Hunting Big Sky

Traveling hungry for several thousand miles and 7 hours for a 4 oz. medium cooked Elk Tenderloin smothered in port wine and fesh thyme wasn't what I had in mind but it sure tasted good. I just flew in to Montana a few hours ago. It was a nice uneventful 3-stop layover - no turbulence, no crying babies and no lost luggage. Onboard, I had quiet conversations with a 4' 10" Great Grandmother of 16 Great Grandkids and a 22-year old Pastors daughter. Both hunt, fish, trap, and trek the Rockies, and they both carry photos of their proud prizes like a Mother would her child. Even before landing in Big Sky, Granny gave me proof that toting a rifle in Montana is as ubiquitous as using a cellphone in the Northeast. She pulled out her hunting license revealing she got it long before her drivers. Bagging a buck or mounting a 10-inch rack before adulthood seems to be a right of passage here. No judgement here really. My own Dad enjoyed his share of skinning muskrats and tagging deer when I grew up. Deer would hang by their necks in our car garage every hunting season. That doesn't mean I enjoyed venizon. The stuff always smelled nasty and was too tough to chew. Even my pet dog Snowball would choke on it when I snuck it to her under the kitchen table. Tomorrow I'm off bright and early to try my own luck shooting bison and other wild game. This sport is far less lethal in my hands - a steady eye and hours of digital video tape is all I need.