When we identify as hunters, we ae placing ourselves in a kind of mythology that few of us even recognize. There ae caves in France with art representing hunting created 20,000 and 30,000 years ago, and butchered wild animal bones dating back 400,000 years.
Hunting was a primary function of early human survival, and a hunting mythology contributed to mankind’s methods of explaining life as well as the world around us. And, as with every mythology, there were stories and rituals that explained both man’s and animal’s relationships and place in the world.
Although many of these hunting rituals and their symbols have passed away over time, you can still see them today in places like the Pacific Northwest where culturally important animal figures are carved into totem poles or where decoy carvers create mantle pieces.
I once had the privilege of bowhunting for buffalo on Native American land in western South Dakota a number of years ago. My guide was a tribal ranger, Ralph Bearkiller, who, had his own ways of explaining the nature of the bison and the vast shortgrass prairie.
When, after some hard work and good fortune, I had put a large bull down and we began gutting it, Ralph quickly carved out the liver and took a hearty bite. He insisted that I do the same. “Out of respect,” he said, which, given the place and the gift of the animal, made complete sense. Following the impromptu ceremony, we wiped our faces with our sleeves.
All hunts really are gifts. We get to come into the space of whatever animal we may be pursuing. We are allowed to share that place and time and if we’re lucky we might come away with the meat that our quarry provides.
Sometimes we overlook the gift, which really is the place and time itself. The ducks or geese, or whatever it is we came to hunt, are a bonus gift. It’s often hard to see that when I’ve spent a morning searching empty skies or dealing with birds that don’t seem interested in dosing what I would have them do. But when it some down to it, I must admit that a morning in a blind is always better than a morning at my desk.
Although we’re many thousands of years removed from those ancestors who painted on cave walls, our hunting instinct doesn’t seem all that far removed. Granted, an unsuccessful hunt doesn’t mean going hungry, but we see the hunt in much the same way.
We have a connection with our quarry that is a mix of competition and admiration. Our focus is fixed. And if we are able to bring that bird or deer to hand, we pause to admire it, and perhaps even put it in a place where we can continue to admire it.
We no longer draw on the walls of caves, but we take photos of our quarry so that we can admire them later. We share those images. And probably like our earlier ancestors, we dream of some future time when we can go there again.