By Julia Boyle
THE ERICKSON TRIBUNE
As a female hunter I stand out in the duck blind, at the goose picker’s, or at the shooting range. But despite never quite fitting in, there are few moments I cherish more than the quality time I spend with my father, sharing a hobby and a way of life he has passed down to me.
His bud dies ask him how he endedup with a daughter who hunts. The truth is, when my older sister came along he had hoped the next one would be a boy. But when I showed up he had no other option.
“I wasn’t going to let the chance pass me by to teach my kid how to hunt,” he always says. So starting at a young age, I would dress in camouflage and accompany him on early morning hunts. For the past 25 years it has always been our bond, our link, our “thing.”
Dad’s dedication to tradition
Last summer, a string of circumstances led me to realize the importance of rekindling that bond. So in September we took a trip, just the two of us, to hunt waterfowl in Alberta, Canada.
From July to September we met every Thursday evening at our farm so I could practice shooting clay pigeons (bright orange, round targets about four inches in diameter that fly through the air, resembling birds). He dedicated his time—and certainly his patience—to me and this budding tradition.
He taught me to mount the gun with proper form, and I gradually advanced, though I must have missed more than half the box of targets the first couple of weeks.
As the weeks passed I learned from my mistakes, my father attentively watching my every move and gingerly offering suggestions. And eventually, gradually, I became more accurate, more precise.
Although I was becoming a good shot, my training didn’t stop there. Each week, hot and sweaty and sooty with gun smoke, we’d head into town for a cold beer, a crab cake, and some hearty laughs. Because more than the kill, hunting is about the camaraderie between friends. This experience brought Dad and me even closer than father and daughter; it brought us together as friends.