This file includes hunting and anti-hunting. I enjoy target shooting but never took to hunting. However, I am not opposed to it and have many friends and family members who enjoy hunting so I have things on both sides of the issue. Also see Guns.


Page Toppers

Hunting Quotes and Humor

Page Ideas

Following Instructions

A couple of hunters were out in the woods when one of them fell to the ground clutching his chest. After struggling for a few seconds, he seemed to stop breathing. The other guy quickly pulls out his cell phone and dials 911. He gasps to the operator, "My friend is dead! What should I do?"
In a soothing voice, the operator says, "Try to remain calm, sir. I can help you. First, we need to make sure he's dead."
Immediately the operator heard a shot.
The frantic hunter comes back on the line and says, "Okay, now what?"

Where's Henry?

A group of dedicated deer hunters paired off in twos for the day. That night, one of the hunters returned alone, staggering under the weight of an eight-point buck.
"Where's Henry?" the others asked.
"Henry had a stroke of some kind. He's a couple of miles back up the trail," the successful hunter replied.
"You left Henry laying out there and carried the deer back?" they inquired.
"A tough call," nodded the hunter. "But I figured no one is going to steal Henry!"


(Jim Slinsky)

The thinking deer hunter should mature through three phases during his hunting life. First phase, I need to kill a deer. Second phase, l want to harvest a nice deer. And last phase, we must manage this resource so our children and their children can experience the grand tradition of good deer hunting.

Link to Hunting Poems

Poems for Bow Hunters

Montana Grizzly Bear Notice

In light of the rising frequency of human/grizzly bear conflicts, the Montana Department of Fish and Game is advising hikers, hunters, and fishermen to take extra precautions and keep alert for bears while in the field.

We advise outdoorsmen to wear noisy little bells on their clothing so as not to startle bears and to carry pepper spray in case of an encounter with a bear. It is also a good idea to watch out for fresh signs of bear activity. Outdoorsmen should recognize the difference between black bear and grizzly bear poop. Black bear poop is smaller and contains lots of berries and squirrel fur. Grizzly bear poop has little bells in it and smells like pepper.

Songs about Hunting

Songs about Arrows

Songs about Knives

Songs about Guns and Ammo

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Everything below is Anti-Hunting


A (Former) Hunter's Poem

A hunter shot a flock of geese
That flew within his reach.
Two were stopped in their rapid flight
And fell on the sandy beach.
The mail bird lay at the water's edge
And just before he died
He faintly called to his wounded mate
And she dragged herself to his side.
She bent her head and crooned to him
In a way distressed and wild
Caressing her one and only mate
as a mother would a child.
Then covering him with her broken wing
And gasping with failing breath
She laid her head against his breast
A feeble honk . . . then death.
This story is true though crudely told
I was the man in this case.
I stood knee-deep in the snow and cold
And the hot tears burned my face.
I buried the birds in the sand where they lay
Wrapped in my hunting coat.
And I threw my gun and belt in the bay
When I crossed in the open boat.
Hunters will call me a right poor sport
And scoff at the thing I did.
But that day something broke in my heart
And shoot again? God forbid!

Hunters of Dreams

(Sam Walter Foss)

The woods were made for the hunters of dreams,
The brooks for the fishers of song;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
The streams and the woods belong.

Quail Season

(Rea Williams)

The sun is slowly dropping
In a serene and peaceful sky
When the serenity is rudely shattered
By a plaintive inquiring cry.

It's the poignant cry of a lonely quail
Seeking his summer's mate,
The mate that has fallen this lovely day
To a sad, ignoble fate.

A short time ago they built their nest
And reared their brood of ten,
Ten lively chicks like balls of fluff
Blown on the summer wind.

At the sound of a shot she came fluttering down
Broken and lifeless to earth,
The man with the gun gave a boisterous shout
And laughed in mindless mirth.

Now he's gone back to his home
To sit and boast to his friends
And I am left with that heart-break call
Drifting hauntingly across the wind.

Jeremy's First Hunt

(from "Through Many Windows" by Arthur Gordon)

His father said, "All set, boy?" and Jeremy nodded quickly, picking up his gun with awkward mittened-hands. His father pushed open the door and they went out into the freezing dawn together, leaving the snug security of the shack, the warmth of the kerosene stove, the companionable smell of bacon and coffee.

