Hunting Widower
Ron Spomer Outdoors Betsy Shooting
Oh no. It's hunting season again, or, as we call it around here, lonely season. My wife doesn't drink, bar crawl or disappear into the den on Sunday for nine hours of NFL games. But come autumn, come that golden season when Nature is at full glory, Betsy falls ill with hunting fever and leaves me a hunting widower. Sigh. I guess I shouldn't complain, since I'm the one who infected her. Before I came along, sweet Betsy was a mild mannered life flight nurse and mother who did the usual, normal suburban housewife things like camp, backpack, skydive (just once, with the metal screws to prove it) and kayak whitewater rivers around the world. She had no interest in terminating innocent wild animals -- until she ate some. Elk steaks, ram chops and quail breasts have a way of cutting through the fluff. I fed her plenty, then invited her to tag along on a few hunts. The challenge of climbing mountains, wading swamps and enduring blizzards to find meat in its purest state sealed the deal. The latent hunter emerged. Of course Betsy hunted with me to start, but, with my hectic schedule hunting for TV and magazine publications, she got short shrift. Only one or two deer hunts a year? That would never do. This year she scheduled her own mule deer and elk hunt with Montana wild woman and lifelong hunter/rancher/horsewoman/outfitter/guide Donna McDonald of Upper Canyon Outfitters, Alder, Montana. Donna can out-cowboy most cowboys and quarter an elk with the best of them. She might even have enough energy to keep up with Betsy. So, with this hunt on the horizon, I suffer even more than usual. My little bride drags me on five-mile hikes, makes me take her to the desert to shoot, asks pointed questions about how to call elk and where to place a perfect shot. She keeps her Blaser R8 beside the couch and dry fires while watching TV. She's even trying to get me to join her while working out with a professional strength trainer. I've created a monster. And I love it. # # #
