Girl Hunter

by Georgia Pellegrini

  The distinctly wild spirit of the rooster means you must spend time respecting him and feel the fear of not finding him, and also the fear of actually finding him, before he will relent and fall. And even after he falls, lest you become too proud, he will sometimes disappear to a place where even the dogs must search forever until they finally catch the scent and seek him out and drop him in your hands, smooth and handsome.

  There is grouse, too, the one the Native Americans called fire birds. Grouse rely on forest fires to create highways for their habitats—a mosaic of grasslands interspersed with shrubs and brush-filled coulees. They linger along drainage ditches, surrounded by grain fields, and subsist on native bunchgrass. They snack on buds and berries, on rose hips and wild watercress. The males display their mottled feathers and white bellies and violet neck sacks in their mating dance, stamping their fully feathered three-pronged feet rapidly twenty times per second, rattling their tail feathers, circling and dancing forward, inflating their sacks. The one that does it the best is chosen by the female to mate.

  Having traversed the grass cover by midday, there is one last chance for us to take home a bird. It is in late afternoon, at four o’clock when the birds peck at pebbles in the gravel roads to improve their digestion. We drive in the truck along these roads and look for birds through the cracked windshield. The tall grasses beside the road are yellow and creamy in the wind and I can begin to feel all of the stiff and sore and strained parts of my body harden, one by one—I can count them.

  “It’s an old Montana tradition to shoot a bird out of a car,” Wilbur proclaims. “I’ve shot a lot of birds from out of the car window. You hold the steering wheel with your knees. Are you ready to do it?”

  I don’t really hear him. Instead I open the window until the air in the truck smells like corn, and I bask in the yellow light on my face and watch the combines in the distance as wide as a highway, trolling along. “That is nice stubble,” Kurt says of the hacked-off wheat. But there are no birds. The moon is rising and it is time to leave.

  After we bid good-bye to Kurt and Red Elvis at the crossroads of the old saloon, Wilbur and I drive through vacant towns. I can see the shape of an old man in his reclining chair through a pair of glass doors. I see people giving a point salute to one another as they drive. I see wings beating in the trees. I see whitetails everywhere, jumping like snowballs over hillcrests.

  There are noses and antlers sticking up above the beds of pickup trucks, and men and their daughters in camo. In some places, the colors are still royal and true before they fade toward dusk and headlights flicker on. Where the Missouri River is dammed at Canyon Ferry Lake, the water reflects the light in its ripples. We turn right over the railroad tracks and up the steep dirt road and meet Wilbur’s neighbors, retired transplants from Minnesota, cleaning an elk in their driveway. They are warm and sweet and accept an invitation to come for dinner. They are bringing elk, caribou, and mule deer to go with our quarry. We creak up the hill, my muscles anticipating the bubble bath and my stomach aching for the roasted bird, bathed in butter and brandy. As we come into the driveway Wilbur says, somewhere far off, “Be prepared for his cream sauce.”

  The cream sauce is wonderfully creamy, with mushrooms and elk underneath. And there is an intoxicating medley of apples and squash from the Minnesota neighbors’ garden, pressed and stirred together in one dish. And there is wine, one glass, worth seven dollars, filled partway for when we want to stand, and one sixty-dollar glass filled partway for when we want to sit.

  We stand and sip, and the Minnesota wife talks in her sweet Minnesota voice, and suddenly, just as I begin to drift into the warm reverie of the moment, I feel something strike my rear end. I turn my head, red-cheeked, knowing instinctually what has just transpired, but not wanting to believe it. Wilbur walks by briskly swinging his wet, grease-stained dish towel with a look of sheepish amusement. For a second I am reminded of the misogyny I found so tiresome while working for four-star chefs in New York and in France. And I recall the jacked-up Lehman Brothers traders, giving me a little tap when they were feeling particularly high on life or a little lonely after a long day at the office. Naively I assumed I had left this behind, that the home of an eccentric Berkeley art dealer who hunted for food was far from these other places. Before I began hunting, when it was merely an idea in my head while neatly tucked into my urban lifestyle, this was the kind of act I imagined happened among men who lived in the backwoods, who were self-proclaimed rednecks that held burping contests, the kind of men Wilbur proclaimed he, too, looked down on. Except that my experience in the backwoods had never fulfilled that stereotype. In fact, it had done everything to contradict it. I stand here thinking how fascinating it is to me, really, that he was the one to bring out the ass-slap.

