HITCHCOCK, SOUTH DAKOTA. To hunt is to kill is to live.
This concept—this instinct, really—has been intrinsic to our hominin lineage long before our ancestors gained control of fire. With the addition of gathering, it defined survival until agriculture and ownership reshaped our relationship to land. Killing is just a part of nature. It’s neither good nor bad at its core. It existed before us, and it will continue long after. It just… is. How we kill matters. What we kill matters. Why we kill says more about ourselves than anything else.
And maybe that’s what I wanted to confront. Not the brutality of killing, but the honesty of it. Because without wild space to roam, without living ecosystems to witness and participate in, the idea of the hunt collapses into something hollow. At the peak of Autumn, I thought I was going to the Midwest to learn how to hunt. What I walked away with was something closer to a lesson in stewardship.
Before I left for home, I was gifted a book and told that this was a crucial piece of literature. I began to read it on my voyage, and I found so much of its message resonating with my recent experience. As Aldo Leopold wrote in A Sand County Almanac: “We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.”
Hunting, to me, is one way (just one) of learning how to belong to that community.
It’s a necessity, a sport, an art form, or some combination of all three. But more than that, it’s a lens. A way to be present. A way to see the systems that feed us, clothe us, and hold us. Without appreciation for the outdoors—without a love for being exposed to wind, grasses, wildlife, and unpredictability—modern hunting would simply cease to exist. There aren’t many hunters who hate fresh air, who dislike flora and fauna, who long for recycled air over an open breeze. And here is where a false divide often forms.
Those who love nature and hunt, and those who love nature and don’t hunt, want many of the same things: preservation of land, protection of ecosystems, continuity for future generations. They feel the same awe when standing under open sky. They feel grounded by the same winds, the same terrain, the same silence. The only real difference is how they choose to engage with it.
Leopold observed this tension long before it became modern discourse. He believed that a shift in values could occur when we stop measuring the world by what we extract from it and instead by what we preserve within it: “Perhaps a shift of values can be achieved by reappraising things unnatural, and defined in terms of things natural, wild, and free.” Hunting isn’t separate from conservation. It’s one cog in a much larger machine. And in the United States, that machine matters.
A majority of wildlife habitat exists on privately-owned land. Many of the landscapes now rich with pheasants, elk, deer, and waterfowl were once stripped bare for inefficient crops or exhausted soil systems. Hunters—through licenses, access programs, and direct partnerships with landowners—help incentivize the return of native grasses, wetlands, and ecosystems by giving economic and moral value to restoring habitat instead of depleting it.
Whether you like it or not, we are part of the food chain. Not above it. Part of it.
The bird eats the worm. The hawk eats the bird. The coyote eats the hawk. And eventually, humans arrive at the top of that hierarchy. But here, we’ve chosen something unusual for a dominant species: accountability. We regulate. We restrict. We educate. We police one another. We dominate, but we do not pretend it’s consequence-free. And maybe that’s the only ethical way to do it.
Enter, The Hunt
The setting was South Dakota’s lower landscapes—vast prairies providing a haven for both predator (us) and prey (them). While I’d been to the Black Hills a few times before, I had never spent meaningful time in the grasslands that make up more than half the state. I was out of my element, undoubtedly, but comforted knowing TrueTimber had equipped me with mid-season gear built for exactly this terrain.
Those stretches between shelter and field were traveled in two machines: a 2026 Can-Am Defender XT HD11 (two-seat, open cab) and a 2025 Can-Am Defender MAX Limited (four-seat, closed cab). As one of the sole powersports journalists on site, I spent a good portion of the weekend behind the wheel, using those transition miles to test drivability and comfort between locations.
The newer 2026 Defender XT HD11 felt noticeably more nimble—lighter on its feet, more eager when threading through ruts or navigating tight edges of property lines. The 2025 MAX Limited, by contrast, became my refuge: enclosed, heated, and steady when the prairie wind started creeping through layers and into my chest.
The weather forecast promised dry conditions and mild temperatures. The wind, of course, would have other ideas, dragging the temperature down and pushing my allergies into full send. Not wanting to underestimate the plains, I packed a light and less-light version of everything—Pulse Axebutté Soft Shells Pants, Waterproof Youth Tanakan Pants, a Youth Short Sleeve Performance Camo Tee, a Youth Long Sleeve Performance Camo Tee, the GreyCliff All-In-One Hoodie, a Pulse Axebutté Soft Shell Jacket, and the Waterproof Youth Tanakan Parka—essentially a TrueTimber closet on standby.
Let’s just say…I was overdressed. And less bespoke than my colleagues. But I was comfortable. And I was grateful for that comfort once the flu hit me on the very first night. What I thought would be a crisp introduction to open-air hunting quickly became a slow negotiation with my own body—aches curling into joints, breath shallow at times, fatigue threading itself through every step. Still, I layered up. I showed up. And somewhere between stubbornness and curiosity, I walked in.
My condition hindered my performance undoubtedly, and for my first quest, it was a hard pill to swallow. I could barely stay awake to bond over beverages and recounts of those hours in the field, let alone keep my head clear amidst the grass. But my fascination that had built over a lifetime was powerful. This is really what kept me on my feet, soldiering through a thicket with way too much clothing on and energy dwindling into vapors. It didn’t matter. I was there. In the present.
And my mind, which often floats away into the ether of my imagination, accompanied my every move.
Sharing Is Caring
The grasslands, from a distance, look simple. Featureless even. A sea of muted color and subtle movement. But once you’re inside them, they become something else entirely—a living barrier of reeds, weeds, and wildflowers rising to your chest, sometimes higher. A fortress.
