Terry Tales

Venison Jerky

I had authentic Native American jerky when I was a sophomore at Montana State. I’d been late with my room deposit and wound up in overflow housing. Five of us shared a converted study lounge on the tenth floor of the South Hedges dorm. A temporary wall separated three sets of bunkbeds from a common area. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, one of the guys had a TV, I had my stereo, and we could retire to the ‘bedroom’ to read or take a nap.

One of my roommates was from the Rocky Boy reservation, near Havre. Gerry brought back some venison jerky after a trip home, and shared it around the dorm. He had a paper grocery bag with 3 or 4 pounds of the stuff. There were irregularly shaped pieces of various sizes that were chewy and kind of bland. When we asked about seasonings, he told us that there weren't any. The old folks just sliced venison scraps into thin strips and laid them on rocks to cure in the sun. I couldn't help but feel a little queasy about eating 'uncooked' meat as images of flies and maggots flashed through my mind. I politely declined a second helping. Today I realize that the dark-colored jerky may well have reached 140 degrees in full sun, but the memory of that venison jerky still doesn't tempt me.