It was a damp, dusty morning as I sat quietly beside Dale in front of the weight platform of the Game Station.
My hands were clad in glittery, golden stretch gloves; a sharp contrast to the brown, heavy fog that had settled in around us. “Do you think the sun will come out?” I asked my husband. He shook his head and looked upward. “Well, at least the moose will blend in. That will make them harder to see and even harder to shoot,” I mumbled. Dale turned toward me then. “You really can’t see the value in hunting them, can you? There are some very responsible, ethical hunters out there. They make sure the animal is killed humanely and the meat is put to good use.”
I assured him that I agreed with him and I reminded him that I also eat meat; processed, inspected, USDA-grade meat. Meat that has not just recently crossed over quiet, green meadows or drank from crystal clear streams. “That’s right,” he said. “Your meat has been injected with hormones, fed antibiotics, and physically restrained.”
We both decided it was time to lay down the swords and agree to disagree. Just as the reluctant sun decided to rise, hunters began pulling in to the weigh station parking lot, their trucks and trailers laden with lifeless, still warm moose; their regal heads turned away from us; tongues escaping their mouths and leaving shapeless wet streaks on the surface below them. A tooth was extracted and then analyzed as the limp, huge body was pulled upward toward the dial of the scale.
Hunters and their assistants stood patiently waiting for photos to be taken; their gloved hands touching their bounty sacredly and with great reverence. I nearly smiled at the irony of it all. I watched a full grown moose being lifted slowly upwards, his massive legs shackled together above his head. Below him, his back feet barely skimmed the top of the ground beneath him; hooves slightly gliding over the blood shed; his own blood.
“It seems so barbaric,” I whispered to Dale. And yet, here I sat watching the parade of slain moose with extreme fascination and interest.
We left after a short time, heading to Caribou to shop for groceries. Along the way, more trucks and trailers passed us headed for the weigh station, their precious cargo tied to the back of their vehicles with bungee cords and nylon rope. “I am not opposed to the sport of hunting,” I said, breaking the silence. “I simply cannot understand one’s ability to kill an animal; to snatch it right out of its environment and take its life.”
I have learned, over the course of my lifetime, that humankind will not always be in agreement. We sometimes see things in a much different light and that is to be expected; be it a matter of religion, ethnicity, or culture. Despite our differences, respect needs to be our common thread. As for me, I would much rather be hunting for a bargain on a Coach bag than a northern Maine moose!
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
