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This isn’t your typical girls’ weekend.  Not that you can tell from the accommodations—a charming farmhouse in Montana’s picturesque Bitterroot Valley—or the wine bottles on the kitchen counter this Friday evening in December. In the living room, delectable hors d’oeuvres hint at the gathering’s theme: savory duck rillettes and a charcuterie board with an array of wild game sausages. Then there’s the entertainment. “Duck Jeopardy” is teed up on a TV in the corner, intended to help us recognize birds in the field.

Ten women have traveled from across the state to learn the ins and outs of duck hunting from a handful of female mentors. A few know one another well. The rest are complete strangers. Most of us have never hunted ducks. Some, like Sophie Albert, have never even fired a gun. She’s from Germany, she says, where the sport is largely limited to private land. The food bank in Whitefish where she works processes a lot of deer donated by hunters, and she’s pretty sure she wants to try harvesting animals to feed her own family. Waterfowl, Albert says, seem like a good gateway.

Rebecca Ritter, meanwhile, taught herself to hunt big game as an adult, but she knows nothing about ducks. The previous year, her 11-year-old son shot his first duck. Ritter recalled watching in dismay as momentum carried the Mallard onto a frozen pond. “We don’t waste life in my family,” she says, so she scooted out on the thin ice to recover the carcass. Her son, exceedingly thankful and so proud that he mounted one wing, can’t wait to go again. “I can’t fall through the ice,” she says. “I need to know what I’m doing, for both of us.”

For my part, I’m here belatedly taking up a family tradition. My dad invited me hunting when I was growing up in Montana, but it wasn’t something the girls I knew did. It was a guy thing. When I moved back a few years ago, I began to reconsider. I could gain new skills and spend more time outside, deepening my familiarity with the landscape and my knowledge of wildlife. I was finally ready to give hunting a shot. But I had no idea how to get started—until googling led me to , the Missoula-based women’s hunting organization hosting the waterfowl camp.

This weekend’s immersive program is designed so that attendees walk away with a strong foundation of knowledge and the skills they need to hunt waterfowl safely and ethically. Our host is , a nonprofit that owns, manages, and actively improves habitat on 1,300 acres, including extensive wetlands that support plentiful birdlife. The camp includes sessions on how to identify and call ducks, use hunting gear, and handle a shotgun. After a Sunday morning hunt, we’ll learn how to process the ducks we harvest. We’ll be supported every step of the way, Alex ­Stokman, Venery’s founder, tells us. “There’s no wrong way to participate,” she says. “You can shoot a 12 gauge or a 20 gauge. Or a camera. Ask questions. Be vulnerable. Make mistakes and learn from them. Admit what you don’t know. We’ve all been there.”

Similar workshops are taking place countrywide. They’re part of a growing movement to make hunting more inclusive, which in turn could help stem the tradition’s steady decline. That loss is concerning because hunting generates critical funds for the of healthy wildlife populations and habitat. What’s more, it fosters an appreciation for nature and a commitment to safeguarding it, says Desirée Sorenson-Groves, president and CEO of the nonprofit : “Hunters are conservationists.”

Far fewer women than men are taught to, or choose to, hunt as children. They’re drawn to the sport as adults to spend time in nature and provide a healthy, sustainable food source for their families. As the segment of the hunting population, women have the potential to rejuvenate the tradition—if given the support they need to pursue it.

As we’re gathered around two large tables for a sumptuous dinner, our conversation turns to the flocks of waterfowl we saw when we drove in. The scene would have been very different at the turn of the 20th century. “Wild fowl have become scarce,” Clarence Moores Weed and Ned Dearborn wrote in their 1903 book . “Gunners no longer return at night with more birds than they can carry; not seldom they come in empty-handed.” Unregulated hunting and the conversion of wetlands into agricultural fields caused waterfowl populations to plummet. After a public outcry over the loss of these and other wildlife, the government took action.

States required hunting licenses, limited the number of animals each hunter could harvest, and established strict hunting seasons to avoid vulnerable periods like mating season. Congress passed landmark wildlife laws, such as the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which made it illegal to pursue, kill, or keep any native migratory bird without a permit. Ducks, geese, and swans continued to decline, however, and by the 1930s their populations hit historic lows.

If indiscriminate shooting had nearly emptied wetlands of waterfowl, well-managed hunting would prove a powerful tool for repopulating them. Since 1934, waterfowl hunters have been required to buy annual duck stamps to raise money for habitat conservation. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has harnessed the resulting $1.3 billion to conserve more than 6 million acres in the . The , meanwhile, taxes firearms and ammunition; the FWS allocates the money to states, which have used the $27 billion to restore, manage, and enhance habitat for waterfowl and myriad other wildlife and to support hunter education programs. ­Hunting-oriented conservation nonprofits have augmented those gains. , for instance, has protected or restored more than 19 million acres of wetlands, grasslands, and other habitats.

