Hearing the Great Spirit Speak by John O'Connor

This article is from John O'Connor, a guest writer this month.

Hunting season is in full swing and in some regions has come and gone.  For most hunters, hunting season brings about a time of sport and hobby, while for others it brings about a time of spiritual connectedness and ritual while out in the field. My father was one of those hunters who not only hunted for sport but also because he felt a great spiritual connection while out in the field.  While always making sure to have the proper equipment with him such as his guns, ammo, camouflage and hearing protection he often took to the sport of hunting as a way to releasing himself from the outside world and to just get away and relax for awhile.  Owning his own business for 30 plus years he would often say that some of his best ideas and thoughts came from times when he was out in the field or in the woods on a hunt.  With the beautiful scenery, crisp air, and feeling of quietness he felt that he was always at ease out in the field and his head was always clear from any distractions he may have.  In the field there were no phone calls, appointments, meetings or conventions to attend, just him, his hunting buddies and the woods. 

Much like my father many other hunters feel a strong spiritual connection while out on a hunt.  Some hunters prior to heading out into the woods like to say a prayer to ensure their safety or pray for the animals and nature as a whole. Whatever their own rituals may be one thing they all have in common is that they feel whole while out in the field and at the same time extremely connected to the earth and its surroundings.  My father often said “while on a hunt, it can be seen that this world was made this way for a reason, and I am thankful that I have the opportunity to explore and connect with it in my own ways.”

Although hunting has always been a huge part of my father’s life he does have some complications now that can be related directly to hunting.  Often times when out on a hunt he tended to neglect his hearing protection.  He didn’t think he needed any and also thought that it took away from the whole natural hunting experience.  Almost making the hunt seem fake or artificial.  Due to the lack of hearing protection my father is affected severely by hearing loss and uses hearing aids to help amplify the sounds around him so he can hear better.  Although hunting is not the only cause of his hearing loss, his doctor did say that it played a major role in damaging his eardrums. 

Although my father still occasionally hunts and enjoys heading to the range to keep his accuracy up to par he always remembers to have his hearing protection on at all times.  Even though he still feels that it takes away from the spiritual side of the hunt, he understands that his hearing has suffered enough and preventing any more loss is the only thing he can do. 

Hunting is a great pastime and a sport that’s popularity will live on well into the future. Ensure that you are teaching your kids or grandkids the proper and moral ways of hunting as they become more and more interested in the sport.  Teaching youngsters not only the needed skills but also the just skills will ensure proper and ethical hunting for many years to come.  

Hi my name is John O'Connor, I am a father, outdoorsman and passionate about living a healthy lifestyle.  Over the past few years I have become more and more interested in hearing loss.  My father and grandfathers, who are and were all hunters, are affected by hearing loss.  I feel that there is a general lack of understanding around the issue and it is our job to spread awareness where we can.  Check out my new blog at bloggingwjohno.blogspot.com!

Thoughtful insightful read from a ex-vegan

http://www.tovarcerulli.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/Cerulli_Hunters_Journey.pdf

A Short Winter "Tail"

In December, to celebrate the end of the year, I like to walk through the pines in the snow. The light shines through the boughs in columns of white gold and tinsel snowflakes slough off of the branches and sparkle in the sunlight. I wear my favorite old flannel shirt with the frayed collar under my canvas coat with the game pouch. Walking through the winter woods, I listen to the styrofoam-like crunching of my boots on the carpet of white. A gentle North wind carries the scent of the lake as it begins to grow dormant on its surface. When I am in this sacred place, isolated from the world, it feels as if I were trudging through the boreal forest a thousand miles to the North. 

I duck under a tangle of vines with bright red berries, and as I bend toward the ground, I see the forked tracks of Bonasa Umbellus, the King of the Northern Woods. I slow my pace and begin scouring the immediate neighborhood for a hidden enclave where he might be hiding. I pause to let him know that I am seeking him. The moment is wrought with tension. I shoulder my old shotgun and rest my finger on the safety. As I position my weight on my left foot, it happens.

