The Ginger goes hunting

I have a dear friend who is smart, funny, well-read, beautiful and, to top it all off, she is an animal lover. Not a  fanatic, mind you, but she loves birds, dogs, squirrels, horses, and badgers, to name a few. She and I agree that there are times when we prefer the company of animals to people. She is also, completely in love with, and happily married to...wait for it... a hunter. Not just any hunter, but a hunter who hunts, butchers and taxidermies (not a word?) his own kill. Recently, with her supply of red vines, freshly done fingernails and a willingness to try almost anything, The Ginger embraced an activity her husband loves and learned a little about herself at the same time.

Heere elky, elky...
Photo by E. Gorman-used with permission

I am not a hunter. I always joke that I can stalk the meat aisle with the best and skin the plastic off a steak in 2.3 seconds. I would never be able to kill another mammal unless I was REALLY hungry, and there were no fish, shellfish, crustaceans, mollusks, poultry or edible plants nearby. In fact, I remember reading a kids' story when I was, well, a kid, about a boy who gave all the area deer orange vests and caps so the hunters wouldn't shoot them-my kind of story then and now. Things, however, are not as clear cut or black and white as when I was a child (or even a teenager who knew EVERYTHING). Thus, my views on hunting have evolved as did my understanding of the predator-prey relationships and how man has screwed it up in many places by habitat destruction and predator eradication programs. Hunting done right has become an important wildlife management tool. Is it so bad to hunt elk when the alternative is that part of the herd will starve because there are not enough predators remaining to cull the weak or lame and not enough resources to sustain entire herds? I still have significantly firm beliefs about hunting predators, hunting only for sport, and hunting when you can't make a kill-shot, but really, this isn't my story. This story is about trying to embrace what a partner loves, challenging one's self, trying something new, and hiking the crap out of a mountain in New Mexico. It is the story of The Ginger's first hunt.

On the early-thirty side of the morning of October 12, The Ginger and her husband hooked up the Airstream  (a "Bambi," if you can believe it [look it up!]) and headed south towards Magdalena. The Ginger had a bull elk tag in the "best unit" (17) for bull elk. She is not a killer by nature (except mice but that is another story), but she does appreciate hundreds of pounds of organic, low fat meat. And, being a ginger, she wanted to show up the boys (not that hard, in my opinion, but again, this is her story). Did she have a clue what she was getting herself into? Of course not. Do any of us when we decide to travel uncharted territory and try something new? The Ginger's husband, a basically sweet guy when you consider his hobby is to stuff dead animals in the basement (no, not a sociopath-a taxidermist!), has lived off wild meat for over 20 years. Wild meat, unless you are in a radioactive area (oops?) or someplace laden with mercury, is the most healthful way to eat meat. Have any of us really fooled ourselves into believing that animals fed god only knows what, kept in conditions where they can barely move, where they breathe the dust of each others' waste and are shot up with antibiotics, is actually a good way to eat? Now people want free-range. Well, wild is about as free-range as it gets.

Somewhere in the distance is the shot she didn't take...
It's a hunter thing.
Photo used with permission

So, The Ginger and her husband set up their Airstream at a friend's in Magdalena. While small, the trailer was perfectly cozy for two. Then her husband gave The Ginger the bad news; she would be rising at 3 (in the MORNING) to go hunting. After her cold morning shower, she, her man, and a friend were off UP the mountainside to stalk elk. By 4:30 a.m. they were in position, but at dawn two trucks of interlopers came through and ruined it all; the boorish men shot and missed "The Ginger's" bull and then scattered the herd for good measure.Unfazed, the trio spent the next six hours stalking a giant herd of elk. Finally, they set up in a position they thought would be between the elk and the water, and waited. At dusk the herd walked right through the slot the hunters had anticipated. At least 50 elk wandered through The Ginger's  cross-hairs at 135 yards, with about a dozen legal sized bulls in the group. The Ginger, being an opportunist, wanted to shoot a 5X5 but her husband and friend (being purists) wanted her to hold out for a "big bull". Only later did the trio learn that the herd bull (the Boss; the Big Kahuna; the Don) was separated from the herd earlier by poachers. Thus, the empty-handed trio walked an hour and a half in the dark to get to a road, then caught a ride for another 45 minutes back to the truck. When they finally reached the truck it was about 8:30 p.m. and pitch black. Then, as if mocking them, they heard two bull elk bugling in very close proximity ...as if to say "F*** You! Neener neener neener!"

