鈥淗ave you ever had to come out as a hunter?鈥� I asked.

More than 100 outdoorspeople听fell silent. Then听hands began to raise. Soon, about one-third of the听staff at the Vermont Fish and听Wildlife Department鈥檚听annual retreat听had acknowledged something powerful:听the unsettling experience of owning an uncommon identity鈥攊n听this case, that we are hunters. Although hunting remains prominent in the American imagination, the number听of U.S. adults with a听hunting license .

I have navigated coming out as both a queer man听and as a hunter.听Seeking to recognize some of the diversity that exists among hunters,听the department had invited me to speak about听my experiences. It, like many wildlife-management agencies across the country, is trying to welcome underrepresented identities into a tradition that鈥檚 slowly vanishing due to waning interest and stigma. I hoped that my story could help blaze a new path forward.

I took up hunting in earnest after moving to Vermont for graduate school听in 2017, at the age of 27. I had been fascinated by听the activity听since early childhood, when my听uncle served venison at a family gathering. Although I later听joined him in the woods a handful of times during my early twenties, I never witnessed a deer听being听shot and harvested. Freshly arrived in northern New England and hoping to connect with the听new landscape, my curiosity awoke听again.听Many of Vermont鈥檚听deep forests and remote river valleys are open to hunters. From my home in Burlington, the woods听were just 30 minutes away.

However, learning to hunt requires more than access to a sit spot. Like any other outdoor obsession, hunting has its own etiquette, language, and culture. Becoming a hunter would involve immersing myself in gun shops and firing ranges, acquiring and learning to use the gear needed to sit still for hours in below-freezing temperatures, and arranging for space to butcher a deer听if I was lucky enough to harvest听one. It would also require me to make a weighty personal decision: determining听when, or whether, to broach the topic of my sexuality in what is generally a socially conservative group.听The risk of encountering overt homophobia felt much more likely听in the hunting community than听in my day-to-day experience as a graduate student in Burlington, a progressive college town.

But听Vermont eased my apprehensions. Here, subcultures often regarded听as disparate coexist side by side.听Three hunting outfitters lie within a 20-minute drive of Burlington鈥檚听cosmopolitan downtown. Rural and urban cultures听blend together, more so than around the suburb of Boston where I grew up.听As I began learning about hunting, support crept out of the woodwork. A听colleague offered to let me hunt his land. A听stranger听helped me through my first shots with a new black-powder gun at the shooting range: we were both zeroing in our guns at adjacent benches, when he saw that I was having trouble. We didn鈥檛 talk much beyond exchanging听names听before he got right into helping me figure out what I was doing wrong.听I felt welcomed as I interacted with hunters, but the simmering fear of coming out remained.

Early in my hunting career, I took pains to conceal my sexuality. I identify as queer, because I am attracted to people of all genders. Whenever I date women, I blend into听our predominantly heteronormative听society. But leading into my second deer season, I was dating a man.听I didn鈥檛 know how that would be received by the hunting community听that I was becoming a part of.听Hunting is very social, especially when you are learning. During deer season, there are only a few weeks when you can actually be alone in the woods in pursuit of game; in听the off-season, much of what makes hunting a joy are听the skill-building听and socializing that happen听in support of the actual hunt.听A听number of hunting organizations around Vermont host听events, from informal get-togethers to visiting speakers.听I听became acquainted with mentors, landowners, and other hunters听at the shooting range.听Sooner or later, I would want to open up about my romantic life. But would it ever feel safe to do so?

On my first pheasant hunt, in October 2018, I stayed silent when the conversation turned to romantic partners. Troubleshooting my temperamental muzzleloader at the local gun shop later that fall, I said nothing while others talked about family life. I maintained a sense of personal safety through these omissions. But each time I kept my heart to myself in a community where I was otherwise starting to feel at home, a little bit of me seemed to flicker into nothing.

With my second season coming to a close, my听internal tension reached a听fever pitch. I had just harvested my first deer, and I felt more welcome in this hunting circle听than ever before. It was time to come out, I decided. But I didn鈥檛 know how or when.

The opportunity presented itself just after deer season finished. In a small bar outside Montpelier,听the smallest state capital in the country,听I was helping host a visiting speaker听at a 鈥減int night鈥澨齭ponsored by . I would be introducing , an advocate for women in hunting and a cofounder of the nonprofit听, who听was going to talk about her experience as a female hunter.听(The event was part of the organization鈥檚 effort to seed conversations about diversity in hunting, a topic that鈥檚听gaining traction across the U.S.)听Small-town old-timers with bright plaid coats brushed shoulders with Burlington twentysomethings in sharply cut jeans鈥攑eople from two very different versions of Vermont, brought together by a shared love for听the sport. As Jess and I talked through the details of her speech over the hum of a happy crowd, I realized my introductory remarks听would be a good听time to put my money where my mouth was, too.

