I Need to Go Hunting Again

Growing up, my father was much more of a hunting enthusiast than I was. Each year, just prior to deer season, he'd get "the fever," and his mind would begin racing on all the necessary preparations for hunting. On the other hand, I paid it very little attention until the day we left. For the most post, I found it a lot of unnecessary work to simply enjoy the outdoors and have more meat in our freezer. The whole experience seemed almost spoiled by having to lug around a heavy rifle, or having to paint my face camouflage colors for bowhunting season. My heart just wasn't into it. My father, however, was the consummate hunter, and ascribed profound importance to all aspects of it. As I look back to those years, I've come to appreciate what a "conductor of life lessons" it was that I simply didn't value at the time; not unlike how different metals are often shown to be a better conductor of sound or heat than others are.

When the term "hunting" is invoked, it often brings one thing to mind: killing. However, the actually slaying of an animal in the wild is a small minority of the entire process, and frequently is absent from the outing altogether (I went on SO many hunts and came back with nothing). But regarding the killing of big game, I don't begrudge people their aversion to performing this act. It's not for everyone. I do, however, think that those who are "anti-hunting" should also be vegetarians for consistency's sake; for every human carnivore, whether eating a fast food burger or jerky made from a proud Mule deer, is consuming a creature which as once alive, but was slain for their sustenance. Nevertheless, I've come to consider it an important virtue to participate in the ecosystem as a responsible hunter does. Note how the term "responsible" excludes poachers that ignore government regulations concerning management of game populations, or, in my opinion, those that hunt game they have no intention of consuming. I disagree with exotic hunts that seek to "bag" a rare animal for mere trophy's sake. That's not being the "ecological participant" that my father taught me to be.

Having said that, the actual harvest of the animal (i.e. killing), is something that cannot be divorced from the mystique of hunting. The marksmanship necessary to ensure that the animal is, in fact, slain (not merely sent of into the woods wounded, to die providing no benefit to the human "predator") requires preparation that precedes the outing by weeks or months. The hunter must educate themselves on the various regulations specific to the region so that they are compliant with game management and (during rifle season) firearm safety laws in every way. They must outfit themselves with the needed gear and accessories for the safety and comfort of their party. In my case, my father saw to my care and comfort, all the while teaching me to be more self-reliant through the process. I cannot speak for all hunters, but I was imbued with a striking appreciation for nature through this process; it's beauty, artistry and fragility. "Pick up after yourself," "police your brass," "minimal residual impact" were the frequent commands. Woodsmanship and ecological responsibility were the lessons and the wilderness was the classroom... and "class" was ALWAYS in session whether or not we saw any deer.

I remember killing my first buck. I was young. I fired three accurate shots that all contributed to the deer's quick expiration. It appeared to suffer as little as possible - if at all. This was important to me. As we approached the downed animal, my father began giving me instructions on how to "gut" it right then. Thoroughly grossed out, I resisted, hoping my dad would just do it for me. He became indignant that I might even think of slaying an animal this majestic and then seek to escape taking responsibility for the entire process. "No son of MINE is going to cheapen life that way by just killing an animal, but then not cleaning it too." Needless to say, I learned everything about the insides of a Black-tailed deer that morning. It was a messy and sobering ritual that had begun months before at the target range, and would later culminate with the integration of venison into family meals. At dinner, whenever some on my deer was included, the round of thanks for providing it was uniquely mine to receive. It was profound. That connection with not only the animal, but with the entire process, would wash over me anew with each successive morsel. Something primitive and timeless had been handed to me, and the singular pride that came from engaging it remains to this day.

Over the years, as I no longer lived near my father, hunting became less and less a personal pursuit. Eventually I sold my deer rifle to pay for college books, and seemed to lose all interest in perform all that work. I eventually got another buck again 20 years after the first one during another outing, of course, with my father (I've gotten just two in my lifetime). Even then, though, I was more pleased that my dad was pleased with my buck than I was elated for getting it. I'm just not a hunter as a matter of instinct.

