Growing up out West, discussed a bit in my post about The Magnificent Seven and the Freedom to Choose, I remember going with my granddad and my dad when they hunted. Like many families, we had a special nickname for granddad; we grandkids knew him as “Pompa,” from a name my oldest cousin, as a toddler, gave him.
When I was a kid, the first day of hunting season was a state or school holiday, if I remember right. I was too little to carry a rifle, so I got up early, put on orange, froze my fingers and toes off, and had to be quiet and sit still. Pompa would get his limit every year, which meant lots of venison and home-made jerky. I remember the year my dad got a cow elk—lots of elk steak and elk burger for months! Continue Reading Dogs, Hunting, and Inverse Condemnation, Oh my!