Girl Hunter

by Georgia Pellegrini

  The east gate to Yellowstone is lovely and simple. A ranger tells me everything I could want to know with an animated enthusiasm. She hands me pamphlets and maps and the receipt for the steep entry fee, and it begins to feel strangely like my childhood trip to Disney World. But the drive is beautiful, the dead trees are stark, the snow-capped mountains look fierce, the grand lake glistens, and the blacktop winds gently between the falling rock zones and the water. Ravens carve the sky with their wings and stop at parked cars with their beaks open, beckoning for a morsel. Signs warn people against playing with the animals, and visitors with heavy camera equipment are parked on the roadside. The rivers and lakes in the forest look like pools of oil. Swans dip their necks in it, and duck tails point high to the wind.

  At the famous geyser named Old Faithful, a chipper man uses the microphone with extreme regularity, announcing which geyser will go off next. People rush down the boardwalk and stand with their cameras poised. Two ladies watch from the comfort of their Chevy Tahoe, eating popcorn. I sit in silence, eating a sandwich with curious components, and wonder—has nature become one big stadium? Yellowstone is a wilderness that can be seen from the comfort of your car, a series of scenes that can be taken home with you from the gift store. This worries me.

  This is supposed to be one of nature’s great triumphs, a place where people can experience the natural world in its purest form. I wonder if it is too late, if the notion of “nature” has become so alien to us, that living off the land is only a romantic notion and not a realistic one. I wonder if Nature has become the last great zoo, an inaccessible place.

  On the drive out of Yellowstone, a herd of bison block the road, close enough to reach out and touch. They seem stoic and unimpressed with mankind. Farmers raise bison now—restoring prairies with the native grasses for the bison to eat. It is cheaper because the sun fuels the soil, rather than nitrogen fertilizer, and the bison, which are more mobile than cows, spread the native seed with their dung. Bison meat is nutrient rich, leaner, and subtly sweeter than beef, and bison farmers say that a single bison expends about one barrel of oil during its life, compared to a single cow, which burns eight barrels. Once upon a time, there were 75 million bison roaming the western plains of North America. They were a staple food for Native Americans, who used their hides for teepees, their bladders to store fat, and their partially curdled milk as a form of yogurt.

  In the movement to settle the west and transplant the Native Americans onto reservations, U.S. settlers hunted the bison so fiercely that by the end of the nineteenth century, only eight hundred living bison could be identified in North America.

  Today there are 500,000 bison in North America. And though they are being raised by ranchers now, there are still fewer bison slaughtered in the United States in a single year than beef cattle in a single day. What makes bison most intriguing as an alternative to cattle is that they are inherently wild and are survivors. They are the only terrestrial North American mammal to have survived the Ice Age and our modern agrarian system of domesticating animals. Whereas they previously had been hunted with abandon, they are now quietly going about their lives under the radar.

  Back near Cody, I have my last meal with Stan. I don’t know it is my last meal until I sit watching him at his dinner table, cooing over his sirloin.

  “This is my baby,” he says cutting his knife into the medium pink hunk shimmering on his plate.

  “That’s the thing that I don’t think most vegetarians and vegans understand,” he says. “The woman is the one that needs the meat. The male does not. And the man that brought home the meat was the one who got chased after. There’s no doubt it was that primal. I mean, we didn’t grow this brain on our head from eating tomatoes. I mean there’s not an ob-gyn doctor that’s not going to load you up with iron. All the stuff that’s in meat—if you’re not eating it, you’re in trouble.”

  Then he nags me to say that his is the best beef I’ve ever tasted. In this moment, the spirit of Calamity Jane grabs hold of me and I know I, somehow, have to go.

  I get up and make a brief phone call midmeal in the pink frilly bedroom, then conjure up all that I learned in ninth grade drama class when Mrs. Turner cast me as Abigail in The Crucible. I channel it all, the angst, the outrage, the drama as the townsfolk were burned at the stake for their witchcraft, and I emerge from the bedroom with tears streaming down my face and exclaim, “I have to go!” It was an Oscar-worthy performance, one I’m not particularly proud to say I performed, and one that will possibly have karmic implications down the line for the lies I had to tell. But sometimes, you just have to go.

