By Brad Luttrell
Editor’s Note: This column was written in response to Charles Dodd White’s “Why I Don’t Hunt Anymore,” published in this section in October. An earlier version of this column was published on Medium.
“Get out of the car.”
I sat in an aging library tucked into the hills of eastern Kentucky as the renowned photojournalist and storyteller, David Labelle, addressed the room. A small group of college students awaited each word as we kicked off a week-long journalism workshop.
“You won’t find stories driving around. Walk the streets. Talk to people. And step into the culture if you really want to document it. Anything short of this is a discredit to those whose stories we attempt to tell.”
I’m paraphrasing from memory, but 15 years later, this lesson stands strong. This simple advice is the core of ethical, accurate documentary work. I spent years documenting tales from the south, from my Appalachian home all the way to Memphis, Tennessee, where I worked as a photographer. My time as a journalist was short-lived, but I’ve grown to see David’s advice as a lesson in life, not just journalism.
In Why I Don’t Hunt Anymore, a column for these pages, Charles Dodd White highlighted southern hunters as paramilitary who engage in the “burlesque of masculinity.” While I respect his right to share his perspective, this work feels like a misrepresentation of the hunting culture I know and love. It's time to “get out of the car.”
I respect Charles. He is eloquent and thoughtful. However, I believe his words in that column, while wonderfully constructed, painted a picture of the South’s hunting culture — one I’ve come to know and love — that was more commentary than documentary. In the essay, he said he hopes he’s wrong. This is why I believe he is.
I can’t speak for all the hunters in the South, but I do know this audience well. I walk within the culture. I’m the cofounder and CEO of GoWild, an outdoors app. Of our tens of thousands of active members, 74 percent hunt. Through my work, combined with my lifetime of being connected to hunters, I’ve spoken with thousands of outdoorsmen and women. I’ve direct-messaged with thousands in the last year alone. Every day, I see their stories on our platform — tales of preparation, pursuit, and prosperity.
When you observe behavior from the outside looking in, it’s the loudest actors who are most notable. These observations from afar can miscategorize people en masse, magnifying the eccentric few. This applies to hunting, just as it does with politics, religion, etc. No matter the lifestyle or belief system in question, the damning behavior is often found on the outer circle, in plain sight to those on the outside.
White said the reverence and respect which were hallmarks of his youth seemed to thin each season with today’s hunters. And I do acknowledge there are hunters out there who I don’t identify with and who don’t have respect for the game they pursue. But they’re few and far between. Within our hunting culture, I’ve met people who are more philosophers than sentinels. What follows is my journey as a Southern hunter. It is my story of respect, honor and reverence.
In short, this is why I hunt.
Modernity has made us less human.
At the roots of our origin, we gathered around campfires to develop language, fellowship with family, and celebrate the day’s hunt. If barbecues and an evening campfire on a cool night seem to put your soul at ease, don’t underestimate why: You’re rekindling your core. Every ounce of your nature was developed in smoky, warming moments just like this.
Today people effortlessly flip on the lights, summon a ride, order food, buy gifts and seemingly call upon the entire outside world to be brought to their doorstep. Despite the benefits of our wireless world — consumer goods, information, and knowledge at our fingertips — it puts distance between us and our internal hard-wiring. Society today creates humans who are indirect predators, becoming less aware of the consequences of our consumerism.
Hunting allows me to disconnect from this mental fog and clutter. It’s not unlike meditation. When I’m sitting in the woods, my mind is allowed to wander into the depths of the unexplored. Having that break from the ever-present entertainment we keep in our pockets is the best creativity reset that I’ve found. In some ways, we’re blessed to hunt in the South where cell service has yet to spread throughout every forest.
The pursuit of game not only brings you closer to your nature, but also allows your mind to operate as nature intended. This, combined with the surreal experience of hearing and watching the woods wake up around you, unaware of your presence, is something that will awaken emotions that have been dormant since birth in a new hunter.
Last year, I had the pleasure of introducing my co-founder to turkey hunting. An avid hiker, he had logged thousands of miles in the woods. On the drive out, I told him he was about to have a new experience in the wilderness. As dawn arrived and silhouettes began to make their presence known, I was able to make out the outline of a childlike smile as he heard his first turkeys. Shortly after, the morning thunder rolled as a hillside of turkeys erupted into gobbles, yelps, and the flutter of wings as these prehistoric birds fled the roost.
On the drive back, he told me about how in all of his time in the mountains, he never knew what he was missing. In the absence of humans, the woods take on their true character. We failed to get a bird that season, and he said he had hoped to take his first so he could call himself a hunter. I reassured him he was now a hunter. This is what it is. Most of the time, we come home empty-handed, but our hearts and minds are filled with the rich world we left behind.
