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Carrying the Tag

<p>Marrying into a family of passionate sheep hunters sparked a flame of curiosity for me, one where I was always happy to be along for the hunt no matter where it led. I endured relentless mosquitos in Northern BC. I shed tears after a sleepless night on a slope only mountain goats would find comfortable. I’ve been holed up in a tent during a howling snowstorm below the rugged peaks of New Zealand’s South Island.</p>

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<p>Even after a decade of adventures, I’d never felt the urge to hunt for myself. Since I never carried the tag, I often questioned whether I had what it takes to pull the trigger. I wanted to find a hunt that felt like my own. I wanted to pursue a species and be in an environment that would push us outside of our normal hunting dynamic and feel true to the values I’d developed as a hunter. I set my sights on pursuing the bison that now roamed free range in northern British Columbia on the traditional territory of the Athapaskan and Tsa'tinne Peoples. I beat the 1 in 30 odds to draw a tag and chose a ten day season in the dead of winter. </p>

<p>My husband Adam, and our friends Matt and Ellen rounded out our small team of eager, albeit anxious bison hunters. For nine grueling days we checked tracks, glassed valley bottoms, and waded through snowdrifts, thankful at the end of each day to have a cabin to return to. Around a roaring fire we’d thaw out, study maps and strategize in preparation for the day ahead. </p>

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<p>On the morning of day ten the mercury dipped to -40. We sipped coffee and convinced ourselves to hunt one final day. Despite the bitter cold, it was a brilliant day. At midday, we crossed a pair of fresh bison tracks that led us across the river and into an opening. We scanned the meadow—empty. Then, above treeline, we saw a herd sunning themselves on a steep slope, with rocky outcrops. The windward slope and exposed ridge crest above us had a thin layer of snow making it easy for the bison to use their noses to plow through the crust and find food below.</p>

<p>We ascended the river valley that sprawled below us, moving quickly and decisively to get above the group and avoid being winded. There was no need to think exactly how or where to move, intuition was leading me now. I thought to myself, it’s too beautiful for this not to be my moment. We stalked within 90 yards and securely perched ourselves on the steep slope to wait in the cold.</p>

<p>I scanned the herd and found a cow, bedded slightly away from the others and took aim. 12 years of tagging along on hunts played in my head. A single shot echoed through the valley.</p>

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<p>During a recent conversation a friend told me that he never sets goals, because reality often exceeds anything he could have dreamed up. Standing in awe of our harvest, I reflected on this concept. It was never my goal to become a hunter. But I welcome the lessons I’ve learned as a result. They’ve all changed my life for the better.</p>


Marrying into a family of passionate sheep hunters sparked a flame of curiosity for me, one where I was always happy to be along for the hunt no matter where it led. I endured relentless mosquitos in Northern BC. I shed tears after a sleepless night on a slope only mountain goats would find comfortable. I’ve been holed up in a tent during a howling snowstorm below the rugged peaks of New Zealand’s South Island.

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