A burst of russet wings fills the air. “Whhhhrrrrrrrr” and the ruffed grouse explodes from behind a deadfall, tearing down a hallway of pines, swaying from right to left, like an expert fighter pilot escaping enemy fire. I have no time to aim or calculate lead. I instinctively pull through his line of departure and my gun barks a sharp percussive tone.

The ruffed grouse plummets to the ground and comes to rest on a sprawling juniper bush. I breathe a sigh of gratitude and reverence for this beautiful animal.

I approach him with respect and hold him in my gloved hands. I stroke his bronzed head and fan his tail to admire his magnificent body. I think to myself “Someday my time will come and I hope that someone will admire my life as I do his.” His power and grace are nothing short of miraculous. He is a gift to us all. He will nurture the spirits of my guests on New Years’ Eve and be given the highest praise as we thank the Great Spirit for his offering.

Bonasa Umbellus, better known as the ruffed grouse, is a medium –sized bird that has a hunting heritage bound to the hardiest of souls, willing to traipse through the thickest tangles and densest pines. Males and females weigh approximately 1- 1 ½ lbs and the tails of both are a banded brown and black with a white bar. Females can be differentiated from males by identifying a single white “dot” on the rump feathers of the female and multiple white “dots” on the male.

 
Locally, we refer to the bird as a “partridge.” We know it is not an actual partridge, but it’s fun to “ruffle the feathers” of those “proper” folks.

Thanksgiving

To a hunter, Thanksgiving has its own traditions. Historically, the day is about finding peace between natives and pilgrims and celebrating the harvest of autumn by sharing its bounty. With the acrimonious campaign for the Presidency now behind us, it is time to set aside our differences and welcome each other into our homes and into our hearts.

A hunter will journey into the woods to return with a gift for the community, perhaps a deer, or turkey, perhaps a few squirrels, or a big Canada goose for roasting. For those who do not hunt, it may be difficult to understand why he/she hunts. Let me share with you why we, at Sacred Hunter.org, hunt.

The energy and mindfulness that is required to take an animal is a profound expression of devotion. The animal will “present itself” to us in a moment of divine connection. The hunter will often reflect on the moral equation of whether or not to take this life that is being offered to him. We do not “play God” but we do follow our nature. The circle of life requires that for life to continue, just as with energy, it must change shape and form, but does not end.

When we eat broccoli from our garden, we take in the energy and nutritional value of the plant. When we eat fish or chicken, venison, turkey or beef, we become what we eat.

From the perspective of the hunter, the purity and grace of the animal is shared when we ingest the energy and beauty of the life we’ve been privileged to harvest. Big Thunder, a Wabanaki Algonquin that lived in the late 19^th century said “When we go hunting, it is not our arrow that kills the moose, however powerful be the bow; it is nature that kills him.” Accepting that we are a part of nature and that we are connected to everything around us is the basis for respect and compassion.

In his epiphanic book, “Beyond Fair Chase”, Jim Posewitz writes “If there is a sacred moment in the ethical pursuit of game, it is the moment you release the arrow or touch off the fatal shot.” It is precisely this moment that we are sharing the soul of the animal, and after the shot has been taken, the responsibility to care for and properly use the animal is paramount to maintaining the sacred nature of the event.

Several years ago, I took a long shot on a buck that stood for several minutes in front of me. As the “green fire” of his soul left his eyes, I sat with him, asking for forgiveness and thanking the Great Spirit for allowing me to harvest him. I was filled with pride and remorse. I cried and I prayed. Arriving back at camp, I was greeted with congratulations and a toast.

That night, I prepared the backstraps for my closest friends over the gas stove. I seared the medallions in butter and deglazed the pan with the finest merlot we had in camp. I set the red meat on a plate accompanied by broccoli grown in my own garden and garlic mashed potatoes. As my camp members sat anxiously awaiting the delivery of this epicurean delight, I asked for a moment of silence. We all sat still for a minute, each of us honoring the deer in our own way. This was followed by another toast and throughout the meal, I felt as though I had discovered a level of grace and gratitude that I had never known before.

The memory of that meal still lives in our camp, and in my mind I have never had a finer meal.