The next morning, after a well-earned breaky of biscuits and gravy (one of the perks of hiking one's ass off is the guilt-free eating-only a woman would think like that right?), it was up the mountain again to sit in 41F degrees for three hours before sunrise (nobody said they weren't dedicated). It was a long day, but finally, at 6:45 p.m The Ginger sighted a bull that would be a good cull from the herd; he had a third antler, basically a slow-growing bullet that would eventually kill him. The Ginger, shot him one inch below the heart (remind me never to piss her off). The creature died within minutes but he made one last death run that would prove to be The Ginger's final test of the grueling three day adventure. They searched for the elk for over four hours that night and again at dawn the next morning before finding him at the bottom of a hill. 

She always looks amazing, but if you know her, you can see she is UN-thrilled.
Photo used with permission

Most of the time they searched, The Ginger cried and swore she would never do this particular activity again. She cursed her husband and his friend, cursed the gun, the idea of a hunt and her decision to do it. When they finally found the elk, she threw herself across the carcass in tears. Her husband, who held the majority of "presence of mind" at that point convinced The Ginger take a photo with her kill. To add insult to injury, he also made her hold the gun! She was tired and she was conflicted. 

I said before I couldn't hunt. I have posited that I would see an elk's big brown eyes and start waving orange vests in the air, subsequently dying in the stampede I started. But what The Ginger did was more than cull an elk that was doomed anyway; more than supplement her family's stores with meat for the winter. She had tested herself; she had accepted a challenge in the name of partnership and inherent curiosity and she met that challenge with grace and, of course, style (who's hair looks that good after tromping through the mountains all day?!). She used skill and determination to meet a goal when others (me, at least) might likely have given up. Cold showers, cold days, long hikes and conflicting emotions are a tough way to spend a weekend.

The Ginger and her husband are home now, the animal has been put up in the freezer, the head no doubt taxidermied (yes, making up words again) by her husband, and the trauma of the climactic end has subsided. Though animated while telling the details it is interesting to note that when asked would she ever do it again? Her answer: "Meh, maybe." 

Just make sure there are plenty of red vines... and bring tissue.

A little shocky perhaps, but maybe settling in to her achievement with the help of her wonderful other half.
Photo used with permission

Vermin...or Gus Gus?

We have a guest in our house. His name is Rupert. He is  a  Mus musculus of the phylum Chordata and class Mammalia; in other words, a house mouse. Now, how I have a mouse, given that I have four dogs who pride themselves on jumping to every odd sound, every odor that I can or cannot smell and every movement from me walking down the hall to the wind blowing outside is beyond me, but there you have it. He (I am just running with it being male here, mostly as wishful thinking, given the reproductive possibilities) is a new addition to the household, only a few days, but he has managed to stir my husband and I up to disconcerting levels. The idea of a mouse is about as appealing as a cockroach. I miss my cats. Don't get me wrong, I rationally know that a clean home can be invaded by pests (some of my best friends in Hawaii had B-52-sized roaches and they were intimidatingly clean in their housekeeping habits), but the idea of a rodent wandering my baseboards and looking for nibbles in goodness only knows where makes us crazy. So, the morning after I saw Rupert, we were on the job...Oh, first, let me tell you how we found out about him.

Pretty cute for a disease-bearing vermin.

On a Saturday we were packing up some boxes on the dining table to send off to relatives when I noticed little black spots on the TABLE. Upon further inspection they were unmistakable. Teeny little black mouse poops. Ok... GROSS. David and I started looking for more and dammit we found some. We found where the little stinky bastardo has been perusing the dining room, part of the kitchen and the fireplace (it gets cold ya know). So, since we live in Hanta Virus land, we sprayed bleach water on everything and cleaned up. That night we were trying to relax by the fire and watch a movie when, out of the corner of my eye, I see movement and THERE HE WAS, blatantly walking on my fireplace hearth, like he paid the mortgage. "Mouse!" I yelled and the chase was on. Of course he got away and one of my dogs slept right through it, not ten feet from where the mouse was cruising. The next morning-we bought six humane traps and baited them each with a piece of saltine cracker spread with peanut butter and sprinkled with bird seed; a feast! We will see if he takes the bait. I miss my cats.

