Hunting!! or, The Never Ending Quest For BBQ!

Hunting: The Quest for Barbecue in a World of Fuzzy Feelings

By Mike Walk

Let’s talk about hunting, the ancient art of chasing animals through the woods with a weapon, a dream of barbecue brisket, and a heart full of contradictions. See, I hate hunting. Loathe it. Despise it like I despise assembling IKEA furniture or getting a telemarketer call during dinner. But here’s the kicker: I love meat. Love it like a dog loves a squeaky toy. Give me a plate of barbecue ribs so tender they fall off the bone, and I’m in heaven, possibly weeping with joy. The problem? I also have a soft spot for animals. I see a deer with those big, soulful eyes, and I’m ready to adopt it, name it Bambi, and knit it a sweater. But then I smell brisket, and suddenly I’m chanting, “Pass the sauce!” like a traitor to my own principles.

Hunting, for some folks, isn’t just a hobby—it’s a religion. Especially for guys named Buford. You know Buford. He’s the guy at the barbecue joint with a camo hat, a pickup truck with a gun rack, and a bumper sticker that says, “I Brake for Deer… to Shoot Them.” For Buford, hunting season is like Christmas, the Super Bowl, and a monster truck rally rolled into one. He wakes up at 4 a.m., puts on enough camouflage to blend into a forest or a Walmart, and heads out to commune with nature by firing a high-powered rifle at it. Buford doesn’t just hunt; he lives for it. His house is decorated in Early American Taxidermy, with deer heads staring down from every wall, their glassy eyes judging you for not eating a salad.

Now, I get why hunting exists. Back in caveman days, it was how you got dinner without starving or resorting to eating tree bark. But today? We’ve got grocery stores, drive-thrus, and Uber Eats. You don’t need to stalk a pig through the wilderness to enjoy bacon. Yet Buford and his buddies treat hunting like a sacred quest, whispering about “the rut” and “scent control” like they’re planning a moon landing. Meanwhile, I’m over here thinking, “Can’t we just go to Smokey Joe’s BBQ and call it a day?” Because let’s be honest: Barbecue is the real religion here. Those smoky, saucy ribs are my cathedral, and a good brisket is my holy grail. I’d walk across hot coals for a pulled pork sandwich, but ask me to sit in a frozen tree stand at dawn, and I’m suddenly “busy” reorganizing my sock drawer.

The thing is, hunting is hard. I tried it once, mostly because my buddy Buford (of course) guilted me into it. He handed me a rifle, some camo that smelled like a gym locker, and a thermos of coffee strong enough to power a lawnmower. We trudged into the woods before the sun was up, which is already a crime against humanity. Buford whispered stuff like, “Stay low, the deer can smell you,” and I’m thinking, “They should, because the clothes you loaned me smells like back sweat and pine dust.” We sat in a tree stand for three hours, which is like being stuck in a dentist’s waiting room, except colder and with more squirrels. A deer finally showed up, and it was so cute I wanted to give it a hug. Buford was all, “Take the shot!” and I was like, “Can’t we just take a selfie?” I didn’t shoot. I went home, hugged my dog, and ordered barbecue takeout to soothe my soul.

But here’s where it gets weird: I can’t stop eating meat. I love it. A rack of ribs slathered in sauce is my love language. Brisket so tender it melts in your mouth? I’d write it poetry. And don’t get me started on pulled pork—it’s like a warm hug from a pig that doesn’t know I’m a hypocrite. My soft spot for animals makes me feel guilty, sure, but then I smell barbecue, and my brain goes, “Sorry, Bambi, you’re on your own.” It’s like my taste buds are staging a coup against my conscience.

For Buford, though, there’s no conflict. Hunting and barbecue are two sides of the same sacred coin. He’ll spend a weekend in the woods, come back with a deer, and turn it into a feast that makes grown men cry. At his barbecue, there’s a pit the size of a kiddie pool, smoke rising like incense, and a congregation of guys named Dwayne, Cletus, and another Buford, all nodding reverently as the meat hits the grill. They don’t just eat barbecue; they worship it. They argue about sauce recipes like theologians debating scripture. “Sweet or spicy?” they’ll ask, and if you say “neither,” they’ll excommunicate you faster than you can say “tofu.”

My advice? If you’re like me—torn between loving animals and worshipping at the Church of Barbecue—just skip the hunting part. Let Buford do the dirty work. Go straight to the barbecue joint, order a slab of ribs, and tip your hat to the animals who made it possible. You’ll avoid frostbite, guilty feelings, and Buford’s lecture on how to gut a deer. Life’s too short to sit in a tree stand when you could be sitting at a picnic table with a pile of brisket, sausage, and a side of cream corn. Just don’t tell Bambi I said that.