By Erin Matuczinski
I was at the biggest Bass Pro Shop in the world. It was also one of the biggest pyramids in the world. It was not a correlation that I, or many other people, would have expected. The first time I walked under the “Welcome to Paradise” entrance sign, I had no idea what to expect. Truth be told, I thought the whole place was a joke until my aunt pulled me into the parking lot and told me to get out of the car.
The Bass Pro Pyramid, also known as the “Memphis Pyramid” or simply “The Pyramid” to Tennessee natives, seems like every southern hick’s wet dream. It brings the outdoors indoors with a massive fish-stocked swamp, fallen-over logs, plants and cypress trees that stand over 100 feet tall. Live ducks nestle on their waterside cove while alligators splash in their center stage tanks. It feels like a family camping trip, only on steroids.
My innate love for wildlife came alive getting to see so many animals in their not-so-natural habitat. Some fish were so large and prehistoric looking that I could have been convinced that they were the same species from millions of years ago. It took all my self-control not to reach out and pet the ducks taking a midday nap on the shore. I peered into the alligator tank from a safe distance, a little rationally nervous that the glass would suddenly give way.
I felt giddy running over the footbridges and exploring the endless gems of the first floor; climbing on display ATVs, lounging in the luxury-level recliners, and crushing a vegan “Impossible” burger in the grill that has an ocean-themed bowling alley next to the bar. I swooned at the smell of fresh brewed coffee and warm roasted peanuts spilling from the “General Store” shack in the novelties section. Every turn of my head introduced me to something new.
It wasn’t until at least two hours into my adventure that I realized that there was an entire second floor I was yet to explore. I was initially drawn in by the flashing lights and blaring sounds of various arcade games, even though I had no spare quarters to play them (I had already spent them all on the aim and shoot games downstairs). But I eventually stumbled upon the retail section that Bass Pro is known for: every piece of hunting gear known to mankind.
I shouldn’t have found interest in it. I’m a vegan, and I’m not a hunter. But no matter what, each piece of gear I saw made me curious about the next.
The Bass Pro Pyramid was originally just supposed to be a buffer during my trip to Memphis. It was an easy pitstop between the Memphis airport and my final destination in Atoka. For many others it is a quick trip to the country when they don’t desire it enough to actually go there. The Bass Pro Pyramid is wedged on a small piece of land between the Mississippi River and downtown Memphis. It sticks out like a sore thumb, visible to anyone cruising on the highways that flow in and out of the city. It’s an unlikely attraction in a place known for its historical significance and such a strong nightlife scene on Beale Street, perhaps the reason why so many tourists are unaware of its existence in the first place.
If I had any knowledge of the Pyramid being a Bass Pro Shop before my arrival, I do not think I would have had high expectations anyway. I had been dragged to their typical retail stores sporadically in past years, but never found much interest in anything except the fish in the tanks. I was always taken along by my dad, who has been a deer hunter for as long as I can remember.
We have never gotten along about this; I remember that starting at a young age I was very open to him about my dislike for his killing of animals. My parents learned very quickly not to force me (or my sister) to eat the deer meat that he had brought home; we put up quite the fight. I do believe that I would have still become a vegan animal-lover regardless of what my parents fed me, but they definitely pushed me to pursue the lifestyle much earlier in my life.
All of these memories began to spiral in my head during my visit to the Bass Pro Pyramid. The complexity of its game related products made me oddly feel like a kid in a candy store. Despite a small practice bow and arrow that I only used to shoot targets about a decade ago, I’ve had absolutely no knowledge of weaponry, attire, accessories, or any other hunting necessities. So by seeing all of it in one place, I felt that I could never get bored looking at it all; it would take me longer than a full day to read all the labels on the merchandise explaining their purposes, or to watch the informational videos about boats that use radar to detect fish (those particularly sparked my interest)!
It felt wrong to be enjoying myself in a place that so sharply contradicted my lifelong views. I wasn’t used to being in a place where hunting was just a regular part of life and seemed like so much fun? I knew it was not some personality-altering moment, I was absolutely not going to suddenly become a hunter after this visit. But I could not shake my curiosity for this world I had never stepped foot into before. I suddenly saw the appeal of my father’s sport for the first time ever.
Since I grew up in a densely populated Virginian suburbia, I did not have an upbringing like either of my parents. Except for the occasional family trips, I rarely experienced the environment and activities of rural Pennsylvania. The concept of hunting, whether it be for food, sport, or achievement, was never a culture I was immersed in. So my sudden, unexpected interest in the field left me wondering what kind of person I would have been if I grew up in the country instead. Would my weekend still consist of surfing the web and playing video games, or would it be setting up a tree stand before the peak of dawn? Would I have turned up my nose at my family’s hunting practices, or would I have happily joined them?
The taxidermized deer heads above the shop’s massive fireplace reminded me of the one my dad brought home from his deer camp. He would go to deer camp or bear camp almost every year with the other male members of my extended family and close guy friends. Even though the trip was centered around the ability to hunt in the Pennsylvanian landscape, it was more so just a long weekend of silly antics and bonding. Once I got old enough to realize this, that’s when I started to feel a little left out.
My male cousins, who are around the same age as me, were always extended an invite, even if they weren’t old enough to participate in the hunting themselves. Of course I didn’t want to buy a hunting license and follow the men out into the woods with a shotgun, but I have never been one to pass up on quality family time with those who live so far away from me. And that’s exactly what it felt like.
I may have been too hard on my father for his hobby in hunting. Just because he moved away to city suburbia to raise a family did not mean he had to give up the activity he grew up taking part in. My parents accepted my hard-set wishes not to consume their deer meat he harvested with his own two hands, and later in life they accepted me turning away from meat altogether. I had to realize that even though there was nothing I could say or do for my dad to change his ways, and it wasn’t right for me to even try in the first place. I may not have a place in the annual hunting trips, but I can tag along with him to Bass Pro Shops and appreciate his interests just like he’s done for me and mine all throughout my childhood.
He has his life and I have mine; I won’t ask him the intricacies of his hunting habits, and he won’t make me eat the results.