By Titus Troyer
Most people probably have a specific idea or emotion that comes to mind when they hear the term Amish. Those who don’t know much about them might think of horses, buggies, and strange clothes. They’re not wrong, but that’s only part of the story.
Folks a bit more familiar with the community might think of good food, a strong culture, and a great work ethic—also true.
A few might even think of the Amish as sportsmen. We do have a well-earned reputation for deer drives and a “brown is down” mentality. Hunting and shooting were very much a part of our lives growing up. I can’t remember a time when my brothers, cousins, and I didn’t have at least BB guns, which were upgraded to .22 rifles around age 10.
A particular cousin and I became known for shooting birds and experimenting with different ways to prepare the meat. We were supposed to stick to sparrows and starlings, but we figured any bird was fair game if its death meant sustenance for two young explorers who had ventured a solid 90 yards into the wilderness. One memorable hunt yielded a nice bluebird, which we disemboweled and served sushi-style. While this was as gross as it sounds—I still vividly remember the taste—it wasn’t much worse than the nuthatch we impaled on a stick and “grilled” over a small fire. In hindsight, we had no idea how long it takes to cook a bird properly—and even if we had, there’s no way we would’ve had the patience. The nuthatch combined the best of both worlds: raw on the inside with a nice burnt layer of flesh on the outside. Now that I think about it, the bluebird may have been better.
I doubt many people associate the Amish with drinking, though. To be fair, I’m not sure how common it is in the larger Amish community. It’s possible my uncles were the exception—although if they were, I’m fairly certain they did enough for the whole group. There are a number of family stories to confirm the alcohol/Amish connection in my family.
On one occasion, my grandpa heard a horse and buggy pull into the driveway late at night but no one came into the house. An investigation revealed that a sober and navigationally skilled horse had brought home a not-so-sober relative who’d passed out in the buggy. Then there was the local hunting camp that repeatedly noticed beer disappearing from their fridge, but more than enough cash left behind to cover it. A bit of surveillance revealed the mysterious unsolicited “customer” was none other than my Amish uncle.
I can also reveal that Amish deer camp is not so different than non-Amish deer camp. One camp hunt involved a pre-dawn trek up Tuscarora Mountain through freshly fallen snow. While pausing to catch their breath near the end of the hike, a member of the group complained about cold feet. A quick inspection with a flashlight revealed the reason: camp slippers. The haze from the previous night’s festivities had been sufficient to obscure the slight difference between hunting boots and slippers.
Another early morning hike—this one in warmer, rainy weather—led to an equally amusing situation. While taking a break, one of the guys decided a rocky outcropping was the perfect spot to relieve himself. The serenity of pissing into the abyss was interrupted by a voice from below, noting that the rain had started—and that it was an unusually warm rain.
Over time, raising hell gave way to raising kids, horse-drawn buggies gave way to cars (for some), and cold beers gave way to cold Cokes. But thankfully the hunting tradition stuck around. While I’m no longer Amish, I’ve come to appreciate this aspect of my heritage more with age. There are numerous values and traditions I hope to pass down to our kids, including a love of hunting.
