This fall, I headed west to Montana to chase after a Merriam’s turkey. I’ve recently become obsessed with these wild birds after my cousin took me on my first turkey hunt this past spring. As soon as the season ended in Missouri, I started looking for a season and a state that would get me back in the woods the fastest. Enter: Montana.
Fall season. New subspecies. Cheap(ish) non-resident tag.
I had an afternoon, a full day, and a morning in the woods and – spoiler alert – I came up empty-handed. No white-tipped tail fan would be making its way back to Missouri with me.
However.
I got to experience so much that Montana has to offer: pronghorn antelope, mule deer, Merriam’s that were too far away to take a chance at, and even a porcupine!
This pronghorn fed 20 yards from me for about 45 minutes. It was magical.
I was in the wildlife the whole time, which was really, really cool. Especially because none of these animals show their face around my family farm in the Show Me State.
On the way out, some elk hunters that were camping near me told me if I had just gone a bit further south, I would have been THICK in the birds.
I’ll know better next time.
And here’s where hope comes in.
For next time.
On my full day of hunting, I walked out into the public ground and saw a flock of about 15 birds. The problem was that this flock was on private land. And moving your jolly little camouflaged self onto private land is a big no-no if you don’t have permission.
I tried to get in a different position.
I tried to call softly.
I tried to anticipate where the birds were headed.
And it just didn’t work out.
I sensed God say, “Hunting is a lot like hoping.”
A little bit about me: hope is hard for ya girl.
I’ve spent a lot of time in my life wanting for things that I believe can be had, and not getting them. Anticipating that things will turn out for the best, and they don’t always.
Hope is hard for me. It’s exhausting.
And yet – hope is what keeps us alive.
Hope keeps us going.
Hope is the whole point.
But it’s probably the thing I struggle with the most.
And to top it all off, about a week prior to this trip, I had just had another “Well, this all went to crap, so why even try. Hoping only lets me down. I think I’ll pass on this whole hope thing from now on,” situation.
You know the one. It’s the one where you’ve put yourself out there for the 83,271st time and yet again you’ve been disappointed for one reason or another.
(I’m being a bit dramatic about the number, but you get it.)
And in steps God, in the middle of my newest declaration of “no thank you” to hope, with a, “Hunting is a lot like hoping.”
When you hunt, you go out each morning, each sit, anticipating that the trophy will walk by. When he doesn’t, you move to the next spot, walking slowly, attentively, expectantly.
Just a little while longer and he’ll be here.
And then the sun goes down.
The day ends.
The tag isn’t filled, and there’s a bit of disappointment.
But also, there’s always tomorrow.
The tag being left unfilled doesn’t keep you in the house or at camp tomorrow.
Sometimes you wake up even earlier to beat him to his spot.
Before I left for this trip, I had someone ask me what I wanted from it. What I expected this pilgrimage of sorts to offer me.
“Renewed hope and sustainable joy.”
I think I’ve gotten that. I think I have a new perspective on hope.
I have to hunt for it. I want to hunt for it.
Hope is the trophy.
Hope is the antidote.
Hope is the thing that gets us up just a little bit earlier tomorrow.
And joy? Joy comes when I’m hunting for hope, open for what’s to come, and God completely surprises me. Like a mature pronghorn antelope snorting at me from 20 yards away.
I wanted a turkey – a Merriam’s fan to hang on my wall.
But I think I got a lot more instead.
