Hunting Roots

Nearly every day I drive past the home where my Grandparents raised my Father and his Brothers. I was born and raised very close to my father’s childhood home and currently reside just a few miles away.

One of the rivers you often see in my pictures runs through the property where my Great Grandfather lived, and where my Grandpa was born early in the last century.

It too is just a few short miles from where I sit as I write in the comfort of my home. The hills and mountains in who’s shadow I was raised, are the very same ones that my forefathers roamed.

For thirty-plus years I too have wandered through this dry and weathered country, but it has taken most of that term for me to understand what it is that draws me to this land and the roots that hold me here.

A Sense of Home

Surely I am not the first man to feel riveted to the land where I was raised. History is brimming with stories of people and past civilizations past that fought and died for their land, their homes, and their way of life.

But what makes a place home? Is it memories, is it familiarity? I think there is more to it than just that, I believe our hunting rituals can play a very large part in creating that feeling of home.

Part of me sentimentalizes the idea of seeing my young Father standing in that same creek, catching the same little Rainbows voraciously feeding on rock-rollers as I often do. And to think that even two more generations beyond my own Father taught their Sons to fish in these same waters where my Son and Daughter learn with me.

I love hearing old stories told from Dad, Granddad, and my Uncles, that took place right here, stories about monster bucks that got away. Or listening to how good of a shot Grandpa was, as told from the perspective of my Father as a child.

There is indeed more to it than that, there is a familiarity with every step I take in these mountains. The rocks and shrubs, the trees and birds, the sounds of life that go on so beautifully around us. The handsome animals who also call this mountain home, who also push themselves every day to survive and thrive for the generation that follows them. I watch them, year after year as they carry on, probably following the same patterns for generations.

Like most hunters, I have incredible respect for the animals I hunt, and only my human insight of their value in our journey together gives me reconciliation when killing them.

You simply cannot pursue, observe and study these animals without becoming grossly aware of their beauty, resilience, and tenacity.  I often wonder if the deer see me coming every fall and think; “this stubborn son of a bitch again…”. 

I can only hope they esteem me as worthy an adversary as I do towards them.

Joining the Circle

I feel compelled to dispel what I see as a misrepresentation when it comes to the natural world. Man has long felt these connections to the life and wilderness around us, we are neither the first nor the last.

I am bone-weary of the assertion that modern man is no longer a natural man, detached from his ecosystem. As if modern men only care for industry and gain, with little to no care for the land and life around him.

That’s not to say there aren’t those people among us, but I and many others do not share that view. At an individual level we can be and are part of the landscape and part of the life cycle.

It is insulting to the human spirit to think that only native or indigenous people can feel this connection to the land and wildlife, it can be felt and experienced by anyone. Just because my ancestors have inhabited this land for a few generations and not thousands, does not make them more or less qualified to appreciating every aspect of it.

Anyone who has heard the wind whisper through the trees, or felt the cold mountain night close in around you. Can feel the allure of the natural world. Or perhaps watched as an animal’s life is drawn away from their body, either by a predator, or taken for a particular circumstance.  These are some of the many ways for a person to be grafted into the great cycle of life, and I pity those who are sheltered from it.

Looking into the wild as a foreign visitor has a stark dissonance than one who is enveloped in it. It is the detachment that creates the void between us and the land we inhabit.

The spirit of hunting as I see it is almost a devotional experience. It gives purpose, teaches humility, hard work, honor, and respect. While it may mean something a little different to everyone, I’d like to think that most hunters feel a similar reverence for our practice.

Obviously, not everyone feels that way, and there can be bad apples in any group. But anyone who has grown to love and respect wildlife can also cultivate a similar relationship with our fellow forest inhabitants.

The practices and life-changing lessons learned while hunting makes us who we are, and the experience connects us to our surroundings. These are also part of the hunting roots that connect us to a place and make it feel like home.

Pursuing game animals tends to teach you about both the significance, and insignificance of individual creatures both two and four-legged. But we as humans seem to have special stewardship with our quarry.

It’s possible that the wolf and cougar consider the lives they take when hunting, but I don’t think they dwell upon it as we do. Reverently searching the blank gaze of our downed prey, giving thanks for both the opportunity and the bounty gained.

One needn’t be theological to understand and appreciate the sacred etiquette when a life is taken. A primitive man may or may not have done the same thing and he is no better or worse than we are today.

Closing Thoughts

I guess what I’m saying is, a hundred years ago, these same mountains of which I feel part of and uniquely bound  belonged to someone else. And a hundred years before that, they belonged to yet someone else.

Carving a life out of these mountains has made it our home. Learning how to do it from my ancestors has made it hallowed, and teaching it to our children has given me purpose. The hunting roots we put down may only last a few seasons sometimes, and others that can last generations. Do what is right for you, and for the sprouts that will come in the spring after you’re gone.

-CBM

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