  And so I walk down the gravel road where the air smells like dried blood, with suitcase in tow, and I wave good-bye to the cows. I keep on walking away from Stan and his wisdom and his steak. And in a strangely cascading sequence of more phone calls, I arrange for a couple at a car repair shop to drive me to Billings Airport. And in the most beautifully ironic metaphor, they, the kindest of strangers, willing to help an unfamiliar girl escape a barren land, meet me in the parking lot of a McDonald’s.

  They are sweet and talk to me about cooking and how they had no plans on a Saturday night anyway, other than to go out to dinner at Arby’s or McDonald’s. And they point out the sugar factories on the road, and the oil refineries, and the single red light of a limestone mine in the middle of the desert at dark, and the smell of sulfur drifting from the Yellowstone River. And she tells me that she loves to bake and has written homemade cookbooks from time to time. I close my eyes and feel the yellow light from the oil refinery drift over my eyelids. The comfort of her voice and sight of it all make my eyes well with happiness. I think about the albino horse, and the rhythm of its steamship lungs. I wonder when I will taste elk harvested with my own two hands. Was this trip a waste? I ask myself. I don’t think so. Because as I was taught that very first morning I went turkey hunting with the Commish, it is the hunt that matters, not the amount of game you take. Things are now in high relief for me more than ever before. And just as much as I want to be a hunter, I know the kind of hunter and the kind of human I never want to be, and that is a lesson worth paying for.

  Elk Jerky

  Makes 20 to 25 strips

  One of the traditional ways our ancestors preserved meat was by drying it. It is also one of the simplest. Fresh strips of meat were often first soaked in a marinade or brine, then, traditionally, hung to dry in the sun, the attic, or some other dry place. Some people let it hang over a slow, smoky fire, which added flavor and discouraged flies. You can, of course be modern and use the oven or a dehydrator.

  2 pounds elk (lean cuts are ideal)

  2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

  2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

  1 tablespoon salt

  1 teaspoon brown sugar

  1 teaspoon red pepper flakes

  2 cloves garlic, sliced

  2 teaspoons cayenne

  1 cup water

  1. Put the meat in the freezer for about 30 minutes, until just firm. Slice it across the grain into strips about 1/4 inch thick.

  2. Combine the other ingredients together in a bowl and mix well. Let sit for 10 minutes.

  3. Add the strips and marinate, covered, in the refrigerator overnight.

  4. Preheat the oven to 200°F. Place the strips on tinfoil with the door propped open and dry the strips until they are pliable, 5 to 7 hours.

  5. Store in a plastic container for up to 2 weeks.

  Also try: other antlered game, bison, turkey, rabbit

  Elk-Stuffed Cabbage Rolls

  Serves 6

  I once met a hearty Wyoming woman who lived in a farmhouse, and her kitchen smelled wonderful. When I inquired about the source of the aroma, she said she was making a pot of stuffed cabbage rolls. This is my version, inspired by the memory of those good kitchen smells. It is cooked in a tomato sauce base, which is the traditional Eastern European way.

  12 cabbage leaves, large and unblemished


  1 pound ground elk meat

  3/4 cup cooked brown rice

  1/2 cup finely chopped onion

  2 garlic cloves, minced

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

  1 egg

  2 teaspoons kosher salt

  1 teaspoon pepper

  1/2 cup cream

  2 tablespoons Marsala

  1 tablespoon tomato paste

  1 (8-ounce) can tomato sauce

  1 (14.5-ounce) can diced tomatoes, unstrained

  1 tablespoon sugar

  2 tablespoons white wine vinegar or red wine vinegar

  2 garlic cloves, smashed

  1/2 cup water

  1. Bring a pot of water as salty as the sea to a rolling boil. Drop the cabbage leaves into the water, cover and cook for 3 minutes. Drain well and set aside to cool.