~~~
Years ago, someone I worked with chastised me about shooting a deer and posting it on Facebook. “Do you feel like a man now?” It’s now a common occurrence for hunters, but at the time, I had never been bullied online for hunting. That question fogged my head like the hangover of a rifle’s blast. For years I came back to that moment. Did I do something wrong? Should I not have posted it? Did my co-worker not understand I was going to feed this animal to my family for the next year?
As my career matured in the outdoor industry, these interactions became more frequent. I’ve had death threats against me and my family. I’ve been told I should get my meat at the grocery store like everyone else. Despite 86 percent of hunters naming “food” as the primary reason they hunt, they’re labeled as bloodthirsty, trophy-hunting murderers. The attackers most often eat meat, but pointing out such is a cyclical, fruitless discussion. Surprisingly I can often find common ground with vegans after some brief dialogue — we’re both passionate about growing our own and monitoring where our food comes from.
I often hunt back home in the Appalachian mountains. Flat farm acreage is scarce. In lieu of rolling fields, horses graze in small patches of depleted earth at the base of weathered mountains. Roads cling to cliffsides lest they fall into the creeks ever present in the parallels below. The occasional dimple in the mountainside makes room for a weathered barn or dilapidated farmhouse. Were my great-grandfathers alive, they’d find the land largely undisturbed from their childhoods, when coal camps and company stores were commonplace.
In many ways, how I hunt these hills is not unlike the process of my ancestors. My rifle, a modest .30-06 with a scope, is a modern tribute to those of the past. I admit there are many who spend thousands of dollars on high-end firearms and optics, and these upgrades have their advantages in the expansive western landscapes or flatlands a few hundred miles to the south. But here, tucked into ravines and thickets of the mountains, expensive upgrades provide advantages but are not necessary in my pursuit of a freezer filler.
While I don’t personally identify as a gearhead, I understand the desire to pursue the best equipment. As hunters, we are only as good as our proficiency at killing. To try and say it is anything less is hiding from the fact that something dies so that I may live. Your breakfast bacon, hamburger, and steaks required killing as well. Even the grains consumed each year kill animals in bulk, costing an estimated six lives per acre according to a study done by Texas State University and the University of California, San Diego. Life eats life.
We can all do our best to make ethical consumer purchases, but much of that process is not in our direct control. But the hunter controls every aspect of protein acquisition. Once presented with a game opportunity, he or she is the only decider. Archers practice for months before taking to the hunt, all to pursue quick, efficient deaths. There certainly is a small percentage of hunters who likely glorify this aspect of the hunt. But I strongly believe much of this focus on the kill is misunderstood.
Every time I have an animal come into the scope of my rifle or the sight of my bow, my heart thunders. At times I’m certain the animal can hear the pounding through my layers of clothing. Veterans and new hunters alike talk about this moment. The pace at which thoughts race through your mind is not unlike a car crash. It happens in an instant, yet time slows as you realize that death awaits weighs on you in the moment. As I gently squeeze my trigger, I watch and prepare to deal with the consequences of my actions. Death likely awaits.
I often feel a brief moment of diverse emotions. Those initial seconds of watching an animal expire are in no way fun. But it is a necessary part of the acquisition. That understanding of death goes beyond the field. This experience has made me a more conscious consumer. If a grocery store chicken goes bad before it’s completely consumed at my house, I am bothered by the fact that something died for me, yet I didn’t wholly use its life. It’s disrespectful, and a thought that weighs ever-present in the mind of someone who knows what it means to take a life directly.
The complete cycle of hunting is the conversion of knowledge to wisdom. Modern consumers know animals die, but society distances itself from death. There is no connection to the animal. In contrast, the hunter can tell the story of their dinner — where that animal lived, and what it ate. When I cook doves, turkey, venison, or fish for friends, I get to honor that animal by sharing its story.
I don’t ask everyone to hunt — I realize it’s not a likely reality. But I do hope that those who don’t hunt can understand why I pursue this connection to nature and my food. My experience and respect for death grounds me in what it means to live. Knowing the gravity of mortality is an expansion of the mind, and it provides a moral compass for who I want to be: A respectful participant in nature, as opposed to one who takes and offers nothing in return.
While hunting has been in a generational decline, especially here in the South, recent data from the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service show signs of hunter numbers increasing. This has, in part, come from a growing number of people taking control of their food sources. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing and even partaking in a few of these efforts.
In Georgia, Hank Forester founded a program to take new, inexperienced hunters on their first hunt.
“We didn’t lead with, ‘Hey, do you want to go shoot a deer?’ ” said Forester in an interview with The Wall Street Journal. “If you’re talking about local, sustainable — I can’t certify organic — you can’t do better than white-tailed deer.”
