Societal Violence and Nature

Here's a very well written commentary on how Nature can reduce the frequency of violence in our culture.

Nature vs. violence

Finally! A sign of diversity in our fraternity!

Please welcome
Dawood Yasin, a fine writer and fellow hunter!

For the Love of Hunting

First Ice

My eyes blink open moments before the alarm clock goes off, set for 5:30am. A cold North wind blows through the window in the bedroom circulating crisp clean Arctic air over the layers of down blankets. I turn off the clock one minute before it rings and scuttle out of bed, down the stairs, and put a few new logs on the woodstove to take the tinch out of the kitchen.  First things first. Coffee, my last remaining vice. Other men struggle with alcohol, tobacco and internet intrigue. Me. It’s coffee. Give me a robust french roast with a splash of maple syrup and I will drink a half gallon thermos throughout the day.

Next, I scrummage through the refrigerator to find some goose sausage links and the container of scrambled eggs with habanero Tabasco. I gently place these in my soft-side cooler. I double check to see that my propane cylinders are full and the heater/cooker is situated in the camo backpack.

I reach for my down parka and my favorite fleece balaclava, pack my rubberized Norwegian ice-fishing mittens in the pack and out the door I go. The gang is all waiting in the driveway. Two trucks are running, their parking lights illuminating the styrofoam-crunchy snow. I proclaim loudly “Heading North boys! Roll ‘em out!” and fire up the truck to form a caravan of hardwater revelers.

First stop, Dockside Outdoors in Colchester on Route 2. The proprietor, Ben Sullivan, greets us with a smile and gives us the latest news on where the best ice is and what’s biting, what color bibbits, spikes (maggots in a vial full of sawdust, for those un-initiated to the sport) and how far down the perch are piling up. Ben seems a little more content these days, and we tease him about taming a woman previously known as “Wild Fisher Woman” who was an outdoorsman’s dream girl until Ben finally landed her. A round of chuckles goes through the shop and out the door we go, trucks blazing north again.

January Icescape

We roll into Dillenbeck Bay in Grand Isle as a reluctant sun peeks over the horizon of the distant mountains. The temperature is -10 degrees and we are grateful that there is no wind. I breathe in and the hairs on the inside of my nostrils clatter together. My lungs tell me to cover my mouth immediately before taking another breath. I look around me at the other hardy souls dedicated to this seemingly insane sport and grin under my balaclava. We are crazy in love with this sport.

Hardy Souls

Our crew is composed of Chris “Dot.com” Thayer, Chris “My alarm clock didn’t go off again” Holwager,  Eric “I’m on my way” Ovitt and Zack “What about crispy tails?” Gregory. We all laugh at each other and unload sleds, shanties, buckets full of tip-ups and micro rods, heaters, backpacks full of donuts, thermoses full of coffee and one cooler full of goose sausage and scrambled eggs. And now the long drag to the drop-off begins. Like a lost wagon train of renegade ice cowboys we trudge in a line 400 yards out to the drop-off where we have pinpointed our previous successes with GPS coordinates.

A Traditonal Tip-up

Arriving at our “destination” according to the latitudinal and longitudinal vectors, we begin to set up camp for the day. Ovitt immediately marches off to drill hole after hole for tip-ups. Five fishermen with 15 jacks per person on Lake Champlain means we can legally set out 75 traps. The rest of us begin setting up the shanties. One pop-up snaps quickly into place. The second, a sled-type with a floor, has to be constructed using aluminum poles that expand telescopically. More holes are drilled with the Mora hand augers for jigging for perch inside and outside the shanties. After Ovitt has drilled tip-up hole number 50, Holwager finally finds compassion and offers to help with the remaining 25 holes. We laugh at his generosity.

As is the way of youthful enthusiasm, Zack is the first one to wet a line. He begins jigging vociferously, intent on claiming the title we all vie for by announcing “One!” after catching the first fish. At this point we all laugh and reminisce about our dear friend, Rudy Castro, who now, unfortunately, lives in Michigan and is bound to his newly started business, Great Lake Auto Rescue, another “harassed slave of commerce.” We miss him dearly, but in some small way, I know that when he is not around, I actually stand a chance of being the one to call out “One!” before anyone else. If we fish with Rudy, he is always the one to announce the first fish.

Soon, a school of 8-9” yellowbellies ventures into our area and we begin “bailing” the fish, catching one after another, some two at a time on double set jigs. About half of them have distended bellies and are full of eggs. It looks like we’ve come into the first mating run early this year. We begin to fill buckets (there are no longer limits on perch in Lake Champlain after the creel limits were repealed about a decade ago.) We will fillet the majority of these fish for a fund-raising fish fry later this winter to help support the mentoring program that Sacred Hunter.org runs, called Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.org. (For more information on our efforts please visit our websites and Facebook pages).

The Boys Working a Flag

All of a sudden, as if the Great Spirit turned off the perch spigot, they stop biting. No one is getting even a nibble. We are sitting around in our heated shanties wondering what the heck just happened. That’s when Zack looks out the window and yells “FLAG!”…Two flags!....3, no 4 flags!...Holy cow! What’s going on out there?” Tip-up flags are flying into the frigid air like prairie dogs popping up in the desert. Everyone runs for one. Each of us sprints to the best of our ability. Thayer and I, the “older guys”, shuffle quickly. It’s comical and the young guys burst out laughing at us.

We all get to our prizes in time though. Ovitt calls out “This one’s got some beef to him!” Zack replies “Mine too!” Holwager quietly reels steadily, not revealing any emotion. Thayer gets one near the hole and claims “It’ll never make it though this!” Me, I try to keep my expectations to a minimum and set the hook on what seems to be nice fish. Zack scores the first “gator” through his hole and ices him. Thayer pulls in a nice one, squeezing its major girth through the 7” cylinder of ice. Holwager loses his to a sharp edge on the underside of the ice and Ovitt’s pike gets free by biting through the 20 lb mono leader. Mine, the smallest of the bunch, I release quickly at the hole. We all stand about 50 yards from one another and collectively shout a string of superlatives about how that was the most incredible wave of action we’ve ever seen. “No wonder the perch all disappeared! That was an entire army of pike!” I proclaim.

Zack's Prize Pike

Cameras are pulled out and cell phones are thawed. Flashes of light go off around the lucky ones in the crowd. “What a day!” I bellow. “And it’s only 9:00! Time for breakfast boys!”

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.