  2. In a large bowl, combine the elk, rice, onion, garlic, parsley, egg, salt, pepper, cream, Marsala, and tomato paste, and mix well.

  3. Lay out the cabbage leaves on a cutting board or clean surface and place a twelfth of the elk mixture into the center of each cabbage leaf. Fold the top and bottom edges toward each other, then roll the outer leaves around the filling and fasten with toothpick. Place the rolls in a baking dish and set aside.

  4. Preheat the oven to 350°F. In a small saucepan, combine the tomato sauce, tomatoes, sugar, vinegar, garlic, and water and bring to a simmer for 2 minutes, until well blended. Pour over the cabbage rolls.

  5. Bake, covered, for 40 to 45 minutes. Remove the baking dish from the oven and carefully remove the toothpicks.

  Also try: other antlered game, bison

  Corned Elk

  Serves 8 to 10

  Before refrigeration, people struggled to find fresh meat, especially during the coldest winter months. The meat they obtained came from hunting and fishing, or through trade. Because fresh meat spoils after a few days without refrigeration, what people could find needed to be preserved. Corning was one way to do it. This consisted of meat laid in a salt brine for several weeks, which allowed it to be stored for much longer.

  4 quarts water

  2 cups kosher salt

  1/4 cup sugar

  1/2 teaspoon cracked black peppercorns

  1/2 teaspoon cracked mustard seeds

  1/2 teaspoon cracked coriander seeds

  1 bay leaf

  2 whole cloves

  4 allspice berries

  2 cloves garlic, crushed

  5 pounds elk brisket

  2 onions, sliced

  Homemade sauerkraut, for serving (page 234)

  Homemade mustard, for serving (page 235)

  1. In a large, nonreactive pot, heat and whisk together 1 cup of the water and the salt, sugar, and spices until the salt and sugar have dissolved.

  2. Turn off the heat and add the remaining water. Place the brisket in a large plastic brine bag and add the brine. If using a bowl, weight the meat with a plate so that it is submerged completely.

  3. Refrigerate for 3 weeks.

  4. After 3 weeks, remove the brisket from the brine and rinse well. Discard the brine. The elk is now corned and ready to be cooked.

  5. Place in a large pot and barely cover with water. Add the onions and bring to a boil, then lower the heat to medium, cover the pot, and simmer for 2 1/2 hours, or until the meat is tender.

  6. To serve, slice the meat across the grain. Serve with homemade sauerkraut and homemade mustard.

  Also try: other antlered game, bison

  Moroccan Elk Stew

  Serves 8

  This isn’t your everyday stew, but it’s perfect for the really cold months and for large gatherings when you have a lot of people to feed. It has a Middle Eastern flair, with a little sweetness and a little spice. I like to spoon it over Israeli couscous tossed with a bit of orange and lemon zest, but regular couscous or rice work just as well.

  4 tablespoons grape seed oil or butter

  4 pounds elk shoulder or haunch, cut into cubes

  3/4 cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1/4 teaspoon ginger powder

  1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  2 medium-size onions, roughly chopped

  4 carrots, peeled and chopped

  2 medium-size turnips, peeled and chopped

  3 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

  2/3 cup dried apricots

  2/3 cup prunes, pitted

  3 to 4 cups antlered game stock (page 213)

  1. Heat a large, heavy-bottomed pot with oil. In a bowl, toss the elk cubes in the flour. Shake the cubes well and place them in the pot in batches, being sure not to crowd them. Brown them on all sides and transfer to a plate or rack.

  2. Put all of the browned meat back in the pan and sprinkle it with the salt, cinnamon, ginger, and pepper. Then add the vegetables, garlic, and dried fruit. Pour in enough stock for the meat to be three-quarters covered, and bring it to a boil. Lower the heat so the bubbles percolate. Cover and simmer gently for 2 hours, until tender.

  Also try: other antlered game, bison

  Eat the meat and leave the skin.

  Turn up your plate and let’s begin.