  Wilbur, utterly unaware of his transgression, resumes his post at the table. I pause and put down the seven-dollar wineglass, as the neighbor chirps in her singsong voice, then lean in to the table and pick up the sixty-dollar wineglass and stand back against the counter. I look at Wilbur, raise my glass with a wink and take a nice big sip, and watch the wave of panic wash across his face.

  Partridge with Pancetta in Orange Brandy Sauce

  Serves 4

  Maybe it was the Montana air, or the fact that I had walked for so many hours and so many miles to earn it, but sitting down to eat this was a revelation. The sweetness and the saltiness and the dripping fat and the most tender breast meat I had ever sunk my teeth into, all made the perfect combination. It will work with other bird meat, but I like to think there is something about the small tender white meat of the Hungarian partridge that made the experience. I recommend keeping the breastbone in whatever meat you use, whenever possible, to help the meat stay moist.

  Marinade: Zest of 1 orange

  1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice

  Juice of 1/2 lemon

  1 teaspoon salt

  1/4 cup brandy

  1/4 teaspoon dried tarragon

  1/4 teaspoon dried parsley

  1/4 teaspoon dried rosemary

  1/4 cup olive oil

  1/8 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

  4 partridge, butterflied, bone in

  To Cook: 4 round, thin slices pancetta

  4 tablespoons cold butter, cubed

  4 thin slices orange, cut from the center

  For the Marinade: 1. With a whisk, combine all of the marinade ingredients in a baking dish. Place the meat breast side down in the mixture. Marinate for 3 to 4 hours, turning over every hour.

  To Cook: 1. Preheat the oven to broil. Place one orange slice on each breast that is sitting in the marinade and then cover with pancetta. Fasten them with a toothpick on each side.

  2. Add the cold butter to the baking dish with the marinade and place in the oven. Broil the birds breast side up, basting every 5 minutes, for 25 to 30 minutes. Remove the breasts and let them rest on a plate for 10 minutes. Put the baking dish back in the oven and let the sauce reduce for 5 minutes more. Serve immediately.

  Also try: prairie chicken, pheasant, turkey, rabbit

  Whole Pheasant Poached in Juniper Sauce

  Serves 2

  Poached pheasant should be on everyone’s bucket list. Luckily it is now available in grocery stores, if you aren’t able to harvest one with your own two hands. It is sweeter, softer, and more tender than chicken. It is a bird born to be poached. It would be a good idea to have some fresh ravioli or tortellini on hand to serve as a bed for this pheasant and its broth.

  1 whole pheasant, skin on or off

  6 pieces bacon or pork fat, cut into 1/4-inch-thick strips

  1 tablespoon grape seed oil

  3 shallots, minced

  1/4 cup vermouth

  12 juniper berries, crushed

  1/4 cup gin

  4 cups game bird stock (page 212)

  2 tablespoons butter

  Salt and pepper

  1. Drape the bacon over the bird and truss the bird with kitchen twine, toot
hpicks, or a combination, so the fat is fastened to the bird.

  2. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed ovenproof pot with a lid. Brown the bird on all sides, about 10 minutes, until the bacon fat is well rendered. Be careful not to turn the bird if the bacon sticks to the pot, otherwise it will tear. Instead let the bacon render and crisp until the bird can be easily rotated. Once the bacon has been crisped, remove the birds from the pan and set aside.

  3. Add the shallots to the pan and let sweat until soft. Add the vermouth to the pan and deglaze. Scrape up any brown bits from the pan with a spatula.

  4. Add the juniper berries and gin. Lay in the pheasant and pour the stock over it. Cover and cook for 30 to 35 minutes.

  5. Remove the pheasant from the pot and peel off the bacon. Reduce the sauce and whisk in the butter. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Quarter the pheasant and add it back to the broth. Serve this dish in shallow bowls with fresh ravioli as a bed for the pheasant.