I remember the actual moment of coming out to those Vermont hunters just听as well as I remember pulling the trigger on my first deer: clicking the safety off, exhaling, and releasing something that could never be taken back. 鈥淭he hunting community can seem homogenous,鈥� I said. 鈥淏ut there鈥檚 more diversity here than meets the eye. As a queer man and a hunter鈥︹��

After I handed off the microphone, I saw a handful of downcast eyes and furrowed brows听but many more smiles.

I live in a place that is perhaps uniquely open to the idea of a queer hunter. Vermont was the first state to grant same-sex couples the same benefits as straight ones, and it boasts a hunting tradition that predates its statehood. However, the safety I felt coming out in the hunting world听was surely conditioned by the privilege I carry as a white, cisgendered man. American hunters are听. For LGBTQ+ hunters at the intersections of multiple marginalized identities, or in states that are less welcoming to the queer community, I doubt that such friendly coming-out moments are common鈥攂ut I hope听they will become so. In the meantime, each of us who assesses their situation and feels safe enough to come out in the hunting community paves the way for others.

In the following weeks,听I eased into being out in a new space. I was becoming听more comfortable while owning two seemingly contradictory identities,听at least when I was听among my hunting friends.

In LGBTQ+ circles, it is common to say that people never stop coming out. Every new situation requires the same calculus. How much of myself do I want to reveal? What are the costs of voicing my experiences?

After my first successful deer hunt, that wisdom took on an unexpected new meaning:听I was navigating the surprisingly treacherous path of 鈥渃oming out鈥�听as a full-fledged hunter to friends who do not hunt.听The stakes were lower, but the patterns were unmistakable.听I weighed听individual encounters and social settings carefully, even fearfully. Sometimes I avoided talking about hunting entirely, even as it became a bigger part of my life.

I felt this new anxiety most keenly in a warm taproom in New Orleans at a New Year鈥檚 gathering with college friends. As we took turns sharing the highlights of 2018, I knew I wanted to tell the story of my successful hunt听and immediately faced a stinging realization: I was certainly the only hunter in our group, and听not everyone would approve that I had taken it up.听Some might even be offended.

I was sitting near the end of the table听and had time to consider my options. Relative to the danger of coming out as queer, the risk of being open about hunting was vanishingly small.听Still, I worried that I would alienate close friends who had strong feelings against hunting. For听many people,听the sport provokes听reactions that range from disagreement to feeling abjectly threatened. It听is infused with the ethics of eating meat; the injustices of race, gender, and class that shape access to public lands and wildlife; and gun control, among other serious issues. But how else could I share the nuance of听a hunter鈥檚 sadness, gratitude, and sense of obligation to a place听other than by talking about it?

My turn arrived.听鈥淭his year听I had my first successful deer hunt,鈥� I said.

Silence. Then听a bark of uneasy laughter from my friend Claudia. Anxiety boiled into my throat as I glanced down the table. Claudia would not look me in the eye.

There have been times when owning my identity as a queer man has clearly made others uncomfortable听or made me unwelcome in certain company. I didn鈥檛 want to repeat that experience, and听I was scared to widen the gulf I had just created by saying more. But I had to voice to my experiences听or risk more of myself flickering into nothingness.

As the moments passed, I realized that Claudia鈥檚 uncomfortable laughter had stopped. Other friends were leaning forward, smiling and curious. The acid in my throat receded, and I began to speak again.

鈥淚 shot my deer on the last day of doe season, in a听hornbeam stand between the Champlain Valley and the Green Mountains鈥︹��

I did not register the shot so much as the smoke that followed it. One minute, five deer had been nosing under oak leaves for acorns; the next, I had chosen one to transform into venison, to kill and to harvest. A swirling听gray cloud filled my vision. The crash of wild bodies in the bracken thundered in my ears.

The smoke faded and the woods became still. With shaking fingers, I texted Jess Johnson鈥攊t was a day before the听pint night, and she had joined me in the field as a mentor. Jess replied immediately:听鈥淲ait听30听minutes. Give your deer time to lay down and die. Give yourself time to make peace with what you鈥檝e done.鈥�

For half an hour, the woods thrummed with a kind of sharpness that my senses听seemed only half able to absorb.

Then I searched for my deer鈥檚 blood trail, and my heart leaped听at the sight of frothy-pink lung matter among the drops of red. My shot had been a good one. I set out in pursuit.

When I found my deer,听I crouched beside her听and felt the weight of the task ahead. Humility and delight, surprise and gravity听all twisted together in the prospect of turning her body into food. I knew I would be changed by the act. And with that knowledge came gratitude.

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