These combined efforts have been a resounding success. Even as other bird populations have declined, North American migratory waterfowl have nearly doubled in the past century, to about 50 million breeding birds today from 27 million. There are now 573 national wildlife refuges, 6 of which were created in just the . At the same time, between chronic underfunding and budget and staff cuts under the current administration, the refuge system is more strained than ever, making the dollars and support from hunters even more critical. Additionally, more than half of wetlands in the lower 48 states are gone, and losses continue. “There is still a lot more to be done,” says Sorenson-Groves.

We cover this history and more on Saturday morning. After a crash course on duck identification and behavior, FWS law enforcement officer Mike Koole takes over. Participants ask questions about decoys and shotguns and pose a litany of hypothetical scenarios to home in on the nuances of ethical hunting. “I love this workshop,” Koole says. “Women ask the best questions.”

White men, however, have long dominated hunting spaces. Societal norms kept women out of wetlands and forests, and it was even harder for others: Jim Crow–era laws severely restricted Black people’s participation. The federal government, meanwhile, forcibly relocated many Native Americans to reservations and barred some tribes from hunting outside those boundaries. Today most hunters are still white men, but their interest in the pastime has waned. As the population has urbanized, fewer men who learned to hunt as children have taught their sons.

The number of hunters fell from a peak of 17.4 million in 1980 to 14.4 million in 2022, according to the FWS. The decline would be even sharper if it weren’t for women: In the past quarter-century women hunters swelled to 3.1 million from 1.2 million. Women now comprise 17 percent of all active hunters and make up one-third of new hunters.

But here’s the hitch: Women are dropping out at a higher rate than hunters overall. Surveys reveal that women abandon the sport because of constraints male hunters may also face—a lack of access to hunting grounds and time for the sport—but also over concerns about their safety. Alone in the field, they might be harassed or worse, including by male hunters with weapons. “Feeling safe on the landscape is huge,” says Kamilia Elsisie. As a Navajo woman who took up hunting a decade ago, she felt like something of a one-off. “I did not see myself in the stereotypical Caucasian male hunter.”

Still, after duck hunting once with her then-boyfriend, she went all in. At the time there weren’t a lot of resources for women; her options for camouflage apparel tailored to her physique were pink or purple. She did a bunch of research and asked friends of friends and people she tracked down on social media how to gain basic skills. Elsisie loved scouting habitat to understand how her quarry used it, the sense of connection she experienced, and providing food for her family. Along the way, she says, she developed a strong conservation ethic: “I’ve always had a respect for nature and for animals, but it’s different now.” Through hunting, she’s come to see herself as a steward of the landscape.

Despite the allure, going it alone can be intimidating, says Morgan Evans, who helps coordinate hunter recruitment, retention, and reactivation programming for the (NWTF). “What the research shows, and what we hear from women in our surveys, is the desire for community,” she says. Women want to learn the ropes with other women.

By Saturday afternoon, I’m hooked. Never mind that our political and religious beliefs run the gamut. Learning with these ladies is just plain fun.

At a shooting club, we divide into two groups. I haven’t fired a shotgun in years, so I’m with Albert and the other newbies. Our instructor reminds us of the safety rules we learned in hunter ed, then has us practice getting the right stance. The best way to learn, he says, is to shoot. When it’s my turn, I call, “Pull,” aim slightly ahead of the clay target, and pull the trigger. I miss once. Twice. I bristle at the instructor’s advice: Press the stock to my cheek like it’s my boyfriend and don’t think. Seriously? I hit three in a row, and everyone whoops in delight. The man is a genius. He tailors his advice to each of us, while his wife helps the more experienced crew hone their skills.

Knowing women want to learn in community is one thing; providing it is another. State wildlife agencies, which have long held hunting-related classes for youth, are tweaking their programs to suit adult women. That includes gun handling classes and the requisite education course for new hunters—though supply doesn’t always meet demand. One 30-something told me the other students at the hunter ed course she took last fall were all tweens. During a break the first evening, parents accompanying their kids asked which was hers. “It was awkward,” she said.

Even in today’s highly connected world, it can be difficult to find local resources. “There are a lot of opportunities out there,” says Adrian Jessen. “It’s just that women don’t know about them.” , the YouTube series and podcast she works on, aims to make those opportunities more visible. Ducks Unlimited launched the program last September to be a sort of catch-all for women and the outdoors. “The bigger vision of Ascend is to bring together as many women as we can, to build that community that says, ‘Hey, you belong, this is fun, and let’s help you enjoy it and stay in it,’” Jessen says.

The NWTF is tapping its nationwide network to do just that. The reason is simple: The more people who hunt turkeys, the more public, political, and financial support exists for maintaining healthy populations and habitat. Today many of its 1,518 local chapters have events tailored to women members’ interests. “There are group hunts on public and private land and trips to the range,” Evans says, “and we’re seeing those connections persist beyond turkey season.” Chapters hold foraging workshops, bread-making classes, wilderness survival training, and kayaking trips. “It’s been so cool to see the ways women choose to come together,” she says.

In recent years, a new wave of grassroots groups has also formed to bring more women and other nontraditional populations into the fold, teaching them skills and emphasizing hunters’ role in wildlife conservation.