  Also try: prairie chicken, partridge, quail, turkey, squirrel, rabbit

  Apple Wood–Smoked Pheasant

  Serves 2 to 4

  Smoking is a great technique for a whole bird that is unblemished and worthy of a table centerpiece. Because game birds dry out quickly, it is necessary to brine the pheasant first. This also works very well with birds that have redder breast meat and ones with a thicker, fattier skin, such as a speckled goose or mallard. As for smoking wood, this recipe calls for apple wood, but more important, use a wood that is local to your region. In the South, it’s pecan; in the Southwest, it’s mesquite; in Washington state, it’s apple wood; in the Midwest, it’s hickory.

  Brine: 4 cups water

  1/2 cup white wine vinegar

  1/2 cup brown sugar

  1/4 cup granulated sugar

  1/4 cup salt

  1/2 tablespoon mustard seeds

  2 cloves garlic, crushed

  1 tablespoon crushed black pepper

  2 sprigs fresh thyme

  1 bay leaf

  To Smoke and Serve: 1 whole pheasant, skin on or quartered pheasant, skin on or off

  Goose or duck fat or smoked bacon strips

  Barbecue sauce (page 227) (optional)

  To Brine: 1. Combine all brine ingredients and bring to a boil.

  2. Remove from the heat and let cool.

  3. Add the bird and submerge, covering with a plate or some other weight so it stays completely submerged in liquid.

  4. For a whole bird, refrigerate in brine for 8 hours; for a quartered bird, refrigerate for 4.

  5. Remove and pat dry and let rest on a rack in the refrigerator for at least 3 and up to 24 hours before cooking.

  To Smoke and Serve: 1. Stabilize the smoker at a temperature of 200°F, using apple wood chips.

  2. Cover the bird with fat or strips of bacon. You may need to secure it with toothpicks or kitchen twine. Smoke the bird for 45 minutes, turning once.

  3. Slice against the grain and serve with barbecue sauce, or serve cold on a sandwich.

  Also try: dove, grouse, prairie chicken, partridge, goose, duck, coot, pigeon, ptarmigan, quail, rail, turkey

  Grouse with Cabbage and Chestnuts

  Serves 4

  Grouse meat is dark red with a rich game flavor. Ruffed grouse have the strongest game flavor, which in my opinion is wonderful. The meat of the older birds can be tough and all of it will dry out easily if you are not careful. More than any other game bird, grouse need to be kept moist while cooking. This is best done with the help of goose fat and bacon. The French always viewed grouse legs as bitter and I notice that many people still use them solely for stock or gravy. At the very least, give the young ones a chance and try them whole sometime.

  4 grouse, whole and skin on

  Salt and pepper

  Juice of 1 lemon

  4 tablespoons goose fat or butter

  8 to 12 slices bacon

  1 medium-size red or white cabbage, sliced thinly

  1 tablespoon sugar

  1 cup apple cider

  1 cup roasted and diced chestnuts (see Note)

  1. Rinse and dry the birds thoroughly and season them with salt, pepper, and lemon juice inside and out.

  2. Melt the goose fat in a large skillet and brown the birds slowly on all sides.

  3. Remove the birds from the skillet. Wrap each in a few slices of bacon and secure with a toothpick or kitchen twine. Set aside on a plate.

  4. Add the cabbage to the skillet containing the remaining fat. Sprinkle the cabbage with sugar and salt and let it brown slightly. Deglaze with the cider.

  5. Lay the birds back in, breast side down. Cover tightly and simmer slowly over low heat for 45 minutes.

  6. During the last 15 minutes of cooking, turn the birds breast side up and add the chestnuts.

  7. Let rest, covered in tinfoil, for 10 minutes before serving. Serve the birds whole on a bed of stewed cabbage.

  Also try: dove, prairie chicken, partridge, pheasant, pigeon, ptarmigan, quail, rail, turkey, squirrel, rabbit

  Note: To roast chestnuts, score on the back with an X, roast in a 450°F oven for 10 minutes, then shell and peel.

  A peculiar virtue in wildlife ethics is that the hunter ordinarily has no gallery to applaud or disapprove of his conduct. Whatever his acts, they are dictated by his own conscience, rather than by a mob of onlookers. It is difficult to exaggerate the importance of this fact.

  —ALDO LEOPOLD

  5

  Calamity Jane

  I promptly leave Wilbur’s home the next morning in a mad dash for Billings Airport, where I return my rental car. Afterward I walk to a hotel near the airport to wait for my next hunting companion, Stan Jones, who is driving up from Wyoming to meet me. Stan owns a grass-fed beef operation and had followed my blog for quite some time. He even sent me beef samples at one point to demonstrate how much better grass-fed beef can be.