This Thanksgiving let us all take a moment and recognize that although we may have different political affiliations, seemingly opposing religious beliefs, maybe even be non-hunting, let us all hold hands and be grateful for the wild spirits that nurture our collective soul.

The Promise of Tomorrow

When speaking to a young man of 14, one must choose his words wisely. Phrases like “We’ll try to go hunting this weekend” or “Let’s see if we can plan a day to hunt” are generally heard as promises. And promises to a young man, if broken, lead inevitably to shattered hope. Nothing is more heart-wrenching than throwing water on the fire of youthful enthusiasm.

When I told Ben that I would try to work my schedule to accommodate Youth Deer Weekend at camp, his tender heart heard “We’re going deer hunting this weekend!” I knew that my wife and I were obligated to attend a wedding that Saturday afternoon. Sunday was free, but with a late night of wedding partying Saturday night, Sunday would be difficult. So it was planned. Friday afternoon I would get out of work early and we would head up the class IV logging road to camp. The road to camp is a precarious one, designed to “keep out the riff-raff.” Our trucks roll over pumpkin-bashing rocks like a determined turtle.

Arriving at camp, we execute the opening duties like soldiers. Propane turned on, lamps lit, water heater fired up, stove pilots lights on, wood stove primed with birch bark kindling and stacked neatly in a cross hatch pattern with dry rock maple topped off with hot-burning hardack.

We watch the late autumn sun set from the deck. The trees are barren of leaves. The temperature in the mountains drops precipitously as the creek gurgles an aquatic lullaby.

Soon we are back in the one room camp enjoying the warmth of the fire. We run a checklist of necessities for the morning and wipe our guns down one last time, as if honoring our weapons, believing that they will shoot straighter tomorrow morning if given loving attention. I fall asleep in the recliner, feet in front of the stove.

When I awaken, Ben is already in his bunk. I throw another hardack log on the fire and shuffle across the green plywood floor to my bunk with the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I fall quickly into a state of unconscious nirvana.

My Bed

I sleep better here in this rustic camp than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Perhaps it’s the mountain air, or the gurgling stream outside the door, maybe it’s the wind whistling over the ridgepole, or the old green door with the crack in the middle. I‘m not sure really what it is about this place that brings such deep serenity to my soul, but suffice it to say that, above all other places I’ve been, it ranks as my sanctum sanctorum. My soul rests peacefully in the old cabin.

When the alarm rings, we both awaken, groaning at the morning that seems to have come too soon. We quickly realize that this morning there is reason to rejoice. We are going deer hunting.

After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oatmeal and slab bacon, french roast coffee and orange juice, we head out into the inky blackness.

The wind has stilled and the leaves are crunchy. We hike down the ravine and cross the trickling creek where a bear has eviscerated a tree trunk to expose tasty termites. Arriving at our chosen stand, we position ourselves at the base of an old beech tree. Our hopes are high.

We wait. A chickadee greets us at sunrise and sings a cheerful melody, leaving us both smiling. Time passes. Ben fidgets. I tell him to pay attention. There are a couple of gray squirrels making a racket down the hill to our left. A crow sounds his cacophonous alarm. “Keep your eyes peeled” I tell him. “There’s a reason for all that commotion.”

We can hear leaves rustling in the distance. They are the rhythmic footsteps of a quadruped, unlike the playful leaping of the gray squirrel. If you listen closely it is possible to discern the difference. “Get your gun up, buddy” I tell Ben.

Ben raises his .223 to rest on his right knee and pushes his cheek into the walnut stock. A full-bellied doe saunters up the path acting annoyed and looking back over her shoulder. “Let her walk” I whisper. “Why? Why don’t we just take what we have in front of us?” he replies.  Youthful enthusiasm reigns again but is met by my quick retort, “There’s a reason she’s annoyed. Just be patient”

Moments later a 6 point buck ambles into the clearing, head down. His head suddenly snaps up thrusting his nose into the air currents swirling around us. He is drawing deep breaths. He never takes his eyes off the doe 80 yards in front of him. The buck is pre-occupied with the scent of love. “Get ready Ben!” I say under my breath. The buck is now 50 yards in front of us.