My friend Jeremiah Doughty, with From Field to Plate, quit his well-paying job to spend his life teaching new hunters not only how to hunt, but to process their meat. I joined him in south Texas last fall for one of his classes. He spent three weeks teaching hands-on classes with more than a dozen new outdoorsmen and women, expanding on methods of take, butchering, and how to prepare each cut of the meat. Some of his most enthusiastic participants in his classes have been vegans who first criticized his lifestyle. A few of them, in particular, are now regulars on his hunting trips.
Students in these classes aren’t showing up to kill; they’re learning to provide. The focus on hunting is not about the glory of killing. It’s about executing efficiently to ensure an animal suffers as little as possible, and the meat is processed well. The yield is some of the best protein available in the world (there is a reason top-notch eateries are serving venison) — and the consumer walks away from the process knowing not only the gravity of death, but also with a new respect for the value of life.
While those efforts focus on the adults, another hunter I am proud to know and call my friend is Erin Crooks, the founder of Raise ’Em Outdoors. Erin is a military spouse who manages to run her nonprofit and raise two children while her husband serves our country, often overseas on active duty. Erin hosts camps across the country, bringing hundreds of children and parents together each year. Most of her camps happen right here in the South.
There are dozens of stories I could call out, ranging from the millions of pounds of meat that have been donated from hunters to those in need, to the hundreds of local groups donating time to clean and preserve our public lands. All of these acts of selfless leadership are guiding a new generation of hunters into the woods. A byproduct of this is creating participants in the North American Model of Wildlife Conservation, which is how much of our wildlife and wildlands are funded and sustained.
It’s my hope that the next time you see a hunter, you see more than a killer. Together, our modern hunters and anglers have helped restore this great nation’s wildlife to numbers never seen before. Our elk, turkey, grouse, duck, and whitetail populations have never been more healthy than they are today, all in response to the actions of those who wander the woods in pursuit of game.
For the outsider, I know it’s a strange concept to think that we hunters love something, but we also take from it. Aldo Leopold summarized it well when he said, “a conservationist is one who is humbly aware that with each stroke [of the axe] he is writing his signature on the face of the land.”
~~~
A quiet alarm brings me awake. I slip out of the covers and prowl the house like a thief, in silence as I layer up, fill a thermos and lace up my boots. Moments later, my sister and I are on an ATV, cutting November’s chill. I serve as her windshield initially, and as we get deeper into the woods, my face sweeps for spiderwebs and stray branches as we climb deeper into the weathered Appalachian mountains.
The air crisps as we cross a small stream. I ask her to deboard before climbing a steep, slick hillside. A seemingly chivalrous act, but she acknowledges it’s a raw deal — she’s the one who has to hike the 200 yards of elevation in the dark. Atop, I wait in silence for a few minutes before I hear rustling leaves and huffing. She nearly pulls me off the ATV as she falls into her seat. We carry on.
Half an hour from home, we come to rest among a grove of invasive mountain olives. As the engine quiets, we acclimate to the silence and pack up our gear. Splitting up, she moves over a hillside into a mostly dried creekbed. I work my way through a thicket, up the mountainside. The occasional twig-snap echoes through the sleeping woods.
I come to rest among acorns and conclude I must be leaning against a mighty oak. I sit. I wait. My mind begins to wander. I think about the tales of my great-grandfathers and their hunts in these aging hills. Right here, in this moment, as dawn highlights the earth, I feel connected to my ancestors as my view is just as theirs would have been: deprived of modernity.
Leaves rustle, pulling me back to this moment. A combination of anxiety and excitement rushes through me. Bears wander these woods, something that’s nice to see for a tourist, and another altogether for a hunter. The likelihood that I will see a bear places my hunt in modern times, as their population was sparse back then. A few more sounds. Probably a squirrel.
In the absence of a schedule and any place to be, minutes can feel like hours. As the twilight comes into a chromatic display of soft light, I hear a blast. It echoes through the woods. I avert my eyes to the direction of the pollution of silence, but refrain from turning my head, as not to further startle any game that may be nearby.
As our morning concludes, we reconvene among the olive trees. We share stories of the animals seen, laugh about our failures and successes — and we sit, hydrating as we shed a few layers. I tell my sister about how I want to build a digital community for hunters to replicate and share moments like this — the part of the story often untold and misunderstood. We need a place to keep this experience alive, to share our tradition and to welcome others to learn about it. She is one of the first people to encourage me to do so.
The engine rumbles as we depart, and as we make our way back through the muddy ruts and washed out strip mine roads I know we’re bringing back more than the game we take. Our time in the woods travels with us and will remain. I am, however, always left to wonder if the best version of myself wasn’t left behind, sitting rooted with the trees.
Brad Luttrell is the co-founder and CEO of GoWild. He is an award-winng writer, marketing strategist and creative director, although his friends mostly just know him for his smoked venison chili.