Today I spoke with some good friends about the mouse. Turns out I am far from alone in my battle; one friend lives in the mountains and deals with them all the time, another gets "slammed" by them every fall. Apparently the crafty little boogers like to come inside for the winter (of course they do). Did I say I miss my cats? One of my friends, a major animal lover, told me quite frankly that she is the trap queen; the snap-trap queen...ewww. 

I know that many reading this will say that the line is drawn when it comes to "vermin" invading the house. Out come the poisons, the snap-traps, the sticky-die-there-or-rip-your-feet-off-trying-to-get-away traps, the guns, the bazookas, etc. I even found instructions for homemade traps on the internet that drowned them for you! OMG. I am sorry, but I can't get past seeing the little critters and imagining them wearing little shirts and scarves, singing "Cinderelly, Cinderelly!" Or, remembering when my cousins had pet mice (and rats) and loving being able to hold them, put them down each other's shirts, etc. Or, the time I rescued a field mouse from my grandparents' cat and brought it in to "show" my grandmother -yes, I had an evil streak (after the screeching and slight cursing subsided, my grandfather pulled me aside and told me that field mice do not make appropriate pets). So I had, in good conscience, to give the humane traps a try. To appease my husband's sensibilities  however, I conceded that if they didn't work, we would discuss snap-traps (oy).

Now, I also know that these adorable little mammals carry disease, poop and pee everywhere, can get through holes the size of an eraser (!), eat 15-20 times a day (granted, they have tiny stomachs), and breed like, well, rodents. New Mexico is familiar with Hanta Virus, Bubonic plague and Rabies and it can be all too easy to become complacent when one thinks they are in control when in reality there may be a hundred mice in your garage plotting a coup d'etat for control of your living quarters. Again, I say, ewww. We never had to deal with this issue because for the ten years we have lived here, we had CATS. Not just cats, but big, "hunterly" (I know it's not a word, but I like it anyway) cats who liked nothing much better than a bird appetizer. What mouse is going to invade with three cats in the house? The kamikaze mice, that's who. We lost two of our cats to coyotes last year (another story) and the third is 19 (yes, nineteen) years old and her hunting days are pretty much over. A mouse (and its relatives) could probably crawl into her bed with her and she likely would either not notice or not care.

Well, I decided that this new little adventure in home ownership was something I needed to document, so below please find a record of how this mouse thing is proceeding. I have no idea how long it will continue (hoping not very long), but consider yourself invited to join me.

It looks pissed, doesn't it?

Day 1 - Rupert is a pretty savvy mouse, it seems. He entered one of the traps, grabbed the feast I laid out for him and backed out of the trap. Tonight-we stick the peanut butter side down in the trap so he has to work for it.

Day 2- Nothing in the morning but by 1p David was calling me to say we caught a mouse! I am not sure we really thought those little "humane" gray boxes would actually work, but lo and behold, when I arrived home there was a tiny, but chubby (babies?), little mouse trying desperately to be unseen in the corner of the little gray box. Of course, Blue had the trap and was trying to gnaw it open (a little late, dog!), but David grabbed it and knew from the weight that a mouse was our prisoner! We drove to a park nearby and let it go in the desert. Fast as lightning that little critter zoomed away-no wonder we never caught it that other night. Oh, and note to all:: Rupert's name was officially changed to Rufina. We watched her zoom away, went home, and rebaited the traps (even in Cinderella there were significantly more than one).

Day 2 -pm. No more when I got home, but bait is set and we shall see what happens tomorrow. I know it is a dream to think Rufina was the only invader, but it is a good dream...UPDATE: Day 8 - No mice or sign thereof since the first mouse was caught. The traps remain untouched and there is no unsanitary evidence of occupation. I cannot believe we were lucky enough to have only ONE mouse. A scout perhaps; one who was sent out to find refuge from the cold and upon never returning the clan moved elsewhere? Somehow, I doubt it, so we remain ever vigilant with the saltines, peanut butter and gray boxes at the ready. I guess I won't worry until I see I tiny little laundry basket...