An elk hunter’s circle of life

By Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey
Reader Contributor

In my brief time as a parent, I’ve come to know that the ultimate joy of raising a small person is sharing things with them. So far, this sharing has mostly included taking my 15-month-old son, Liam, to places I love, giving him bites of the food I enjoy, playing him my favorite music and the like. He’s proven to be an ardent observer, and his recent use of “Whoa!” in relation to any new discovery makes it all the more satisfying for all involved.

On a recent afternoon following an elk hunt, I decided to share with Liam a classic animated film from my childhood: The Lion King. Boots off and babysitter sent on her way, I sat in my recliner and caught him at his most still — on the precipice of a nap, willing to cuddle pensively in my lap — and together we took in the iconic sights and sounds of the movie’s opening number: “Circle of Life,” featuring lyrics sung in Zulu and magnificent scenes of various animal species gathering around Pride Rock to welcome Simba, the kingdom’s new lion cub.

Overlooking Lake Pend Oreille while hunting for the elusive elk. Photo by Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey.

Amid the story’s many themes of leadership, power, friendship and family, the concept of the “circle of life” struck me hardest during my first post-childhood viewing — especially during hunting season.

In one scene, while on a walk around the “kingdom,” (the slice of African savanna that Simba’s father, King Mufasa, apparently rules) the elder lion explains how “everything you see exists together in a delicate balance.” 

“As king,” he continues, “you need to understand that balance and respect all the creatures, from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope.”

“But Dad, don’t we eat the antelope?” Simba retorts.

“Yes, Simba, but let me explain,” Mufasa replies. “When we die, our bodies become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass. And so, we are all connected in the great Circle of Life.”

Of course, in The Lion King, the antelope and all the other animals hurry to kneel before and worship the lions at Pride Rock upon being summoned by song. I’m not quite sure how to square that circle of life, but I digress. 

The idea that all beings are equal in their contribution to the circle rang especially true for me after a quiet morning of reflection on my favorite hunting route.

I grew up involved in the process of harvesting game animals. It’s among my earliest memories, just as I hope it will be for Liam. As someone who prides herself on finding the words for most things, I’ve never felt especially well equipped to explain the dilemma of the good hunter: one who respects the sanctity of life while actively planning and working to kill.

I was raised by a gaggle of good hunters, the patriarch of which is my dad. Like Mufasa, my dad has always been happy to answer my questions; but, unlike his animated foil, my dad is more of an action-over-platitudes kind of guy. Through his actions, I learned how to deliver a kill shot; how to assemble a trusty, willing pack-out crew who will come assist at a moment’s notice; how to ensure the meat is properly stored until it can be processed; and how it should be packaged to guarantee a yearslong freezer life.

The author stops for a photo on the elk hunt. Photo by Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey.

As for the dilemma that comes from the act of the kill, my dad taught me to envy the elk’s life. That elk knew true freedom, he’d tell my sisters and me. That elk got to live in the greatest place on Earth, with lake views and plentiful feed and soft beds of duff. And while many of its counterparts will die of natural causes, or be eaten by mountain lions or wolves, this one — the one we harvested — will sustain us, and we are grateful. 

While it isn’t exactly Mufasa’s “Circle of Life,” it is ethical game management; it is tradition; and it is delicious.

While I didn’t fill my tag this season, my dad did, harvesting a bull on opening day. Just over a week later, Liam looked on from his stroller as we cut steaks and roasts from bone.

“So, knife next year?” my dad asked with a smirk, motioning toward Liam, who was hamfisting cheerios into his mouth with his eyes trained on the blades of the cutting crew.

“Maybe a butter knife,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

Lyndsie Kiebert-Carey is a writer, mother, hunter and editor emeritus of the Sandpoint Reader. She has contributed a story about elk season each October since 2017.