Ben levels his grandfather’s rifle equipped with a 3-9x scope. “You’re gonna’ have to use the sights. He’s too close for the scope” I proffer. “When he steps out from behind that tree make sure that you’re on his vitals and don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you can hit him. Do you think you can take him cleanly?” Ben answers “I can. I promise.”

The rutting buck stops broadside to us, presenting himself for the shot. It is a moment like many in the annals of outdoor traditions. We are frozen in time. A boys’ first intimate encounter with a deer. A buck at that. Hearts pound and our breath is measured by the weight of the moment. This is what the Great Spirit promises us. The deep connection to an animal when we have the right to take a life and know that it is a part of our primal nature. You can get no closer to the soul of a deer than what we are experiencing right now.

Ben squints his left eye and slowly adds pressure to the trigger. The .223 barks and the big whitetail leaps forward and bounds down the hillside.

“Did I hit him?” Ben asks. “Do you think you did?” I ask.

“I don’t see how the heck I could miss something that close” Ben exclaims.

We walk quickly to the sight of the tracks where the buck dug in his powerful haunches before launching into his first bounding leap. “Any blood?” Ben asks. “I don’t see any do you?...look here’s a piece of hair!” Looks like there’s a small piece of hide attached to it….but no blood.” I say. “Looks like you might have grazed him.”

“I don’t get it! How could I miss something that close?” Ben says. His right eye is watery.

“It’s Okay Buddy. Sometimes our purpose is to just be there. Sometimes we bring home an animal and other times, we bring home a memory. You’ve just been blessed by a beautiful animal whose time is yet to come.…. That’s how it works. Did I ever tell you about my first buck? A 10 pointer that walked within 30’ of me?” I ask. “No. What happened?” Ben asks.  “I emptied my 30-30 on him and he walked away. It’s one of my favorite memories of my childhood hunts” “Buck fever?” asks Ben. “Yep” I reply. “We all get one pass, and today was his.”

We walk silently back to camp. When we arrive on the deck, Ben breaks the silence, “Can we come back tomorrow?” I inhale deeply and say “I guess so.” Ben jumps at the chance. “Promise?”

When speaking to a young man of 14, one must choose his words wisely. Phrases like “We’ll try to go hunting this weekend” or “Let’s see if we can plan a day to hunt” are generally heard as promises. And promises to a young man, if broken, lead inevitably to shattered hope. Nothing is more heart-wrenching than throwing water on the fire of youthful enthusiasm.

When I told Ben that I would try to work my schedule to accommodate Youth Deer Weekend at camp, his tender heart heard “We’re going deer hunting this weekend!” I knew that my wife and I were obligated to attend a wedding that Saturday afternoon. Sunday was free, but with a late night of wedding partying Saturday night, Sunday would be difficult. So it was planned. Friday afternoon I would get out of work early and we would head up the class IV logging road to camp. The road to camp is a precarious one, designed to “keep out the riff-raff.” Our trucks roll over pumpkin-bashing rocks like a determined turtle.

Arriving at camp, we execute the opening duties like soldiers. Propane turned on, lamps lit, water heater fired up, stove pilots lights on, wood stove primed with birch bark kindling and stacked neatly in a cross hatch pattern with dry rock maple topped off with hot-burning hardack.

We watch the late autumn sun set from the deck. The trees are barren of leaves. The temperature in the mountains drops precipitously as the creek gurgles an aquatic lullaby.

Soon we are back in the one room camp enjoying the warmth of the fire. We run a checklist of necessities for the morning and wipe our guns down one last time, as if honoring our weapons, believing that they will shoot straighter tomorrow morning if given loving attention. I fall asleep in the recliner, feet in front of the stove.

When I awaken, Ben is already in his bunk. I throw another hardack log on the fire and shuffle across the green plywood floor to my bunk with the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I fall quickly into a state of unconscious nirvana.

I sleep better here in this rustic camp than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Perhaps it’s the mountain air, or the gurgling stream outside the door, maybe it’s the wind whistling over the ridgepole, or the old green door with the crack in the middle. I‘m not sure really what it is about this place that brings such deep serenity to my soul, but suffice it to say that, above all other places I’ve been, it ranks as my sanctum sanctorum. My soul rests peacefully in the old cabin.

