Chugging Beers and Chasing Deer

You may read this title and think “what the hell!” Well, you should, but it's not what you think. One afternoon, during my junior year in high school, I went hunting with my dad. It was at a place we frequented—located on the other side of a ridge that lines the back of our house. During that time there was a WW2 veteran who lived alone up there and would let us hunt his 100-acre property. His name was Al, and even though we weren’t related to him, as everyone else in the valley was, we called him Uncle Al. At the ripe old age of 97, he would still hunted—which commonly consisted of him sliding open his living room window sticking his rifle out of it and shooting a deer, where he would then call my dad to come over to get it for him.

That particular afternoon at Uncle Al’s place we had stalked a nice whitetail buck for most of the evening and up until the last minutes of shooting light. Our patience paid off though and lucky for me I was able to get a shot off. We stumbled through the darkness with a flip phone screen as our only source of light, but we were finally able to find him. By the time we had field-dressed him and dragged him back to the truck it was very late, and I had school the next day. We had told Uncle Al we would let him know if I got anything or not, so after banging on the window, the door, and the doorbell the deaf old man shuffled to the door and greeted us with a smile. Instead of quick congrats and on our way Uncle Al insisted we come in to have a celebratory beer. Al only drank when he had company, and he would welcome any possible opportunity to celebrate. Know this and partly owing to his stubbornness and deafness, we felt compelled to agree to his offer.  

Now inside Uncle Al’s house was the definition of a bachelor pad straight from the Great Depression; tables were old wire spools, the bed was a WW2 cot cluttered with an array of old maps, guns, bullets, bottles, and a cat. I walked through this male history museum, and I sat down on a five-gallon bucket as Uncle Al smiled and handed me a Coors beer, as I looked over at the clock on the wall, it was getting close to midnight. My dad leaned over to me and said: “chug it so we can get you home, for school in the morning.” proceeded to chug, Uncle Al looked at me blankly and said: “you must be thirsty from all that work, I will get you another one.” Trying to tell him that’s was quite alright we need to go, literally fell on deaf ears, he opened me another beer. This time I drank my beer a little slower. My dad and I finally finished our beverages and explained, again, our need to get home.

Keep in mind that I was 16 years old, had already had a couple sips of whiskey (for “medicinal” purposes of course), so you might imagine what came next. I stood up and had a sudden feeling of lightheadedness, but I thought to myself “your fine” and I just concentrated very hard on walking towards the door. Well, as imagined, I was not fine, those two beers had gone straight to my head and feet as I stumbled toward the door following behind my dad and Uncle Al. While saying our goodbyes, it was all I could do not to sway. The last thing to do before going home was to put the deer in the truck, simple enough. Well, I hopped right up into the back of the truck to grab the head of the deer and haul it into the bed. As I bent over on the tailgate to grab the antlers my head suddenly became very heavy, heavier than the rest of my body apparently, as I toppled head first out of the truck bed into the snow. As I looked up at my dad, who was laughing hysterically at me, I said: “Papa, I think I am drunk.” The laughter continued all the way home. The next day at school I had a very nice headache—couldn’t tell you if it was from the two beers I had chugged or my eloquent dive from the back of the truck.

My interview about fly fishing

My good friend Lili Acosta, who is an amazing photographer and writer, interviewed me for her film class last spring. She did a short video asking me questions about fly fishing.

The question that really hit home was why do I fly fish. My answer was "Flyfishing is more of an art than a sport, your creating something." Fishing is creating an experience and it's that challenge of a creation that I love the most. 

Check out the video below. 

Turkey Bombs Recipe

        Long ago, before Sarah ( “BS” as my dad likes to say) my parents lived in Arizona and there my dad loved to turkey hunt. The turkeys there were full of acorns, bugs and good flavor.  Cooking turkey was simple, it didn’t need much to make it taste amazing. Later on my parents and I moved to Montana when I was five years old. My dad was excited about turkey hunting since turkeys are like rats here. To my father’s unpleasant surprise the turkeys here eat pine nuts and the grass seed he puts out every year. The taste of the turkey meat  was bland and quite dry. With the abundance of deer in the area, he directed his hunts towards them. Until I was legally allowed to bow hunt.

        I grew up in the backwoods of Hamilton, Montana and I was always the last one to get on the bus in the morning. I would sit on the porch every morning and listen for that old yellow school bus to come up the dirt road. One morning as I waited I saw the turkeys go strutting by. I randomly got a wild hair and I grabbed my bow and some arrows with broad heads. I started at a full out sprint around to the front of the house. As I came around the corner the turkeys saw me and took off flying/ running away. My mother likes to tell people how she witnessed out the kitchen window the turkeys run by and I quickly followed at full draw after them.  Arrows and feathers were flying. I finally hit one and the bird expired. I walked up to the turkey with feathers, dirt and blood all over my school clothes but I was so excited and proud.  I turned around to my father giving me a very frightening look. He said to me “you are going be late for school”. “The school bus hasn’t come yet!” I said. “ No” he replied “but you’re going stay home and pluck it. You shot it, you pluck it.” Now I spent the next hour pulling more feathers out of my nose, eyes, and ears then I did out of that turkey. 

