Many hunting families have holiday hunting traditions. Many of us have a day or two off this time of year, and we often choose to spend it outside. That’s a good thing.
I grew up in urban Southern California, so my family wasn’t in the habit of being outdoors. We’d be outside of course. It was SoCal after all, and Thanksgiving Day usually runs about 75 degrees, as I recall. But outside meant tossing a football around in shirtsleeves or a walk through the neighborhood. The hunting grounds were a long way off, as were fishing holes, though there were some pretty decent largemouth bass opportunities nearby if we’d had half a clue.
Actually, our finest holiday tradition involved all us kids gathering in the den around the bowl of shrimp dip Grandma B always made when the family was over. It was a simple dish: pulse a can of deveined shrimp with a softened block of cream cheese in the food processor. Maybe add a touch of garlic, open a bag of Ruffles and eat.
That dip had almost magical qualities. Once put out it didn’t last long. All of the nephews and nieces would gather around that small bowl, ravenous. It was a ridiculously simple recipe, but we only got shrimp dip once or twice a year. Apparently our parents couldn’t make it. Only Grandma B had that mojo.
We’d put a big dent in the bowl of dip, then get shooed away, then sneak back a short time later to finish it off. That was always the most disappointing part of the holidays, staring at that empty bowl.
I’m not sure why she never made a little more. Not even a double batch? It was easy enough. But somehow, maybe the way it seemed such a rare commodity, has something to do with how all of us grandkids, now mostly in our late 40s and early 50s, still talk about Grandma B’s shrimp dip with such reverence.
I didn’t really get my outdoor holiday tradition going until I had long since moved from my native urban hometown to Montana. And even then, with young kids around it was hard. There are always family things to do. But if you’re fortunate enough to have good hunting grounds nearby, and an understanding spouse, sometimes you can get away with it.
I remember spending Christmas one year with friends in the Bitterroot, and having our host describe how on Thanksgiving Day he had watched a decent buck wander out into the field as they ate. Dinner apparently could wait. He grabbed his rifle and filled his deer tag. His wife just sighed and said “Well, it was hunting season.”
Now that my kids are grown, and increasingly out in the world far, far away, I’ve stumbled into the opportunity to play outside on the holidays on a more regular basis. I’ve spent a couple of Thanksgiving days out east of the mountains chasing birds near Valier. And there was the Christmas Day I might have killed a pheasant at Blasdel, but for some inexplicable reason when the rooster flushed out in front of me in easy shooting range, I just decided to let it fly.
It was Christmas after all.
Increasingly the holidays are an opportunity to get away to warmer climes where I can hunt my favorite game: quail. The Arizona desert at Christmas time is about as good as it gets in the winter, if you can truly call any season in a place where the high temps bounce around the 60s, winter. I’m going to California for Thanksgiving this year, and hope to sneak a few valley or mountain quail onto the platter next to the roast turkey I’ll get to enjoy with some of the old shrimp-dip clan.
And that’s exactly how one is supposed to enjoy the holidays.