When the alarm rings, we both awaken, groaning at the morning that seems to have come too soon. We quickly realize that this morning there is reason to rejoice. We are going deer hunting.

After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oatmeal and slab bacon, french roast coffee and orange juice, we head out into the inky blackness.

The wind has stilled and the leaves are crunchy. We hike down the ravine and cross the trickling creek where a bear has eviscerated a tree trunk to expose tasty termites. Arriving at our chosen stand, we position ourselves at the base of an old beech tree. Our hopes are high.

We wait. A chickadee greets us at sunrise and sings a cheerful melody, leaving us both smiling.

Time passes. Ben fidgets. I tell him to pay attention.

There are a couple of gray squirrels making a racket down the hill to our left. A crow sounds his cacophonous alarm. “Keep your eyes peeled” I tell him. “There’s a reason for all that commotion.”

We can hear leaves rustling in the distance. They are the rhythmic footsteps of a quadruped, unlike the playful leaping of the gray squirrel. If you listen closely it is possible to discern the difference. “Get your gun up, buddy” I tell Ben.

Ben raises his .223 to rest on his right knee and pushes his cheek into the walnut stock. A full-bellied doe saunters up the path acting annoyed and looking back over her shoulder. “Let her walk” I whisper. “Why? Why don’t we just take what we have in front of us?” he replies.  Youthful enthusiasm reigns again but is met by my quick retort, “There’s a reason she’s annoyed. Just be patient”

Moments later a 6 point buck ambles into the clearing, head down. His head suddenly snaps up thrusting his nose into the air currents swirling around us. He is drawing deep breaths. He never takes his eyes off the doe 80 yards in front of him. The buck is pre-occupied with the scent of love. “Get ready Ben!” I say under my breath. The buck is now 50 yards in front of us.

Ben levels his grandfather’s rifle equipped with a 3-9x scope. “You’re gonna’ have to use the sights. He’s too close for the scope” I proffer. “When he steps out from behind that tree make sure that you’re on his vitals and don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you can hit him. Do you think you can take him cleanly?” Ben answers “I can. I promise.”

The rutting buck stops broadside to us, presenting himself for the shot. It is a moment like many in the annals of outdoor traditions. We are frozen in time. A boys’ first intimate encounter with a deer. A buck at that. Hearts pound and our breath is measured by the weight of the moment. This is what the Great Spirit promises us. The deep connection to an animal when we have the right to take a life and know that it is a part of our primal nature. You can get no closer to the soul of a deer than what we are experiencing right now.

Ben squints his left eye and slowly adds pressure to the trigger. The .223 barks and the big whitetail leaps forward and bounds down the hillside.

“Did I hit him?” Ben asks. “Do you think you did?” I ask.

“I don’t see how the heck I could miss something that close” Ben exclaims.

We walk quickly to the sight of the tracks where the buck dug in his powerful haunches before launching into his first bounding leap. “Any blood?” Ben asks. “I don’t see any do you?...look here’s a piece of hair!” Looks like there’s a small piece of hide attached to it….but no blood.” I say. “Looks like you might have grazed him.”

“I don’t get it! How could I miss something that close?” Ben says. His right eye is watery.

“It’s Okay Buddy. Sometimes our purpose is to just be there. Sometimes we bring home an animal and other times, we bring home a memory. You’ve just been blessed by a beautiful animal whose time is yet to come.…. That’s how it works. Did I ever tell you about my first buck? A 10 pointer that walked within 30’ of me?” I ask. “No. What happened?” Ben asks.  “I emptied my 30-30 on him and he walked away. It’s one of my favorite memories of my childhood hunts” “Buck fever?” asks Ben. “Yep” I reply. “We all get one pass, and today was his.”

We walk silently back to camp. When we arrive on the deck, Ben breaks the silence, “Can we come back tomorrow?” I inhale deeply and say “I guess so.” Ben jumps at the chance. “Promise?”