Confessions of a Hobbit-sized Hunter
“Almost there”, I reassure myself, catching my breath before continuing on to the appointed meeting spot. Having just completed the steepest part of the trek, I note that I’m making good time, despite the vertical challenge. I am eager, of course, to reach my husband, Chris, and see the buck he just shot. But the other part of my eagerness stems from a desire to prove my worth as a packer. After all, Chris could have called his football-player-built buddy to help haul out his deer; instead, he called me: his barely-five-foot-tall, eighty-nine-pound wife.
Putting meat on my bones
I ponder this “proving my worth” complex as I hike. It’s been with me for as long as I can remember. My childhood nickname was “Twiggy” and my mom force-fed me peanut butter in an effort to put some meat on my bones. Her Filipino genetics didn’t exactly help my cause for more personal mass, nor did my dad’s speedy metabolism, which I also happened to inherit. Not much has changed now that I’m an adult; birthing two children has had the unfortunate effect of thinning me out even more. As a result, I have an intrinsic desire to compensate for my size by putting forth as much brawn and brains—and putting down as much chocolate—as I can muster.
What brawn I do have is now overshadowed by the man-sized frame pack that is loosely strapped to my kid-sized back. “Gotta find a frame pack that fits”, I mutter.
As a hunter, being tiny (or “fun-sized”, if you’d rather) has some advantages. Finding quality hunting gear that fits well is not one of them. My rifle has a shortened stock, and my bow and shotgun are both—you guessed it—youth-sized. And while it’s lovely that several companies now specialize in women’s hunting clothes, their extra-small is too big for me.
My feet, a whopping size three, are quite disadvantaged, as well. I currently wear two pairs of thick wool socks to make my hunting boots not slip around so much. I might bite the bullet and invest in a custom pair, but that would sadly cancel out all the savings I’ve enjoyed by buying kid-sized camo.
Benefits of being a hobbit-sized hunter
Despite these inconveniences, there are unique benefits that come with being a hobbit-sized hunter. For starters, it’s much easier and quieter to traverse hard-packed snow when you’re light enough to walk on top. Speaking of quieter, we tiny people have tiny feet, which lowers our chances of misstepping on noisy leaves or twigs, simply because the soles of our shoes have fewer square inches than those of our larger counterparts.
Additionally, the odds of being granted permission to hunt private property increase exponentially if I take it upon myself to do the asking. The landowner typically assumes that I’m twelve and is happy to oblige (even when I do try to emphasize the fact that I am with my husband ).
Finally cresting the last hill, I spot that husband of mine and suddenly feel a bit light-headed from the exertion. It occurs to me that if I end up passing out or find myself in another type of emergency wilderness situation, someone could easily pack me out on their back. Lucky me.
Pretending to be completely unwinded, I saunter up to Chris. I casually point out how quickly I got there and voice my readiness to load up. He nods and begins divvying the meat between packs, putting the majority of it on his. “You can throw a little more on mine,” I stupidly announce, and he obeys. It’s not until we strap on our respective packs and prepare to commence our downhill commute that I humbly request his assistance. I can’t even stand up.
A few good laughs later and we are halfway down. I don’t complain out loud, but my back is burning, my legs feel shaky, and I have to use a stick to balance myself on the downward slope. I pause to close my eyes and recall the time that my husband, gentleman that he is, tossed my antelope over his shoulders as if it were a sack of potatoes and carried that thing the whole mile out. Sweating, I envision myself being that strong. The pain dissipates for a moment as I daydream.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”, I hum, and once again focus on putting one foot in front of the other for the final stretch. I’ve almost completed my mission and am definitely feeling a bit more toughened up. This, I think to myself, is why I like hunting so much: It’s an experience in which humans—young or old, male or female, big or small—can conquer mountains and provide for their family in a big way.
When people act surprised at the fact that I love to hunt, I’m unsure if it’s because I’m petite or because I am a woman; but I assume that it’s because I’m a petite woman hunter. While I fully admit that I’m limited in certain ways (low bow poundage, inability to pack out an elk by myself, and lack of built-in insulation, to name just a few), it is those very limitations that motivate me. I’m working on my elk-talking skills, for instance, with hopes of calling in a bruiser for Chris to shoot (until the day comes that my arm-strengthening exercises pay off and I can ethically shoot one with my bow myself). In the meantime, I hope that others will simply see me as a hunter who is as imperfectly capable as the rest.
Finally reaching the truck, I steal a glance at my pack-mule husband. “We’re quite the team”, I think, and he returns my gaze with a look that says he really appreciates my help . . . but wonders if he should be letting the small stuff sweat so much.
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