Shotgun Wedding

As all good Sunday sermons should be, this one is about love.

Specifically, the misuse, abuse or perversion of the word “love,” as in “I love guns,” “I love hunting,” or when a hunter says, “I love wildlife.” In other words, any “love” that takes place over the barrel of a gun. I’m talking about the kind of “love” that would be better described as obsession, covetousness or, simply, the egomaniacal urge to possess.

Interestingly, some people (such as psychopaths) who are incapable of actually feeling benevolence towards others, act as if they know the meaning of the elusive “L” word. The terms “trophy wife” and “trophy house” are becoming increasingly popular, but if you care about someone or something just because you own them, it’s not the same as caring about them for who or what they are.

Hunters often claim to care about wildlife—to cherish the animals that they want to kill—but they’re confusing actual human emotions with an avaricious urge to manipulate, dominate and control (the three underlying behaviors of a serial killer, according to former FBI profiler John Douglas).

Hunting is not an act of love, it’s a hate crime. Killing animals for sport is nothing short of abuse. As studies have clearly shown, animal cruelty often leads to domestic abuse and other crimes along the violence continuum.

The serial killing of wildlife is certainly not a healthy expression of love.

Text and Wildlife Photography ©Jim Robertson

 

For the Bragging Rights

Autumn in elk country would not be complete without the stirring sound of solicitous bulls bugling-in the season of brightly colored leaves, shorter days and cooler nights. Nothing, save for the clamor of great flocks of Canada geese, trumpeter swans or sandhill cranes announcing their southward migration, is more symbolic of the time of year. And just as any pond or river along their flyway devoid of the distinctive din of wandering waterfowl seems exceedingly still and empty, any forest or field bereft of the bugling of bull elk feels sadly deserted and lifeless.

Yet there are broad expanses of the continent, once familiar with these essential sounds of autumn, where now only the blare of gunfire resounds. By the end of the nineteenth century, the great wave of humanity blowing westward with the force of a category five hurricane—leveling nearly everything in its destructive path—had cut down the vast elk herds, leaving only remnants of their population in its wake.

Nowadays, a different kind of rite rings-in the coming of autumn across much of the land. Following in the ignoble footsteps of their predecessors who hunted to extinction two subspecies, the Mirriam’s and the Eastern elk, nimrods by the thousands run rampant on the woodlands and inundate the countryside, hoping to relive the gory glory days of the 1800s.

On the way back from a trip early last evening I saw one such nimrod as I turned at the local mini-market on the final stretch home. I have no doubt in my mind that he was parked there just to show off his kill; the antlers of a once proud, now degraded and deceased bull elk were intentionally draped over the tailgate of the assassin’s truck—clearly on display.

I can’t say that I see just what the hunter was so proud of. It’s not like he personally brought down the mighty animal with his bare hands. Elk follow a pretty predictable path this time of year, and the bulls are distracted and preoccupied with escorting their harems around. Taking advantage of them during their mating season is about as loathsome as anything a human can come up with (and that’s saying a lot).

All a deceitful sportsman has to do is blow an imitation elk bugle to lure a competitive bull within range of their tree stand or wait in hiding above the herd’s traditional trail to the evening feeding grounds. When the procession passes by (right below the camouflaged killer’s perch), the most challenging thing for the sniper is deciding which individual animal to shoot or impale with an arrow.

The fact that they let groups of cows and young spike bulls pass by and wait for the largest, “trophy” bull is proof positive that they’re not hunting for food, but rather for sport—and for bragging rights.

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The first portion of this post was excerpted from the chapter, “The Fall of Autumn’s Envoy,” in the book, Exposing the Big Game: Living Targets of a Dying Sport

Text and Wildlife Photography ©Jim Robertson

In the Name of Sport

It’s Monday morning, August 20^th, and although autumn—the traditional season for hunting—is over a month away, I’m already hearing the echo of gunfire emanating from the hills around my place. If I weren’t so damned informed, I’d be thinking, “What the hell is someone shooting at this time of year?” But unfortunately I know all too well…

Judging by the intensity of the rifle report, it is not the sound of a kid with a .22 blasting at bottles or pigeons this time. Considering that the noise originated in an area where black bears and blackberries are numerous, there’s no doubt in my mind that the shooter is a bear hunter. The wild berries are just now ripening and, since bear hunting season begins on August 1^st here in Washington, the loathsome scum who enjoy making sport of animal murder are out trying to end the life of a humble being whose only focus these days is filling up on fresh fruit.

