Proving Ground

Colorado, gatekeeping, and childhood programming

I recently traveled to Trinidad, Colorado, to cover a Gold Star hunt. A 14-year-old boy who lost his father in Afghanistan when he was two got the opportunity to hunt pronghorn, all-expenses paid by KUIU. I got the chance to play journalist. 

Any time I spend in Colorado is like a dream come true, no matter how many times I travel there. My deep love for the state has roots in my childhood. As a kid, I regularly swiped my parents’ John Denver LPs to spin them on my little blue record player. “Rocky Mountain High,” “Starwood in Aspen,” and “Farewell Andromeda” made up the soundtrack of my early life, played in that whirring vinyl timbre. At the same time, I pretended to hike the Rockies by climbing my bedroom furniture.

I cried the first time I saw them. From our campsite in Limon, the snow-capped Rockies looked like clouds on the horizon. I’ve only visited a handful of times, and I am in awe every single time. I might consider moving there if the state’s politics were different, or my children would consider uprooting their lives and coming with me. 

But back to the hunt…

I was once again the only woman in a room oozing with testosterone. Former Army Rangers, law enforcement officers, and Colorado hunting guides tend to be alpha male types. That is totally fine with me, but I am also keenly aware that my presence shifts the energy of any hunting camp. It’s like suddenly, no one knows where to look or what to do with their hands. 

Every single time I find myself in one of these male-dominated situations, I feel somehow like I have to prove myself. This pronghorn hunt wasn’t any different, even though I wasn’t the one hunting.

One of the first questions someone asked me was, “So, how does OL decide who gets to cover these hunts?”

It might have been just a simple question asked out of curiosity, but I heard, “Why did they decide to send a woman?” It made me feel like I needed to prove I had earned the spot, that I could keep up, that I wasn’t delicate. 

It’s not them. It’s me. 

I hear through a filter and interpret things through a history laden with trying to prove myself. Years of men gatekeeping, drilling me with stupid rapid-fire questions when they find out that I hunt and fish and write about it for a living. 

“What kind of rifle do you use?”
“How many deer have you killed?”
“What kind of ammo are you shooting?”
“What’s your favorite bass lure?”
“What pound test line?”
“What reel?”

Sometimes, I know people are just trying to find common ground to start a conversation. It feels like a pop quiz I have to pass to prove my worth as an outdoorsman.

But the need to prove myself goes back even further. It stretches back to my John Denver era, trying to prove to my father that I was as good as any son. I spent evenings on the couch, not saying a word or moving a muscle for hours while we watched TV, just hoping Daddy would notice and realize that I could sit still in the woods if he would just take me hunting.

I would follow Daddy through the yard in petite pink sneakers, rolling my weight onto the outsides of my feet, trying to move through the crinkling dead leaves without making a sound. I was hoping beyond hope would notice, that he would realize I was ready to hunt the woods with him.  

Of course, I finally pestered him enough that he let me tag along, otherwise I never would have gotten here. But once we were in the woods, it was just another proving ground. Never complaining, never shifting my weight, never asking to use the bathroom, never shying away from any of the uncomfortable aspects of the hunt. Ever. Unless he would think I was weak.

Proving myself is always the default. Always.

Even when I’m in the woods by myself. 

Because ultimately, I’m still trying to prove to myself that I’m worthy.