          My poor mother for the next several years tried to make the turkey more flavorful. Without deep frying it, we didn’t have much luck. About 4 years ago when I came home from my freshman year of college, a similar experience happened but she came up with a recipe that would make any turkey taste delicious and it very simple to make.

Turkey BOMBs

*note. I do not have exact measurements because it depends on personal preference and size of the turkey.

   1  Lay the skinned  turkey breasts flat. Then slice the breast parallel with the table to create a pocket in the breast. Then set it aside

   2   Chop jalapenos( or another type of pepper) and grate some cheese (cheddar). Combine in a bowl with  8 oz. of cream cheese  and make a paste.

   3  Stuff  the paste into the pockets until full.  

   4   Next take Bacon slices and wrap it around the breasts to cover all over the turkey meat.

   5   Bake at 325 degrees for 45 to 60 mins (depending on the size) and or until the juices run clear.

*Taste great with any veggies and wild rice.

* The tenders under the breast can be used as well, just have to pound them flat and roll like burrito.

My First Hunt and the Biggest Lesson

Each time I pull the trigger or release an arrow, I take a deep breath and can feel the oxygen flood my brain. The surge of oxygen allows for the release of adrenaline which has been diluting my concentration. Simultaneously a memory floods my brain—a memory of my first hunt and the lesson that I learned that day.  Those of us who are avid hunters will always remember our first hunt and usually the lesson that comes along with the experience. My lesson wasn’t about field dressing or tracking. It was much more than that.

I had been with my parents on their hunts before, I even helped with field dressing, tracking and spotting many animals with them.  Hunting was a way of life, it was in my blood, and I was fascinated by every aspect. You can imagine my eagerness when I turned 12 years old; I could hardly contain myself. I took hunter’s safety and aced it! Sighted in at the range and nailed it! Next step, find a deer. My dad and I hiked from our house up the road to an area we knew well, where it was a guarantee to see some critters. Sure enough, we came across a herd of whitetail grazing in a saddle along a ridge. Within that herd was a nice two by two whitetail buck. I grabbed my Ruger 243 bolt action rifle and placed it snug into my shoulder. I slowly placed my cheek down on the stalk and closed one eye. My heart raced so fast I could feel every beat  through my whole body. The cross hairs of the scope would find its mark, and in my excitement I would lose my correct placement. I adjusted back to the lungs when my dad whispered in my ear “take a deep breath and slowly squeeze the trigger.” Then suddenly it was over, I do not remember hearing the shot, where the deer went or even if I had hit him.

The buck went down 100 yards from where he was hit. As we watched his final breaths, I can remember feeling excited, proud and sad all at once. I never had that big of a connection with an animal before. My dad called my mother to bring the truck up the main forest service road. We field dressed the buck and dragged him down to the road to meet my mother. We loaded him into the back of the truck and when my dad’s cell phone rings. Our neighbor also had a successful hunt that morning and wanted our help to get his animal back to his place. Up the road we went and all I could think about was how that hunt made me feel.

   Our neighbor had dragged his buck to the road and was waiting for us. As he slid his buck into the truck bed next to mine, my emotions changed. His mule deer buck was a trophy, beautiful colors, massive beams, 5 by 6 points and the sheer size was twice of mine. I suddenly felt inadequate. He congratulated me but he could tell how I felt, my silence and body language spoke volumes. After we dropped him off at his house and my mom and dad turned to me said, “Sarah, I am proud of you, there is nothing to be ashamed of.” I was not sure what to think at this point. Later on down the road my father turned to me again and asked me “why do we hunt?” After a moment of pondering, I mumbled: “to eat.”  He coaxed me to elaborate “and what part of the animal do we eat?” I responded again “the meat” He affirmed my response “correct you can’t eat the antlers can you?” No… Sudden realization flooded my brain!

    Hunting has been a way of survival for humanity since the beginning of time. I took a life so that I could live so that I could provide for the family, not for a trophy on the wall. I have that thought  every single time I pursue an animal. This year, 11 years later, as I was out elk hunting with my dad, I was reminded again of this valuable lesson. We were chasing a herd, and the closest bull to me was a four by five at 350 yards. However, there was a beautiful six by six bull out at 600 + yards. We were running out of cover, and they were slowly moving away from us. The temptation to take the long shot was great, and it was the bigger bull! Then suddenly the memory of that first lesson I had learned all those years earlier filled my brain. I could feel the pressure of the moment and new that I needed to make a decision. Was risking the shot just to have a bigger bull and possibly injuring him just because I wanted him, okay?  Being short on time I changed targets, and was successful with my 4 by 5 bull. I feel proud of my decision that day. I think that as hunters it is our ethical responsibility to stay true to the hunt and why we hunt.