Adding to my frustration, there’s no way I can hike up there and check out the situation. My right foot has been out of commission for about a week now, ever since a log rolled onto it while I was cutting firewood. Every time I try to walk on it, the pain and swelling gets worse so I’m stuck having to sit with my foot elevated, wondering whether one of my neighborhood bears has been shot to death or is now suffering from a painful gunshot wound.

Misfortune and misery are already all too common. The last thing this world needs is for a few selfish people to thoughtlessly cause suffering in the name of sport.

Text and Wildlife Photography ©Jim Robertson

 

If I Were a Hunter

I’m proud to say I’m not a former hunter. I never had to kill an elk or a bear or a swan or a goose to know how bad I would feel about it afterwards. My “problem” might be too much empathy; I could readily imagine the sense of self-loathing that should come with destroying such beautiful and noble beings.

When in my youth I had to put down a wounded buck deer I’d hit with my truck, I found myself apologizing to him even as I made the cut that put would him out of his misery. I knew I’d never want to go through that in the name of sport.

The only time I hunted for food was during a brief live-like-an-Indian phase. I had enrolled in an “Aboriginal Life Skills” course— the same one that the author of “Clan of the Cave Bear” later took to learn how Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal man may have lived. I carved a bow out of a young juniper tree and with this mighty weapon, I shot a harmless chipmunk. The arrow didn’t kill the poor soul outright, but knocked him to the ground, wounded and trembling.

As I dealt the creature it’s death blow with a club, I felt no ancient, sacred pact with nature; no mystic bond with the great chipmonk spirit; no connection with the circle of life. I felt only an overpowering urge to end the suffering I had caused this individual.

One of this blog’s regular readers posted the following quote to the comments section of “Honor Thy Father and Mother, Except When They Misbehave.” I don’t know who made this statement, but I can relate to it. If I were a hunter, this is just the kind of conclusion I could see myself coming to:

 

“I hunted for 30 years. For various reasons, mostly because my father did, and my grandfather did. Yes, we ate what we killed, but I never felt I was hunting TO eat, after all, I had food whether I killed anything or not.

I never felt I was hunting for “wildlife management”. I never picked up my rifle and said “Well, I am off to do my duty for wildlife management by killing an animal”.

I never did hunt for “trophies”. Whatever one describes that as.

I didn’t even consider my “milenias old roots”, though I occasionally did use one of my grandfather’s rifles, now 100 years old.

I guess I hunted just because I did. At first, killing was thrilling, then anti-climactic, then distasteful. Then you begin to wonder why you are doing it.

After pursuing elk for 7 years in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, I got an easy shot at a 6 point bull and passed. If he could elude me for that long, what business did I have to kill him and hang his head where people who had never experienced his world could look at him…..not in his magnificence, but in an artificially posed mount, supported by premolded styrofoam. Would I have gained anything from the experience? Who would gain? Who would be better off had I ended the animal’s life?

I began to look at hunting differently. It certainly isn’t needed by anyone or anything…….most animals are not hunted at all, and do just fine. Hunters continually harp on deer overpopulation…..but deer make up less than 2% of what they kill. And there are now alternatives to hunting deer.

In November 1989, I was shot by a deer hunter, while on my own property. The irresponsible hunter left me for dead, and my twelve year old son loaded me in a truck and drove me 40 miles to a hospital. That didn’t dampen my enthusiasm, though, and is not the reason I quit, but it did give me a solid taste of what the animals endure.

I guess I just started to understand that the animal I was looking at through a scope was not just a target, but a living thing. A thing that suffered when shot, a thing that I had no right to kill, though I had the privilege to do so, by virtue of paying another person a fee for a license. Think about that. The animal is minding his own business when you go into a store, pay a fee and walk out with a license to kill the animal, what a deal.

