Day 57 - Like a Dear in Headlights

My husband flew to Alaska today. He grew up there. But he's not going there to visit, he's going there to fish. That's right. Fish. What??? This is not the man I married. I thought I made sure of it...

I was born and corn-fed raised on the golden plains of North Dakota. Smack dab in the middle of the Midwest. Growing up here, one notices some pretty distinct patterns. Specifically, most of your male relatives, such as grandfathers and fathers and uncles and cousins, hunt or fish. With the same intensity a Midwestern woman plans baby showers, these men plan their seasonal killing excursions.

They pack their guns or tackle (depending upon the target animal), a few coolers of Bud Light, and they bounce away in their dusty pick-up trucks.

My father claims these killing sprees are simply the male species elaborate opportunity to bond, or in other words, to drink. I remember watching an old video of a very young version of my father and his friends, camouflaged in matching tan gear, moving a dead deer by its antlers. I was repulsed and fascinated by this secret club. As a Midwestern girl, you are not invited on these trips, like your same-age boy cousins. Why don't you run along and help your aunt with the dishes?

Thankfully, when my father lost his taste for liquor and also moved out of the region, he also lost his desire to shoot furry mammals. I am relieved to hear my father's genuineness when he sounds as flabbergasted by the whole thing as I am.

The pervasiveness of the hunting culture in North Dakota is overwhelming though. Take, for example, my 11th grade Anatomy class. One day during hunting season, my teacher offered extra credit for bringing in deer hearts. The next day, few students arrived empty-handed.

I remember how nonchalantly the shapeless blubbery masses sat on the long tables. As class wore on, they started to dethaw (most were pulled straight out of parents' freezers), and drops of blood dripped onto the grey tile below. Mortified, I refused to participate when the dissection period began. The frustrated teacher docked me ten points. By then, the pus and blood was everywhere.

So imagine my delight when, during our courtship phase, my now husband recounted his meek hunting tales. While he grew up in Alaska, his father is a born and bred Minnesota man. So, like any good Midwestern father, he takes his son out in the field. With a gun. And teaches him to shoot things.

Much to my absolute joy, Dave never shot anything. Ever. O he went, sure, but either he couldn't bring himself to do it, or he really just never saw ANYTHING. His father would drag countless bucks down the hill on their excursions, but they never died by Dave's bullets.

The one time where Dave had to kill something, it was a chicken. Since he grew up on small farm, it was bound to happen. I'll spare you the details, but I'll tell you this: When Dave tells it, he is noticeably disturbed. The execution left a deep scar and he firmly says no to any future death missions. I hold that story in a little box near my heart.

Fast-forward to present time...

Dave has 'gone fishin.' Apparently, while we covered his hunting preferences, we never covered his fishing ones. An obvious oversight on my part. Although I do realize fishing isn't even NEAR hunting, it must just give me flashbacks to my childhood or something, cause I accidentally threw a little fit.

He assures me it was his buddy's earnest idea. His friend wanted to see Alaska with an Alaskan, and also experience the United States' greatest great outdoors.

Dave sees it as a rare opportunity to do something different, and also a chance for him to see his family. O.k., sure. I get it.

I think I'm hoping he doesn't catch anything. Or if he does, he gets all grossed out by ripped gills and eyeballs, that he throws his rented poles in the pond.