Every step disrupted an ecosystem. Tiny birds burst from nowhere. Hidden nests revealed themselves in flight patterns. Life existed beneath my boots in ways I couldn’t see until I was standing on top of it. Much of this land—like more than 50% of American wildlife habitat—exists on private property.
Which is where programs like Sharing the Land come into focus. It’s a model that connects landowners with access seekers, allowing respectful use of property in exchange for stewardship, service, and long-term ecological support. It’s not about extraction. It’s about relationships. Instead of land being a commodity, it becomes a partnership. Community. I think Leopold would approve.
Even the trucks and UTVs we used felt like part of this relationship rather than a disruption—a way to move across working land with intention and minimal impact instead of treating it like a playground. Actually, there was a strategy in where we parked and why we chose those locations, which I still don’t quite understand. But it seemed to have to do with creating a physical and visual barrier. Perhaps a beacon to guide us out of the maze. Or maybe just a more efficient way to return to the start once we reach the finish.
The First Flock
The first pheasants burst from the cornfields like small eruptions of color and sound. Admittedly, I was shocked by their size. I imagined them smaller—closer to quail. The first sign of my ignorance.
From a distance, they appeared coffee-colored. Variations of brown that shimmered under sunlight. But up close—once we had secured a few birds later that day—they revealed something else entirely: oranges, yellows, greens, even purples. A muted rainbow hiding within what I had assumed was monotone camouflage. Nature correcting me. Without judgment. It just is.
While I never actually made a physical connection between the Savage 555 and a real heartbeat, I did have the opportunity to hold a bird in my hands for a more tangible encounter. There’s weight to it. The softness of the feathers was almost a sensual experience. And visually, I was stunned. It all caught me a bit off guard.
Admittedly, I was a little taken aback watching my friends train their dogs with the delicate carcasses, teasing and tantalizing the playful canines while bobbing them up and down just above jaw’s reach. The disconnect between the depth I felt with the pheasant in my grasp and the indifference I witnessed in a simple game of keep-away. But I don’t know anything about training dogs. I don’t know the why or the nuance of this. I chalked it up, yet again, to my ignorance and moved on.
I learned later that what appeared to be teasing was actually a precise conditioning tool designed to balance desire with discipline. By waving the feathers just out of reach, the hunter was stoking the animal's 'prey drive'—making the bird the most coveted object in the world—while simultaneously testing its 'steadiness.' It was a lesson in controlled impulse, teaching the dog that the prize is not taken by a chaotic snatch, but earned through the patience to wait for a command.
Line of Sight
Somewhere in the thickest stretch of reeds, where every step required effort and every breath scraped a little deeper in my chest, something shifted. Not physically. Not externally. Internally. The grass towered around my face—the edge of the field blurring into a crown of rustling strands above my head. Each footstep stirred the ground. Each movement carried sound. The wind dragged dry stalks against my sleeves like a broom across concrete. I could feel the terrain working against me, resisting my presence, protecting what lived beneath it.
What struck me was how different the land felt after stepping out of the Defender’s warm interior and back into open exposure. Inside the MAX Limited, the world felt observational. Outside—especially after time in the open-cab XT HD11—it felt immediate. Nothing between my skin and the South Dakota wind.
And then the flutter. A rush of wings. Fast. Close. Sudden. My barrel raised almost on instinct—not rushed, not panicked—just natural. Like my body recognized the moment before my brain fully caught up. I reacted. Slowly. Too slow in fact. I aimed, but by the time I registered the bird’s trajectory, it was already gone. A streak of movement swallowed by land and then sky and back into the depths again.
Five times over the weekend, something like that happened. And five times…I missed. Sometimes because the bird outsmarted me. Other times, because my reflexes lagged. Most of the time, because illness dulled my response. I was a mess. However, I enjoyed myself all the same. My failure didn’t discourage me—it sharpened me. It offered me clarity in the heady brain fog. It opened up a part of me that felt wired solely to stalk and… miss, apparently.
And I couldn’t wait to come back and try again. For that first moment when I (inevitably) hit.
Most of the group—seasoned hunters and professionals—secured birds. A few were lost in the undergrowth so effectively camouflaged that not even the dogs could retrieve them. The land took them back, and in a way, that felt appropriate. Nothing dramatic happened. After various search parties went looking for the fowl strewn below our knees, to no avail, we gave in to circumstances and went back to the barn (our headquarters) to survey the day’s bounty.
Life and Land Are Not Commodities
Hunting, I came to realize, isn’t the point. Conservation is. Hunting is just one way people connect with nature, like hiking, climbing, birdwatching, or simply sitting still and paying attention. It isn’t superior to any of those. It’s just a different form of engagement, and one that’s often misunderstood.
Most people who hunt don’t do it because they enjoy taking life. They do it because they care about the living systems that support it. They want to be part of those systems rather than remain distanced from them. And they understand that without stewardship, open land disappears, habitats shrink, and the species tied to them lose their place. Not through malice, but through neglect and development.
As Aldo Leopold warned, “Nothing could be more salutary at this stage than a little healthy contempt for a plethora of material blessings.” In an age of constant access to food, comfort, and convenience, it’s easy to forget that nature isn’t something we consume; it’s something we depend on. And dependence, when acknowledged honestly, requires limits. It requires care and restraint.
In the end, hunting isn’t really about taking life. It’s about understanding it—its balance, its fragility, and the responsibility that comes with being part of the system instead of a threat to it. And whether you carry a shotgun or simply show up willing to observe, that awareness is what really matters.
