By Jill Alban
Living in Montana is a feast for the eyes, the mind – and the stomach. Before I moved West ten years ago, I was a vegetarian/sometimes vegan – I didn’t eat meat, fish, or cheese. I was concerned with how industrial agriculture exploited animals and polluted water sources. I wanted to take a stand – to make a small difference against a big, complex, overwhelming global system.
That first winter in Missoula, people laughed when I told them I was a vegetarian. At parties, my friends offered up cured meats, spicy sausages, and elk steaks. Unhesitatingly, I said no. “You’ll change your mind,” they’d say, those well-meaning men with thick beards and impressive outdoor resumes. “Vegetarians don’t last long in Montana.”
And – for better, I think – those fellas were right. The first time I ate meat was three days in on an intense weeklong backpacking trip in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. My girlfriend and I had forged ahead in front of the crew, shimmying up and over the pass, hiking quickly, breathing fast. At the top, we shed our packs and collapsed on the ground, waiting for our friends. I watched as she pulled out a bag full of jerky and began eating each piece delicately. (I must have had a granola bar or something equally lame). I didn’t say anything.
About ten minutes later, the rest of our group began to make their way towards us, laughing ruefully at the heat and the climb, gesturing at the expansive view. Everyone began pulling out snacks. One of my friends had a thick log of elk salami. He pulled out his Leatherman and began slicing off bulky chunks, sharing the meat with the others. I didn’t hesitate.
“Jason,” I said. “Can I have a piece?”
He looked at me, head cocked to one side. “I thought you didn’t eat meat?” he asked. Jason was well meaning – I’m sure he didn’t want to corrupt me – but there was no turning back.
“I don’t,” I said, taking the thick slice of salted game into my hands and eating it. “But I want some salami.”
Since then, I’ve ceased being a vegetarian and have been eating wild game and fish almost voraciously ever since. I feel stronger and healthier, and I feel good about my decision. I’m a firm believer in knowing where one’s food comes from, and am proud to support my husband and friends who hunt. While I’m not hunting myself (yet), I am interested in starting out, and have helped scout, pack-out, and butcher for many years.
In the meantime, I continue to fish – sometimes out-fishing my husband – and in the wilderness, I love keeping fish for us to eat. One of my girlfriends from high school recently asked me what it felt like to kill a fish. I had to pause a second before answering.
I hate killing fish. I so love fishing – the act of connecting with a creature from a netherworld, touching a prehistoric being, holding a pulsing, writhing wild animal for just a moment. Nine times out of ten, I put the fish right back where it came from. But now and then on wilderness trips, I’ll kill a few fish to eat.
I do it not because I like to kill things – entirely the opposite. I do it because it feels like the responsible thing to do. If I’ve decided I’m going to eat fish, I think I should be a part of its death every once in a while and understand what that’s all about. We’ve all seen the pre-packaged fish in our grocery stores – filets poised on rocks or ice behind a glass case or frozen and sealed in plastic. It’s easy to remain separated from the reality of what it means to eat meat.
When I kill a fish, I have to lay it on the rocks, try to keep it contained as it flops around, and hit it on the head several times in a row with a rock. The first hit doesn’t always work. Sometimes it starts bleeding internally, and a purple sheen emanates from its skin. I can tell when it’s dead because the light leaves its eye.
I’ll then string it up through its gill and mouth and keep it submerged in the cold water until its time to eat. I don’t mind gutting it – I like opening the stomach to see what types of insects it was munching on. And I like cooking a trout over a campfire, watching the skin curl and get crispy as the meat warms and softens in the flame.
And most of all, I like eating those wild trout, especially after a long day of hiking or boating in the backcountry. It’s nice to know that – if I had to – I could catch a few fish and survive out here on my own for a few days. For now, that leaves me feeling OK.
Jill Alban is a writer and conservation professional living in Missoula, MT. Follow @jillalban and find other essays and blogs at themissionislove.com.
Nice Job Jill. Keep them coming. Jay gore
Thanks Jay! I appreciate it.