SafetyMan
12-15-2002, 02:22 PM
I hunt because my father hunted, and he took me with him, and so we built a bond that I still cherish. And because his father hunted, and his father's father, and all of the fathers in my line and yours, as far back as those fathers who invented spears and axes and recorded their adventures with pictures on the walls of caves.
I hunt because I am convinced, as many anthropologists argue, that prehistoric man was a hunter before he was a farmer, and because the genetic drive remains too powerful for me to resist. I do not need to hunt to eat, but I need to hunt to be fully who I am.
I hunt because it links me with the boy I used to be and with the young man my father was then.
I hunt because I see myself as I used to be in the faces of my sons, with all of the excitement and wonder and anticipation of the chase in their eyes.
I hunt because my sons are still young, and I believe one day spent in the marsh or forest or swamp with my boys is worth 3 days spent anywhere else, and because they, too, will become grown men entirely too soon.
I hunt because of the ghosts of beloved companions that prance through the woods and swim through the marshes, wagging their tails and snuffling, pointing and retrieving fallen game to my hand. And because Ginger, my young Yellow Lab, loves to hunt more than she loves to eat. And because hunting dogs make the wisest friends: They are smarter in many ways than I am, and they teach me things I otherwise would not understand.
I hunt because the goldenrod and the ferns glisten when the early-morning October sun melts the frost from the fields, and because native brook trout spawn in hidden autumn streams, and because Michigan uplands glow crimson and orange and gold in the season of bird hunting.
I hunt because if I didn't, I would have seen fewer eagles and ospreys, minks and beavers, foxes and bears, deer and elk, and although I do not happen to hunt all of these creatures, I do love to enter into their world and spy on them.
I hunt for the whistle of a woodcock's wings and the sudden explosion of a ruffed grouse's flush, for the tinkle of a dog's bell and for the sudden silence when she locks on point, for my partner's cry of "BIRD!" when he kicks one up.
I hunt for the distant drumming of a grouse, for the high predatory cry of a redtail hawk, for the angry chatter of a squirrel when you invade his weald, for the quiet gurgle of a deep-woods trout stream, for the whistle of a ducks wings, for the sibilant soughing of the breeze in the pine trees.
I hunt for the snoring of my companion in a one-room cabin, for the crackle of a wood fire in the stove, and for the soothing patter of an autumn rainstorm on a tin roof.
I hunt for the chance to be awakened by a whiff of bacon frying in a cast iron skillet, for cold, soggy sandwiches made from the meatloaf my wife made days earlier, and for the smell of hot, cream-laden coffee being poured from my stainless steel carafe on a crisp morning in the blind.
I hunt for the aroma the marsh gives up when wading to place decoys releases the trapped swamp gases from the soft marsh bottom, for the sweet fragrance of decaying leaves in the woodlands, for the whiff of spent powder after the shot, for the perfume of pine trees so laden with fresh snow their boughs bend to the point of oblivion.
I hunt for the crunch of freshly fallen leaves beneath my feet, for the creaking of deep fresh snow as I walk through it, for the humbling snap of a twig as I try to remain stealthy, and for the challenge of stepping through the unknown slough bottom loaded with muck and hidden logs and roots to set blocks.
I hunt for the gentle crunch of thin early ice breaking below the bow of my jon boat in the pre-dawn hours, and because the air is always crisper and the sounds always clearer on the marsh.
I hunt because it is never boring or disappointing to be out-of-doors without a purpose, even when no game is spotted, and because taking a walk in the woods without a purpose makes everything that happens feel random and accidental and unearned.
I hunt for the satisfying exhaustion after a long day in the woods, for the new stories that every day of hunting gives us, and for the soft snoring and dream-whimpering and twitching of the dog as she sleeps with her head resting on my lap as we drive home through the darkness.
I hunt because it reminds me that in nature there is a food chain where everything eats and is, in it's turn, eaten, where birth, survival, and reproduction give full meaning to life, where death is ever present, and where the only uncertainty is the time and manner of that death. Hunting reminds me that I am integrated into that cycle, not separate from or above it.
