Starting in childhood I have had a fascination with the Huntress archetype, the fur and bone-clad woman who smells of mycelium and pine wielding a mighty bow, flanked by wild animals. Even more after a small, Wiccan version of me fell to my knees beneath a crescent moon and begged Artemis to give back my virginity as I cried silver tears. The Huntress has been the power figure who walked by my side as I grappled with a lost childhood and into an uncertain future. I wanted nothing more than to embody the power of a woman who would faster see a man their prey, or a constellation, before seeing their disrespect of the holy temple of their body. 

Following the small tugs and pulls woven into each of us over life, I found my way to the snow-covered mountains and windy plains. I found my way into gardens and sustainability and slowly un-layered myself into surrendering to the expansive, wild land beneath and above me. Stars that were previously unknown to me appeared. I learned to start a fire, to forage, to make medicine, to grow, preserve, ferment. The image of a bow wielding and often horned goddess accompanied me on long river walks and along dense mountain trails. I found her in the frozen waterfall and the rushing spring river, in the summer fruits and the quiet fall rustlings. Always fierce and bold and strong. 

Healing is a journey, and often one that is unexpected. It wasn’t through therapy that I found my way to healing (though it certainly helped), but in the wild and quiet spaces. It was in the way cold water from the mountain fall rinsed my naked body. The way the moon took my side when I wandered down the mountain far after I should have been home. The way the deer startled but didn’t run, instead turning their large glossy eyes to me. It was in those spaces that I tended to the small girl who had cried in vain all those years ago. Where I had promised her we were safe, we were strong, we could become the goddess we always looked to. 

In the months after that hushed promise, I found a group that would take women hunters out and guide them. It was made for people just like me, who had the desire but no knowledge or experience. I signed up immediately. Then came months of doubt. Could I pull the trigger? Could I end a life? Would I cry? Would I be able to follow through with this, or would I fall short like I had on so many other promises to myself? 

Antelope are wonderfully weird creatures. They have horns and fuzzy white rumps you can see running through the fields, or five o’clock traffic, depending on where you live. They have massive orbs for eyes like pools of ink. More futures can be seen in those eyes than in any crystal ball. Their eyesight is so good that on a clear night they can see the rings of Saturn. Imagine the constellations they can see, the celestial legends they can witness. This beautiful and far-seeing animal was to be my first hunt. 

Anticipation was not the feeling that I expected. I expected dread, fear, concern, doubt, even anger. However, a full day of wandering the swaying yellow prairie of my home and seeing the hills and valleys, exploring the nests and bones left behind by my sometimes-forgotten animal kin neighbors. A blessing in meditation. A reminder of life and death, of relationships between every living thing that is more than light and life. I had asked for a sign when I met the buck, a sort of permission, a blessing of consent. I passed any that did not give that. Finally, when my buck bowed his head, I knew he was for me. I spent the day following and tracking him, losing him as often as I had lost myself in my own winding life. I was comfortable playing chase and never truly completing the hunt, so much connection was in the trailing of this underrated and clever creature. Like a dance, like foreplay. 

But I had not walked next to the Huntress all these years to walk past when opportunity presented itself. My buck stayed still in an open, flat field. His two does strayed far away, as if to make room for the initiation. I crept close, smelling of dust and sagebrush and hot sun. I looked at him through the scope and waited again. His horns dipped as he bowed his head and moved into the exact position necessary. I was expecting hesitation, regret, or even to change my mind. I never even heard the pop. He fell.

There is nothing glorious about reveling in a kill, but there is a responsibility. As I strode to my fallen horned muse, I felt the ways in which power is not about destroying something but relating and finding responsibility in it. I was not powerful for pulling a trigger, but for washing the blood from his mouth in dignity, for dressing the body with care. For removing the hide, butchering the meat, for praying and cleansing and falling into deep gratitude for all that he was giving me. For knowing that I am just as enmeshed with him and this landscape as they are with me. That I am not visiting, but integrating deeply, becoming root and spore and bone to this place that keeps me. That I am offering as much of myself as I ask. 

There is a part of me now that wants to scoff at the smaller version of me that cried to the moon, to forget the pain of that moment and the struggle of moving into my power. The larger part of me knows that I am always walking with that version of myself, building a life in offering to her, showing her over and over again that we are safe. Relating to the human and more-than-human world in deep connection, building relationships that promise cruelty is the outlier and not the expectation. Folding myself into the animistic world so I can see the truth of pain and reciprocity. Learning to forgive, to fight, to become the very fur-clad, wise, wild and free woman I know we can be… without forgetting about the carefree and childlike wonder of my reality. That I can be hunter and hunted both, without losing my worth. 

I keep the skull of my first hunt near the window, and on clear nights when the moon is dark or bright, I like to open the blinds so that my initiator can see the rings of Saturn and bring dreams of different stories to me. Stories of women who healed, who grew, who laughed, and loved. Stories the stars keep for those of us willing to look and listen. Of Huntresses who were not always defending but also bathing serenely, dancing with elk and fox, taking lovers of their own volition, of you and me and everyone who has forgotten how to remember that power is never taken, but only gifted.