One such group, , grew out of a podcast. ­Courtney Bastian moved to Montana in late 2019, having recently begun hunting with her husband. Then the pandemic hit. “I was seeking connections, but I couldn’t go out and meet people,” she recalls. She saw several podcasts about hunting upland birds, but none for women. So she launched . “It immediately helped me find community,” she says. A year in, several listeners suggested meeting up, so Bastian hosted a wing-shooting clinic. Then a grouse hunt. Then a dog training camp. It snowballed from there. Today the volunteer-run organization has six regional divisions covering all 50 states. “It’s a different experience hunting with women,” Bastian says. “They’re taking the time to kneel down and kiss the dog on the nose. They’re pointing out the snowberries we just learned about.”

Elsisie, meanwhile, grew so passionate about hunting that she started sharing her knowledge with others. She became a regional coordinator for HerUpland and is heavily involved with other groups, including , which has more than 2,500 members nationwide. “To me, being a mentor is huge,” she says. “I’ve learned so much, and it’s my way of trying to pay it forward and make sure my daughter has the same opportunities—if not more.”

A lot has changed in just a few years. Manufacturers are making guns fitted for women’s proportions. Apparel companies have women’s lines with quality products in the ­traditional camo prints serious hunters want. And more women-focused groups are forming every season. While experts don’t know yet if these kinds of initiatives are stemming overall churn, there are positive signs. The NWTF is seeing an increase in women-specific events. HerUpland is organizing hunts in new areas to meet demand, and Bastian has been heartened to see former participants becoming mentors—a strong signal they’re here to stay.

At the trap club, by dusk everyone has hit multiple targets. We’re elated—and famished, eagerly anticipating the duck ragu prepared by Jill Flores, a professional chef and former workshop attendee acting as camp chef this weekend. Everyone decides to hunt tomorrow. That isn’t always the case, Stokman tells me. Sometimes participants don’t carry a gun their first time out. Occasionally those who do find they don’t enjoy the experience. “Hunting isn’t for everybody,” Stokman says. “But everybody should have the opportunity to find out.”

Two hours before dawn, we file through the kitchen, filling travel mugs with coffee and accepting foil-wrapped breakfast burritos from Flores. “Bless you,” someone tells her. The meeting room has the electric atmosphere of a locker room before a big game. Women slip foot warmers into their wader boots, don insulated neoprene jackets, and double-check that they have their licenses and ammunition. Stokman claps her hands to break through the chatter. It’s time to grab our shotguns and drive to our assigned duck blind with our partner and mentor.

Meteors streak across the blanket of stars overhead. I’m paired with Shannon Vandenberg, who shot three birds at a previous duck camp and returned to learn to better identify birds on the wing and when to shoot. Our mentor, Traci Martens, tells us to arrange a few small groups of decoys on the water, leaving an open area in front of the blind that should look, to ducks, like an ideal spot to land. Then the three of us, plus Trip, Martens’s wirehaired pointing griffon, pile inside.

At sunrise, the legal start time, shots ring out to the north. “Where are our ducks?” Vandenberg whispers. As the sky lightens, we identify birds in the distance, and Martens lures some in with calls. At last, two Mallards circle closer. Martens tells us to stand and shoot when they get within about 50 feet. I miss the hen (I didn’t press the stock to my cheek like it was my boyfriend—a mistake I vow to correct). Vandenberg hits the drake, which Trip ecstatically retrieves. “I’m so proud of myself!” Vandenberg says as Martens and I congratulate her.

By noon everyone is back at the farmhouse. “It’s not about how many birds we harvested. It’s about the experiences we had,” Stokman says. “But wow, we harvested some ducks.” Everyone is brimming with confidence and joy as we admire a dozen Mallards, a Green-winged Teal, and an American Wigeon. Albert, the German, and Ritter, who doesn’t want to fall through the ice, were paired together. When I ask how it went, they beam. “We’re sharing,” they say in unison. Albert’s shot clipped the wigeon and Ritter’s brought it down.

Andrea Larson, a Montana National Guard helicopter pilot, walks by, carrying two Mallards. “I didn’t know the first ­diggity-dang thing about ducks,” she says. She learned to discern whether a bird was cruising by or coming in for a landing, she says, and the appropriate shooting distance: “Now I’m like, I can go do this.”

Mentors gift ducks they shot to those of us who don’t have one. After we’ve received a lesson in cleaning waterfowl and packed our ducks in plastic freezer bags, people linger. Anna Trofatter and Albert agree to split the purchase of a dozen duck decoys and go hunting together the following weekend. Others discuss attending Venery’s Wild Turkey camp in April and its next monthly “cocktails and conservation” meetup.

On the way home, I pull into Lee Metcalf National Wildlife Refuge. I’ve birded here before, but this weekend has given me a new appreciation for this place’s very existence and the long line of hunters who have helped build our robust refuge system. I park next to a pond teeming with life and roll down my window. I spot Green-winged Teals, Mallards, and Northern Pintails dabbling in the shallows, and I hear the high-pitched whistle of goldeneyes flying overhead. As the sound fades, I start the engine. I’d love to stay awhile, but I’ve got a duck to roast.

This story originally ran in the Fall 2026 issue as "Higher Aim." To receive our print magazine, become a member by .