I hunt because it keeps my passions alive and my memories fresh and my senses alert even as my head grows gray, and because I am afraid that if I stopped hunting, I would instantly become an old man, and because I believe that as long as I hunt I will remain young.
I hunt because I am convinced, as many anthropologists argue, that prehistoric man was a hunter before he was a farmer, and because the genetic drive remains too powerful for me to resist. I do not need to hunt to eat, but I need to hunt to be fully who I am.
I hunt because it links me with the boy I used to be and with the young man my father was then.
I hunt because I see myself as I used to be in the faces of my sons, with all of the excitement and wonder and anticipation of the chase in their eyes.
I hunt because my sons are still young, and I believe one day spent in the marsh or forest or swamp with my boys is worth 3 days spent anywhere else, and because they, too, will become grown men entirely too soon.
I hunt because of the ghosts of beloved companions that prance through the woods and swim through the marshes, wagging their tails and snuffling, pointing and retrieving fallen game to my hand. And because Ginger, my young Yellow Lab, loves to hunt more than she loves to eat. And because hunting dogs make the wisest friends: They are smarter in many ways than I am, and they teach me things I otherwise would not understand.
I hunt because the goldenrod and the ferns glisten when the early-morning October sun melts the frost from the fields, and because native brook trout spawn in hidden autumn streams, and because Michigan uplands glow crimson and orange and gold in the season of bird hunting.
I hunt because if I didn't, I would have seen fewer eagles and ospreys, minks and beavers, foxes and bears, deer and elk, and although I do not happen to hunt all of these creatures, I do love to enter into their world and spy on them.
I hunt for the whistle of a woodcock's wings and the sudden explosion of a ruffed grouse's flush, for the tinkle of a dog's bell and for the sudden silence when she locks on point, for my partner's cry of "BIRD!" when he kicks one up.
I hunt for the distant drumming of a grouse, for the high predatory cry of a redtail hawk, for the angry chatter of a squirrel when you invade his weald, for the quiet gurgle of a deep-woods trout stream, for the whistle of a ducks wings, for the sibilant soughing of the breeze in the pine trees.
I hunt for the snoring of my companion in a one-room cabin, for the crackle of a wood fire in the stove, and for the soothing patter of an autumn rainstorm on a tin roof.
I hunt for the chance to be awakened by a whiff of bacon frying in a cast iron skillet, for cold, soggy sandwiches made from the meatloaf my wife made days earlier, and for the smell of hot, cream-laden coffee being poured from my stainless steel carafe on a crisp morning in the blind.
I hunt for the aroma the marsh gives up when wading to place decoys releases the trapped swamp gases from the soft marsh bottom, for the sweet fragrance of decaying leaves in the woodlands, for the whiff of spent powder after the shot, for the perfume of pine trees so laden with fresh snow their boughs bend to the point of oblivion.
I hunt for the crunch of freshly fallen leaves beneath my feet, for the creaking of deep fresh snow as I walk through it, for the humbling snap of a twig as I try to remain stealthy, and for the challenge of stepping through the unknown slough bottom loaded with muck and hidden logs and roots to set blocks.
I hunt for the gentle crunch of thin early ice breaking below the bow of my jon boat in the pre-dawn hours, and because the air is always crisper and the sounds always clearer on the marsh.
I hunt because it is never boring or disappointing to be out-of-doors without a purpose, even when no game is spotted, and because taking a walk in the woods without a purpose makes everything that happens feel random and accidental and unearned.
I hunt for the satisfying exhaustion after a long day in the woods, for the new stories that every day of hunting gives us, and for the soft snoring and dream-whimpering and twitching of the dog as she sleeps with her head resting on my lap as we drive home through the darkness.
I hunt because it reminds me that in nature there is a food chain where everything eats and is, in it's turn, eaten, where birth, survival, and reproduction give full meaning to life, where death is ever present, and where the only uncertainty is the time and manner of that death. Hunting reminds me that I am integrated into that cycle, not separate from or above it.
I hunt because it keeps my passions alive and my memories fresh and my senses alert even as my head grows gray, and because I am afraid that if I stopped hunting, I would instantly become an old man, and because I believe that as long as I hunt I will remain young.