Author: Brendan Menchions

Between dating and marriage my wife has been putting up with me for over a decade now.I am not in a position to do it, but this woman is definitely a candidate for sainthood.  I try my best to balance my borderline insane passion for hunting with my family life, but more often than not I fail miserably.  I often debate paying a visit to a shrink, not to fix my “issue”, just so I could have a doctor’s note to show my wife.

I like many hunters have been confronted with the same old adage of “why do you hunt?”. It usually comes from someone who has never set foot in the woods, and who is probably ready to retort any answer I give.  And to be honest, after all my years hunting I still don’t know the answer myself.  I know the stereotypical responses that are easily puked out describing the beauty of it all.  But these are often convoluted to try and bridge the gap between a non-hunter and ourselves.  I appreciate all the things that everyone else does, I absorb the same memories of the hunt.  There is just a deeper burn happening inside of me that I have only found in a handful of other hunters.  Majority of these hunters coincidentally seem to have a four-legged partner along for the journey.

When thinking of grouse hunting in the woods of Northern Ontario, easy is the first word that comes to mine.  Find yourself the nearest logging road, cruise along at 5 km/hr and boom!  In my early years I think my old shotgun had more ketchup chip residue on it then gun blue.  This was never enough to satisfy me.  I would see glimpses of what a grouse truly was capable of and I thirsted for more.  I wanted to understand the bird and I wanted to compete with it.  As I reached an age where I could finally go out on my own, I took to walking old logging roads and getting places where no one else was going. Without even knowing I was slowly piecing together what grouse habitat was, and where they would be at certain times. All the while my circle of hunting buddies was shrinking.  Less and less of them were up to the task, opting to drive in their trucks or quads for the easy pickings.

In the early days I didn’t stray too far from paths, but it was starting then.  I was finding it harder to turn around and head back.  I was pushing limits as far as I could, often soaked and hungry as I laboured my way back to the truck.  My now wife then girlfriend saw the change and quickly adapted her goodbye from “when will you be home?” to “when do I start to worry?”.

I don’t think this type of wanderlust can be lumped in with adventure seeking or exploring because it seems to be less about the terrain as it is the game. Primitive man must have faced a constant need to change hunting lands and styles to stay on top of the prey. And as I wander from cover to cover now I like to think maybe like the bloodlines of a good dog, I may be a genetically superior hunter.  But as I find myself rushing back into civilization, late once again for another promise made to my wife, I think I’ll keep this theory to myself and go ahead and get that doctors note!