Easter is a time for family traditions. Most families exchange chocolate bunnies or decorate eggs. In my family, we shoot gophers.
I’m not sure when this tradition started, but I am sure we didn’t know we were starting a tradition when my dad, brother and I went gopher hunting at Easter for the first time. After repeating this five or six years in a row, the gopher hunt became an Easter ritual.
Like other rituals, ours has certain procedures to follow.
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One of them is that we always go to Ponteix, Sask., which is my dad’s hometown. Every year, we return to the same pasture where this custom began many years ago. Its location is a secret known only to the landowner and other members of my family.
Another part of the ritual is trash talk, but not in a mean-spirited way. The idea is to point out and ridicule someone’s mistakes and shortcomings while downplaying and diminishing their success and skill.
Typical trash talk would be a sarcastic comment like, “oh, you don’t see that gopher staring right at you? Please allow me to show you where he is.” Bang.
In keeping with our tradition, we almost exclusively shoot rimfire cartridges, although a few high-powered rifles and the odd shotgun have also made appearances. Cellphones are always turned off.
An important part of performing the ritual is to recall memorable events from past hunts.
We remember times when uncles and cousins joined us and we talk about the number of gophers there were or how cold, windy or warm the weather has been in the past.
Without question, the most memorable event was the time a certain someone accidentally shot Mom’s car. I won’t go into detail, but I will say the exploit gets mentioned often at Easter.
Recently, Dad and I tried to figure out when this tradition was born. Our best estimate is that it was no less than 15 years ago, but no more than 20.
Since we had rifles with us that first year, I assume we had planned to shoot gophers and so the first hunt probably wasn’t a spur of the moment idea.
There are a number of sights and sounds associated with this custom. Most years, the sun is beginning to cast warm rays, but the scent of winter lingers in the wind. The smell of sage brushing against the vehicle’s exhaust pipe is a form of incense. Other than a few white coulees, the snow is mostly gone and the grass has begun to colour itself in emerald. The first meadowlarks make music.
The worst sound comes after you line up the perfect shot, calmly squeeze the trigger and hear the disappointing “click” of an empty rifle. That frustrating moment is then accompanied by laughter, invariably from people with ammo, and trash talk.
“Well, well. Looks like I’ll have to take care of that gopher myself.” Kaboom.
It amazes me that there are still gophers in that pasture because we’ve been shooting there for nearly two decades.
Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t be too surprised that so many gophers survive from year to year. My dad isn’t a very good shot. Just kidding, that was another example of trash talk.
Dominique Liboiron is a freelance writer based in Maple Creek, Sask.
