Sandstone, Minn.

Travis Pennings knows where his meat will come from.

At sunrise on the opening day of the rifle hunt in Minnesota, he watched her stand in the corner of the alfalfa field in front of him.

The soldier was uncovered and Pennings raised his rifle Winchester Magnum. A bald eagle slipped on a line heading south above him. Shots rang out in the distance.

"Baah," he bleated, just loud enough.

The animal has stopped.

For Pennings and a growing number of hunters in the United States, hunting is not only a passion, but also a way to get food. While hunting is a declining hobby, the proportion of hunters who say the main reason is to hunt for "meat" has more than doubled from 16% in 2006 to 39% in 2017, according to Responsive Management. , a study based in Virginia group.

Hunters enjoy the same things as older generations: the appeal of woods and fields, clean air, a challenge, moments of solitude and camaraderie. All of this is also filled with respect for the natural world, the animal and the way in which its death gives life.

"There is this respect for the animal in pursuit and death and after, and all this is tied to the end with a meal," said Land Tawney, president of Backcountry Hunters and Anglers, who lives in Montana. "You know what ridge, what lake, what stream comes from. This connection is super important. It's a rhythm that has been a common thread in the history of hunting. Now we move away from "Hey, look at those horns on the wall."

Some hunters say that it is more ethical to kill a live animal than to buy high meat in confinement. They see the hunt for food as a natural extension of the popularity of farmers' markets or restaurants that serve local ingredients.

These ideas, championed by star hunters such as Steven Rinella and organizations such as Tawney's, have led to a new convergence of hunting, environmentalism, animal welfare and food culture.

"Rather than going to Whole Foods and buying a local product, I'll pick it myself," said Pennings, a 31-year-old civil engineer living in Minnetonka. "I pull the trigger, I go to the end to put the meat in the freezer and package in individual meals. On my side, I have to honor the animal. "

Pennings grew up in Appleton, Wisconsin, and began hunting with his father and uncles at the age of 12. His grandfather knew how to slaughter a pig or a cow and sometimes deer slaughtered for friends who needed it. "He was a farmer and just a jack of all trades," Pennings said.

Pennings began to slaughter game at the university. Now, he estimates that 70% of the meat that he and his wife consume is wild game that he killed – mainly game, but also turkey, fish, grouse, pheasant, duck, geese and elk. Two big dollars provide enough venison for a year. Pennings often cook in the pan with garlic and mushrooms.

From observer to participant

In September, a Minnesota-based group, Modern Carnivore, posted on YouTube a seven-episode film called "Awaken the Hunter Within," which follows three new hunters who learn how to hunt and skin wild game. One of the goals of the group is to expand and diversify the hunter pool, said Mark Norquist, a native of Brainerd and founder of Modern Carnivore 10 years ago.

He tries to persuade anyone who loves the outdoors – canoes, hikers, campers – to move on to the next stage. "The opportunity is to move from observer status in this natural environment to a true participant," said Norquist.

Eating hunted food is an important part of the experience. Modern Carnivorous publishes wild game recipes, such as fried duck breasts with cranberry sauce, goat pastrami and buffalo squirrel thighs.

Pennings was joined by Phil Bratsch who lives in Bayfield on the opening weekend with his father, uncle, brother-in-law and cousin in early November. Wis. Bratsch grew up in Bloomington and, after "bouncing from one job to another" In the Twin Cities, he and his wife settled on the shores of Lake Superior five years ago to create an orchard cider. He had never hunted, but this year he took a course on hunter safety, trained on a shooting stand, and paid $ 180 for a Minnesota deer tag located outside the fighter. 'State.

"I wanted to learn a new skill, to learn to be a little more independent," Bratsch said. "It's largely about getting our own meat, where it comes from, to be involved from start to finish."

On the morning of the opening match, he was in a stand a few hundred yards away when Pennings saw a whitetail deer at the edge of the alfalfa field. It was too small to shoot. He raised his binoculars and said, "There is another one behind him."

When the biggest male appeared, the little deer moved away and they both headed for a thicket of sea buckthorn. The male was standing perpendicular to Pennings, his "vital zone" of lungs and heart exposed behind his right shoulder before, when he pulled the trigger.

Boom. The male leaned forward slowly. Pennings fired two more times and the deer fell on his back.

Pennings closed his eyes and expired – he later said that he was relieved that the deer died quickly – and then the work began.

Pennings and his uncle dragged the ball through the field, his hot body leaving a trail of greenery in the frosted alfalfa. Pennings undressed in a short-sleeved shirt and knelt down with a knife while Bratsch, who had left his deer stand, was coming to watch and help.

Pennings opened the belly of the animal, sawed his sternum and pulled his organs out of the ribcage. Tufts of green vegetation have fallen from the stomach. He left the organs on the ground for the coyotes and steam spilled from the empty body of the deer.

"Now you have to cool everything down, and it's very good temperatures for that," said Pennings. "I will probably take 40 pounds of meat from it."

Pennings' cousin, Ben Pennings, also left his stand to drive a tractor to move the carcass.

Hunter to butcher

Everyone came home, where Pennings climbed the trunk of a pine tree to tie a rope to a branch and hang the deer by the neck. He then went to work, holding his knife like a paintbrush and surrounding the deer. The dogs, two chocolate labs, groaned and left a lot of room for the carcass.

Pennings widened the rib cage and housed a stick inside to keep it open. He cut the fat and guts from the inside, rinsed it with cups of lukewarm water and cut the two nets, giving them to his uncle to wash them and put them in fridge.

Pennings cut the legs from the deer to the knee and skinned the animal from the neck. He let it hang for a few hours to cool down and went inside to cook the fillets on the stove. They tasted like steak – lean red meat seasoned with salt and pepper. "It's a celebration," said Pennings. "You eat those in the camp."

After a venison chili lunch, Pennings returned to the animal. He had cooled down and his muscles were covered with what looked like cellophane. The grease on his back looked like chilled candle wax. Pennings cut the animal into four, removing one leg at a time, then carefully cut backstraps – the dark red meat strips along the spine. He fills a green cooler with chops, steaks and leftover or ground venison. The deer looked less and less like one. Back home, Pennings cut the meat into portions and retracted it for the freezer.

But later in the day, Bratsch and he returned to the Pennings stag stand. Ten feet from where Pennings shot his deer that morning, Bratsch shot a 4-point male.

"All my worry was taking a bad shot and hurting him," Bratsch said. "He fell instantly. He did not even take another step. I could not have asked for it to be better. "

He emptied the animal under the watchful eye of Pennings, let it hang for two days in the cold, and then brought it home.

"I brought it home to the top of the Subaru and have it suspended and processed on Tuesday," Bratsch said next week.

He also has a freezer filled with venison, as well as a new hunting license in Wisconsin, and he plans to hunt another deer soon.

Twitter: @adambelz