I shot the last animal that will ever fall to my gun in November 1992. I hunted until January, 1997.

In five years, I discovered I could love the outdoors, and it’s experiences, which I still dearly enjoy, without killing. The guns stay at home when I take to the field now, though I keep the rust off them by frequent trips to the range to break clay targets or make little groups of holes in paper, and I have turned more to shooting competition for satisfaction and achievement.

Is hunting worse than factory farms? No. Does that make hunting right? No.

Am I responsible for the death of animals, even though I am a vegetarian, don’t use leather or fur? Sure. One only need observe the bugs on my truck grill to see that. But I have decided to minimize my impact on animals and work to help them, rather than kill them.

I have a lot of making up to do.”

Living off the Land: another Excuse for Sport Hunting

Hunters often claim, “I’m not a sport hunter; I eat what I shoot,” as though the end (the act of consuming a carcass) justifies the means (the unnecessary killing of a wild animal).These people choose to live in areas where “game” is abundant, often because local wildlife agency policies have eliminated natural predators or favored one species of grazer over another. As ruralites, they pretend they are “living off the land,” practicing a pseudo-subsistence lifestyle. Whenever a person has all the modern conveniences at their disposal—a truck with GPS, a cell phone, a four-wheeler, a cooler full of beer and groceries and a warm house or shack to go home to—they aren’t really hunting to keep from starving, they are in fact just sport hunters in disguise. I should know, I was nearly sucked down that slippery slope once myself.

Years ago, I went through a brief live-like-an-Indian phase and enrolled in an “Aboriginal Life Skills” course— the same one that the author of “Clan of the Cave Bear” later took to learn how Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal man may have lived. For me, it was not so much an anthropological study but more of a wilderness survival course.  Our final assignment:  a ten-day back-country excursion armed only with a blanket, a knife and an ample supply of biscuit roots and wild onions gathered prior to the expedition. Although our tribe of modern-day abos had plenty of the nutritious tubers to go around, much of our time was spent out hunting for animals to roast in the fire pit.

I carved a bow out of a young juniper tree and the class instructor lent me one of his blunt-tipped arrows. With this mighty weapon, I shot a harmless chipmunk. The arrow didn’t kill the poor soul outright, but knocked him to the ground, wounded and trembling. I had to finish him off with a club like some brutal character from a cave-man story. I was praised by the folks back in camp, but felt anything but pride for my feat.  The tiny morsel of chipmunk flesh was cooked in a rock oven, along with a porcupine the teacher’s assistant clubbed to death that same day.

We were taught how to tan animal skins using deer brains, fashion knives and arrowheads out of obsidian and build crude wooden shelters; but the main lesson I learned from the course was that we didn’t need to be slaying animals in order to survive. We were acting like a bunch of sport hunters out playing games at the expense of the resident wildlife.

The thing that brought that message home with clarity was when some of our group started baiting deadfall traps for the mink we occasionally saw along the banks of the river we fished. Mink meat is practically inedible, but their fur is quite a prize for those wanting a treasure to show off to others. Trapping the mink was not aiding our existence; it was another form of recreational carnage.

Ultimately, what I gleaned from the experience was something almost too taboo to suggest: I realized that even primitive societies must have had times when their relatively austere hunting practices provided them with far more resources than they ever needed for basic subsistence. They were no longer killing simply for survival; at some point humans started doing it with a motivation nearer to that of a sport or trophy hunter. (Only later did I discover that prehistoric man used fire to drive animals off cliffs, resulting in the annihilation of whole herds or the extinction of entire species.)

 Modern people who claim to want to “participate in nature,” but depend on technology at every turn to spare them any physical discomfort, are actually just sport hunters at heart. A bear lives off the land, chipmunks (except for the regulars at my bird feeder) live off the land, moose live off the land, but today’s hunters live off grocery stores and burger joints—sporadically supplementing their hoard with the spoils of their latest sport-disguised-as-subsistence hunt.