Recently though, I've been thinking differently about it. Because the entire process, from sighting in your rifle at the range to enjoying your harvest at the dinner table, is seemingly such a powerful conductor of life lessons... I've felt like I should pursue it for my sons' sake, and for mine. The task is daunting. Re-acquiring the "tools" necessary to undertake this venture are varied and expensive (i.e. firearms, bullets [or bows and arrows], camping gear, licenses, deer tags, etc.). Learning and selecting the places to hunt is no small task either. I don't live in the same region I grew up in. Texas hunting is a very different "animal" (pun intended) from that of northern California. It's intimidating to be so unfamiliar with local customs and access areas for hunting... to say nothing of the expense of actually taking the trip. All of this could be an effective deterrent from attempting it at all, but the lessons conveyed from one generation to the next through hunting were so important as to make all the trouble seem necessary and valuable.

I'll keep learning what I need to and perhaps I may soon be out there with my boys, teaching them some of what my father taught me.

Baseball Gloves and Cobwebs

I recently had an episode that was very, very humbling as a father. Though there were no witnesses, it was still one of the most embarrassing moments in my recent history. I may have been the only one to perceive it at the time, still I swore I heard a collective sigh escape from even the surrounding furniture in the room. Perhaps it was just as well that no one was around to offer absolution; no one to dilute the sense of secret shame.

The exchange started out innocent enough. I turned to my youngest son and asked if he would like to go outside and play catch. It had been some time since I had thrown the baseball with him, and the spontaneously open afternoon before me left ample time to resurrect that practice (I couldn't recall the last time we had played catch). He said that he would like to throw the baseball with me, but then added that he didn't know where his glove was.

Now at this point it's important to remember how normative it is for young boys to sleep with their baseball gloves under their pillow. Such vital equipment is practically an extension of their body. You might sooner ask a policeman where they have misplaced their firearm than ask a little boy where their sports gear has disappeared to. Nevertheless, the eleven year old male in front of me didn't know where his glove was, and as a result I began to shrink inside.

"Go check in your room," I commanded. "It's got to be in there." To this he responded by immediately excavating through his bedroom rubble. After three to five minutes he emerged empty-handed. This was getting less pleasing by the moment. The next phase was obviously to check in the garage. I couldn't believe I was directing him to search for his baseball glove in the garage, but at this point I was determined that this would end with us play catch if I had to buy him a new one.

Dutifully, he ventured into the wilderness of our stored belongings to seek out the wayward mitt. I could hear my son rummaging through boxes and tools, around bicycles, rakes and shelves. He came back with something in his hands, presented it to me and asked, "Is this it?" To my horror he held in his little palms an unused baseball glove. Still retaining its original rigidity, the basket was even stuck spread open. I looked down and saw that the palm of the glove had collected cobwebs.

I swear I am NOT making this up. COBWEBS!

To say that I took the image of this personally is an exercise in understatement. Instead of having a baseball glove worn and weathered from frequent use playing catch with his brother or his father, my son had a glove filled with cobwebs languishing out in the garage. My paternal instincts had been subjected to a "pass/fail test" and come up short. It was painful.

Walking outside, I grasped the baseball intensely, feeling its stitches dig into my palm. "OK, let's go play catch," I whimsically added, trying to shrug off my shame.

"I'm not sure I know how," he sheepishly countered. Really kid. Do you have to twist the knife in my heart THAT much?

"We'll figure it out," I assured him. We started pretty close, tossing the ball lightly. Slowly we bravely moved away from each other so that the throws could become more powerful and the catches more difficult. With each subsequent catch and throw he seemed to grow in stature and pride. Though it was a delight to witness him exult in the new skills developed with his father, it did not absolve me from the guilt of time lost up until now. The image of a baseball mitt covered in cobwebs is burned into my brain. Not only did that event leave me with a resolve to never again be confronted with that type of neglect, but perhaps my humiliating moment, confessed here, will be beneficially instructive to some other father that has just gotten too damn busy. By God's grace and with his help, we will keep the cobwebs out of the baseball gloves.