junior high school in Prince George. I have always been pretty good at book work, and though I am not sure if the course has changed much since then, at that time it was pretty much all about memorizing details. So, I aced the course and became a duly licensed hunter with the right to carry a firearm and another little certificate saying I could use one too. To this day I’m not sure how I earned that card. We did take a trip to the local rod and gun club, but I spent most of my time there avoiding the boys who were trying to shoot shotguns from their hips after twirling them in a complete circle, just like the guys in the movies. One of them even shot a hole in the ceiling, and our teacher still didn’t notice. While those guys twirled and shot, the rest of us made like the towns folk in those same movies when the big bad gunfighters lope in. We hid.
You know, later that same teacher was arrested for not only smoking rude leaf but also supplying it to anyone with an interest in purchasing a baggy or two. What can I say? It was the 70s.
Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself, getting a license and permit and all. My dad and Uncle Bill started out proud then became perplexed especially when I asked where the bullets went. But they said they would take me hunting anyway.
Gosh, who knew hunting meant getting up at three in the morning and hauling myself out into the middle of nowhere with not even a 7 Eleven in sight? It was crispy and cold and I was shivering all over as we walked into the woods.
That didn’t stop my enthusiasm however, which means that didn’t keep me quiet. At the time I was known, fondly I like to think, as ratchet jaw, on account of people always saying it was like my jaw was set up so as it always kept flapping. This I found slightly insulting, but I ignored it as best I could and kept trying to be sociable.
Anyway, after asking several questions about flora and fauna, about markings and scat, about rifles and shotguns, we came to an old frost coated sawdust pile on the verge of a lake. The sun was just rising and glorious slivers of orange and cream were reaching across the expanse of the lake. I shivered and talked about how gorgeous everything was. Then I asked why the water wasn’t froze over yet and I asked why some of the leaves were crinkly and colourful and lying on the path and others were still green and I asked why we could go after bull moose but not cows.
That’s when dad and Uncle Bill suggested I guard the sawdust pile.
Dad: It’s a very important job.
Me: But I want to go hunting along the ridges just like you always talk about. You promised.
Uncle Bill: Yes, but someone has to stay here so that when we flush a moose and it comes running this way, someone will be ready to shoot it.
Me: Wow! I get to shoot it!
Dad passed me a steaming mug of coffee and Uncle Bill gave me a blanket and I found an old log to sit on as they disappeared into the forest. You know, I was there for about 20 minutes before I realized neither of them had left me a gun.
Needless to say, I did not kill a moose that day. And although I love the taste of wild meat, especially moose, there is still no blood on my hands.
Now-a-days I pretty much do all my hunting at the meat department at the grocery store anyway. It’s a lot warmer and you don’t have to visit it before dawn.