  A stack of books sits in the lobby of the hotel—several copies of a biography of Calamity Jane—and the hotel clerk hands me one and tells me to keep it. I sit there fingering through the pages, enthralled. Calamity Jane was a heroine of the plains. Some say that she acquired the name because she warned men that to offend her was to “court calamity.” In light of the prior evening’s events, I find it wildly captivating.

  I read it while I wait for Stan, who has been in touch with me for a year and a half, plying me with hints of his hunting prowess, sending me pictures of his elk hunts, teasing me for missing out. He has been persistent, and I have always been curious about Wyoming. Like Montana, it has always sounded so well balanced with nature. Stan had used the term we a lot when he referred to his business, and sent me photos of my accommodations on the ranch. His grass-fed beef business is advertised as being part of the largest ranch in the country, owned by Native Americans. The photos and videos of the place were beautiful. I wanted to meet some members of the tribe and talk to them about their tradition of hunting and how it intersects with a grass-fed cattle operation in a place where the feedlot system is king. Historically, Native Americans were the ultimate hunter-gatherers, yet now they were raising beef. Here was evidence of how far we humans experienced an agricultural revolution in which farming gradually replaced hunting and put us on a path to a more sedentary life. By cultivating crops that were most productive, we had simplified our diet into a few basic commodities—mostly corn, soy, and grains. I wanted to learn more about Native American history on this land and get their perspective on this point in time. And I wanted to set my eyes on a cattle ranch comprised of hundreds of thousands of acres. So I agree to drop in for an elk hunt with Stan after my time in neighboring Montana.

  Stan and his young son arrive in Billings in his pickup, and we cross the border into Wyoming. He is tall, red haired, and balding, with a ruddy face and an overly groomed moustache that suggest he is younger than he looks. He wears faded blue jeans and a collared shirt with his logo embroidered on the left shirt pocket. “That’s where Lewis and Clark floated down,”
he says, pointing out the sights along the empty roads, as I scribble notes diligently. What I notice more than anything, though, is how barren the land suddenly becomes, how vast and empty it is.

  Wyoming was never meant to be a state. If Ulysses S. Grant had had his way, the land would have been split among Idaho, Montana, Colorado, and South Dakota. But the citizens of Wyoming put more people on the official rolls than actually inhabited the state. They began naming babies before they were born, and they were the first to give women the right to vote because they needed all the voting power they could get. Even today, however, it is sparsely populated; Wyoming is a place of survival, not one that concerns itself with the nuances of our industrial food system. It is hard to grow food here at all because of the high desert climate. If you have the willpower and the fortitude, you can make it work. The people of Wyoming choose to persevere and that is what makes them unique. They like to say that you go through Wyoming to get somewhere else; it’s not where you put down roots.

  If you want to be alone, in lucid silence, under a sky of gray putty, as vast as Texas and Montana, but darker and more ominous, come to Wyoming. It is one of the last places in America where you can drive on a two-lane blacktop road for hours and not see a soul. The sky never appears to move, nor does anything underneath it. I have been anxious for more open sky for a long time, and here it is.

  But just as I begin to bask in it all, things begin to unravel. That evening, my accommodations turn out to be in Stan’s home; and via e-mail, my research assistant kindly suggests to me that Lewis and Clark had never, in fact, been through the land we now call Wyoming. It also seems strange when Stan says he doesn’t own a knife with which to field dress an animal. Or a single piece of blaze orange clothing so as not to get shot by an eager hunter trekking the mountains on opening day. And it seems more than strange that he hasn’t purchased a license to hunt—it cost me about $250 for an elk tag. When we leave one morning to hunt the elk on his friend’s cow pasture, it is a last-minute decision. We have to stop at Walmart on the way to get a knife. All of these flags should, and do, make me nervous. But Stan is still jovial and enthusiastic, and what about those pictures of his elk hunt he’d sent? This is Wyoming, land of people who hunt and gather from the moment they step out of the womb. I want to have this experience, I have paid a lot for this experience, but also . . . where am I? I’m not sure I could find my way out of here without his help.