As hunting creeps into America’s last sanctuaries, the line between preservation and target practice dissolves — and even Smokey looks ready to file for early retirement.

There was a time when America’s National Parks were advertised as sanctuaries — cathedrals of pine and granite where the only thing stalking you was your own happiness. 

Now, thanks to the latest brainstorm from the Department of the Interior, they’re being gently rebranded as something between a safari and a roadside butcher shop.

Not everywhere — let’s be fair. 

The madness is selective. 

But that’s almost worse. 

It’s as if someone took a map of the American wilderness, closed their eyes, and started circling places with the enthusiasm of a man ordering off a menu: “We’ll have some hunting here, a little trapping there—yes, let’s add a side of field dressing near the visitor center.”

Welcome to America’s newest outdoor experience: National Park, Now With Bloodstains.