They stood for a moment in front of the shack, their breaths white in the icy air. Ahead of them was only the vast expanse of marsh and water and sky. Ordinarily Jeremy would have asked his father to wait while he fussed around with his camera, trying to record the bleak arrangements of black and gray and silver. But not this morning. This was the morning, solemn and sacred, when 14-year-old Jeremy was to be initiated into the mystic rites of duck shooting.

And he hated it, had hated the whole idea ever since his father had bought him a gun, had taught him to shoot clay pigeons, had promised him a trip to this island in the bay. But he was determined to go through with it. He loved his father, wanted more than anything in the world his approval. If only he could conduct himself properly this morning, he knew that he would get it.

They came to the blind, a narrow, camouflaged pit facing the bay. In it was a bench, a shelf for shotgun shells, nothing else. Jeremy sat down tensely, waited while his father waded out with an armful of decoys. Light was pouring into the sky now. Far down the bay a string of ducks went by, etched against the sunrise. Watching them, Jeremy felt his stomach contract.

To ease the sense of dread, he took a picture of his father silhouetted against the quicksilver water. Then he put the camera hastily on the shelf and picked up his gun.

His father came back and crouched beside him, boots dripping, hands blue with cold. "Better load up. Sometimes they're on top of you before you know it." He watched Jeremy break his gun, insert the shells, close it again. " I'll let you shoot first," he said. He loaded his own gun with a metallic snap. " You know," he said happily, "I've been waiting a long time for this day. Just the two of us . . . "

He broke off, leaning forward, eyes narrowed. "There's a small flight now, headed this way. Keep your head down; I'll give you the word."

Behind them the sun had cleared the horizon, flooding the marshes with tawny light. Jeremy could see everything with an almost unbearable clarity: his father's face, tense and eager, the faint white frost on the gun barrels. His heart was thudding wildly. No, he prayed, don't let them come. Make them stay away, please!

But they kept coming. "Four blacks," his father said. "One mallard."
High above, Jeremy heard the pulsing whistle of wings as the flight went over, swung wide, began to circle. "Get set," his father whispered.
In they came, gliding down the sunlit aisles of space, heads raised alertly, wings set in a proud curve. The mallard was leading; light flashed from iridescent feathers around his neck and glinted on his ruddy breast. Down dropped his bright orange feet, reaching for the steel colored water. Closer, closer . . .

"Now!" cried Jeremy's father in an explosive roar. He was on his feet, gun ready. "Take him!"
Jeremy felt his body obey. He stood up, leaned into the gun the way his father had taught him. He felt the stock cold against his cheek, saw the twin muzzles rise. Under his finger the trigger curved, smooth and final and deadly.
In the same instant, the ducks saw the gunners and flared wildly. Up went the mallard as if jerked by an invisible string. For a second he hung there, poised against the wind and sun, balanced between life and death. Shoot, said something sharply in Jeremy's brain. And he waited for the slam of the explosion.
But it didn't come. Up went the mallard higher still, until suddenly he tipped a wing, caught the full force of the wind and whirled away, out of range.
There was no sound except the faint rustle of the grasses. Jeremy stood there, gripping his gun.
"Well," his father said at last, "what happened?"
The boy did not answer. His lips were trembling.
His father asked, in the same controlled voice, "Why didn't you shoot?"

Jeremy thumbed back the safety catch. He stood the gun carefully in the corner of the blind. "Because they were so alive," he said, and burst into tears.
He sat on the rough bench, face buried in his hands, and wept. All hope of pleasing his father was gone. He had had his chance and he had failed.
For a long moment his father was silent. Then Jeremy felt him drop down beside him. "Here comes a single. Let's try again."
Jeremy did not lower his hands. "It's no use, Dad. I can't."
"Hurry," his father said roughly, "You'll miss him. Here.!"
Cold metal touched Jeremy. He looked up, unbelieving. His father was handing the camera to him. "Quick," he said softly. "He won't hang around all day!"

In swept a big pintail drake driving low across the water, skidding right into the decoys. Jeremy's father clapped his hands, a sound like a pistol shot. The splendid bird soared, feet retracted, hear raised, wings flailing, white breast gleaming. Then he was gone.
Jeremy lowered the camera. "I got him!" His face was radiant.
"Did you?" His father's hand touched the boy's shoulder briefly. "That's good." He looked at his son, and Jeremy saw that there was no disappointment in his eyes, only pride and sympathy and love. "It's okay, son. I'll always love shooting. But that doesn't mean you have to. Sometimes it takes as much courage not to do a thing as to do it."
He paused. "Think you could teach me how to work that camera?"

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