  —COWBOY’S GRACE

  6

  The Upland High Life

  By now I am questioning any more of these “blind hunting dates.” The next stop on my itinerary is a luxurious ranch in Texas Hill Country, at least according to its publicist who invited me, where I’ll be hunting but also be followed around by a photographer and a reporter and a magazine and a camera crew. I feel a bit jaded and not entirely convinced that I won’t end up in this woman’s pool house in downtown San Antonio, flipping venison burgers for the camera. I call her from Billings Airport and tell her that I’m not so sure. And before I know it, I start to ramble on about cows and bears and elk poaching and a parking lot in McDonald’s and how I’m not going to be tricked anymore because I’m Calamity Jane! Something along those lines, anyway. She listens and expresses her horror and sympathy in that Southern female way that I find so comforting. She promises me that this is a beautiful private house for me to stay in, at a real hunting ranch, and I can just rest.

  “Okay,” I say. “But I’m not getting on any horses.”

  This Hill Country is a foreign land to me, 1,400 feet high, lush and green, bugless save for the crickets and the dragonflies, and cooler than its slightly southern neighbor San Antonio. It could be a small town in Martha Stewart’s Connecticut, with perfectly coiffed horse fences, or in the hills of Marin County California, where the air is slightly damp and smells of burning wood and the roads are dirt. But this Hill Country is in Texas, between a town called Welfare and another called Comfort.

  Along Joshua Creek lies a ranch where blazing red cypress trees line up like soldiers along the creek, turning the water crimson. Amber waves of tall grass blur in a band of perpetual motion, and pheasant and grouse dart in and out of the brush. To the north, the quail flit faster than the dragonflies, and to the south, sounds of prized dogs fill the air, yelping at the feeding hour, lapping up their meal after a day spent flushing birds from the fields.

  I am here for a “media event” at the ranch—one of a handful selected in the United States for induction into the Beretta Trident program, a kind of Michelin Guide for hunters that rates professional hunting ranches around the world and bestows upon them one to three tridents. A trident rating is an indicator of the experience a hunter might have if she chooses to visit this place.

  Cocktail hour is at six forty-five in the owners’ residence, where I am greeted by a real African lion frozen in time in a perfectly menacing pose. On the veranda, a stone fireplace burns and mimics the melting sunset and warms the flagstones beneath our feet. The chef appears with a dimpled silver platter of axis venison carpaccio, purple and sweet and bejeweled with vegetable confetti. Across from me, a reporter poised with his notebook sits in a chair made of branches, a tad bewildered
and out of his element. A photographer sits languidly on a stone bench, his back to the fire, sipping a merlot. The big Texas husband somehow realizes that I prefer something stronger, fixes a whiskey, and hands it to me diluted with soda and tinkling with ice . . . and after just a few sips offers me more.

  Past the veranda, the sky turns into a purple bruise. The Texas wife sits calmly with a pleased smile, her hair velvet black and shiny, sparkling jewelry reflected on her body and blending with the new evening stars.

  This is a place where money and tradition collide—where descendents of the five-hundred-year-old maestro da canne (master gunsmith) Bartolomeo Beretta dynasty in Brescia, Italy, mingle with newer dynasties from the American Southwest.

  There are many components to this place. In part, it is a library that holds classic books and photographs from a hunting honeymoon in Africa, and sterling magnifying glasses carefully laid on a leather-bound desk with its rich mahogany legs nestled into a finely embroidered rug. The Texas padrone lifts his hand to one of the shelves, and with one motion pulls its panel back to reveal another door leading to a chamber. He types a code onto the handle of the door, opens it, enters into a room the size of a small Manhattan apartment, and gestures for me to follow him.

  The interior walls of this secret chamber are lined with vintage shotguns, old McKay Browns with Turkish walnut stocks, Parkers, delicate and rare quail guns, and a 16-gauge Broses. The guns bear utopian hunting scenes brought to life by countless hours of fine metal work carved in Brescia, so fine that the ducks seem to spring from the steel, dogs chasing birds threaten to run off the locks, and even leaves of the trees are shaded and stir in the wind.