Hunting, Hubert, and the Hope for a Home

My mom once said that I’m the kind of girl who could put the fatality in Femme Fatale.  It’s a compliment that requires some explanation before I tell the story of how divine intervention recently proved her right.  See, I’m girly.  I’m 5’2”, of a decidedly Italianate build, and always factor in the relative likelihood of chipping my nails whenever considering my next course of action.  Armaments and antlers were never high on my early list of priorities, but St. Michael the Archangel and St. Hubert the Hunter saw to it that they played a critical role in my life’s course and on my most recent adventure.

Now decades ago, while a doctoral student in Theology at Notre Dame, I watched the twin towers fall.  Not long after, I found myself working in counterterrorism for the FBI.  When that ceased to feel like I was doing much immediate good, I deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, embedded with the Joint Special Operations Command and the U.S. Marine Corps respectively, trying to do the investigative work that uprooted violence at its interpersonal, cultural, and ideological sources.  Or, as my mom more bluntly puts it, I spied.

While doing that work, my eyes were opened and my heart was broken.  Openness and brokenness, as many can attest, are critical entry points for Christ in the wayfaring soul, and His grace came flooding in.  I saw how poverty, hunger, and medical need, along with the sickening evils of human trafficking and the exploitation of children, underlie our world’s systems of criminality and terror.  I longed with every ounce of grace I was given to make a difference.  

When I returned home, I had that very opportunity.  My beautiful mom, a true giant of faith, founded an Association of the Faithful with an apostolate to the homeless and the ultimate goal of establishing a home for children at risk for trafficking (www.RanchoSantaCatarina.org).  The possibility of such a home gave me purpose and hope, even when my own injuries made continued military service impossible.  It was as I struggled with recovery that I met heroic individuals like Eddy Corona of Outdoor Experience for All (OE4A) and Anthony Pace of Freedom Hunters, along with the life-changing inspiration of the amazing twin olympians/world-champion shooters Lanny and Tracy Barnes–all of whom would make excellent candidates for sainthood someday!

These great souls introduced something incredibly unlikely into my life: hunting.  With it, they showed me a profoundly ethical way to provide for my community and the homeless we serve.  They also showed me a way toward healing, as they teach disabled veterans to repurpose the skills they devalued after their service and give us an opportunity for belonging once again.  Through hunting, I found a devotion to St. Hubert, the patron of Catholic hunters, whose story of suffering and healing, and ultimately of the indispensability of the Mass, has a message aimed at the heart of almost every veteran.

So, because of the kindness of these individuals, I recently found myself on the hunt of a lifetime.  Visiting a luxurious lodge on the property of the renownedly charitable Earnhardt family who donates such experiences to veterans, and surrounded by guides and fellow hunters I did not know well, I struggled to imagine how I fit in, despite their unfaltering kindness.  Searching for Arizona elk, we trekked what seemed like endless miles over the steepest terrain I can ever recall encountering, and I have trekked some mountains and dunes!  I secretly wondered how I would possess the strength for each next step while those around me seemed cheerfully unperturbed.  

I made myself awkwardly notable for other unusual behavior as well.  Whenever I picked up a weapon for the day, I said the St. Michael prayer–the whole thing, out loud–and whatever poor individuals were accompanying me just had to wait for me to finish.  When asked how I would use the antlers if I got a bull, I launched into my detailed plans to make the traditional shrine to St. Hubert, replicating the crucifix between the antlers of the creature who brought about his conversion.  In short, I was a Catholic dork. 

On the third day, my companions and I were descending an incline so steep and thickly covered with brush that the only reasonable way to make progress was to go onto one knee, then feel with a foot for a solid step farther down, then use a knee again, and so on.  The hunting party was in a single-file line doing this when suddenly the gentleman behind me said, with hushed urgency, “Whatever you do, don’t move.  Your knee is on a rattlesnake.  It’s the aggressive kind.” 

If moving wasn’t an option, as my position was keeping the snake pinned, I had no idea what to do.  Luckily, I didn’t need to have an idea.  With the same bizarre, almost superhuman strength that kept my companions unbothered by the unreal physical demands of the hunt, our leader, just ahead of me, grabbed my backpack with a single hand, lifted me clear off the ground by several feet, and swung me a distance away.  The snake, then freed, slithered swiftly away, right between the feet of everyone behind me, harming no one.

I then got to say the absolute coolest thing I have ever gotten to say as a Catholic.  The first question I got was, “weren’t you scared?”  I brushed off a sleeve with theatrical nonchalance and replied, “Why should I be?  Didn’t you hear me say the prayer to St. Michael earlier?  He really doesn’t like snakes, and he will often intervene to keep us safe.”  My companions, having just witnessed something so extraordinary, couldn’t argue.  I then got to tell them about St. Michael himself, as with today’s sketchy catechesis, it turns out few had known the colorful realities.

What I still couldn’t understand, however, was how the hunt leader, a very nice and unassuming gentleman named Ryan, managed to toss me around with strength like St. Michael’s own.  It wasn’t until later in the day that my ignorance of popular culture gave way to the realization that Ryan was Ryan Bader, the current heavyweight champion fighter, who quietly and humbly donates his time and hunting expertise to Eddy Corona’s amazing charity!  Still, I was left in wonder.  If ever one should find themselves accidentally kneeling on a rattlesnake, what are the chances that God would send the reigning heavyweight champion to yank them off?

That left the question of how the rest of the party was keeping up so easily.  It turned out that the other veteran hunter was a Navy Seal, and the rest of the gentlemen, who were there to guide and assist us, hunted and worked such terrain so regularly that they possessed the fitness of the “real” cowboys of legend.  It was one of these real cowboys who moved my heart most.  He said, “Ms. CC, you’ve opened my eyes.  When you get your home for the children, you just tell me and you’ll have a cow to feed them, and then that cow’s calf when it matures for the next year.”  It was the most generous and practical gift I could imagine.

It meant a great deal too, because after hiking over my personal equivalent of the Himalayas, I still found myself without an elk to show for it, knowing that a hard and hungry winter for our homeless lay ahead.  It was then that Ryan spotted a bull elk–a ragged old fighter who himself would face a cruel winter if left to it.  Now it was St. Hubert’s turn to make his miraculous help known.  Despite the fact that my shot was over 500 yards in 25 mph winds, the bull fell instantly to the ground where he stood, never knowing anything but a life of fearless freedom.  I was blessed with both the gift of the meat and with a new understanding of how outrageously God intervenes to help and protect us. 

It seemed a message meant especially for me at this very time.  I am often tempted to lose hope for the work we dream of accomplishing for the children we long to serve.  While we’ve made enormous progress, our plan is wildly ambitious, and it’s easy to imagine that even God wouldn’t do unheard-of and extraordinary things to see it through.  However, if this hunt taught me anything, it’s that He does exactly that.  If something is His will, there’s no saying what He and His saints won’t do to accomplish it.  I’m sharing this story in case you struggle with the same feelings I do.  May it remind you to never lose hope either.