When You’re No Longer the Apex Predator

Something Watching

Father Stephen Gadberry went to Idaho in October, 2023 chasing elk. He didn’t get one. He found a whitetail carcass instead, half-eaten, scratched up, tucked under leaves on an elk trail. He dragged it out, left it in the open. Next morning, it was back under the tree, more meat gone. He pulled it again. Same thing next day, and the day after. Three mornings, three nights, something was out there, moving it back. A mountain lion, close, watching him. He never saw it, but he knew. Going in before sunrise, out after dark, he stopped packing his pistol in his bag. Held it instead. That’s the woods telling you, you’re not the top dog anymore.

Not the Boss

It’s a kick in the gut, realizing you’re not the apex. Gadberry’s a priest, a hunter, not a soft man. He has years of prayer, farm work, soldiering, but that lion didn’t care. It’s an intimidating thing to be moved down the food chain. Humbling as well. It forces you to respect the wild. You don’t strut in like you own it; you step careful, knowing it’s got teeth. Control’s a ghost out there. Father Gadberry couldn’t make the cat show itself and couldn’t stop it reclaiming that deer. Wind blows how it wants, elk go where they go, lions stalk when they feel like it. You aren’t in charge of any of that. Same as life, God hands you what He does. Gadberry learned this serving as priest.

What God Brings

Hunters know well that nature is fickle. You can control your aim, your gear, maybe your breath, but the rest is out of your hands. Gadberry says it’s bigger than that. Life’s the same mess, you think you’ve got it dialed, then a kid’s sick, a job’s gone, or a cat’s on your tail. He’s wrestled it as a priest: God’s in charge, not you. Sin broke the world, death crept in, but Christ flipped it, dying to show it’s not the end, just a step. Out there, tugging that deer, pistol ready, he felt it: surrender’s the play. Not to the lion, but to what’s above. You take what comes, woods or otherwise, and trust God’s steering.

Out of Your Hands

Gadberry walked out of Idaho empty-handed, no elk, just that dance with a shadow. The lion never jumped him, never showed its face, just let him pass. That’s what sticks: you’re not the master here. The woods don’t bend for you, nor does life. It’s humbling, scary, but frees you up too. He calls it faith, letting go when control’s a sham, leaning on God instead. Hunters know the sting of a kill, the quiet after, same as he knows the sting of a world he can’t tame.