On Being a Carnivore

I went deer hunting this past Tuesday. I don't do that very often. Here are the facts: 1] I like venison, having grown up on it; 2] It was a lovely, warm afternoon in late November and I enjoy being in the woods (whether I see a deer or not); and 3] I enjoy the challenge of competing against one of nature's most cautious, intelligent, wild animals. Let me expound on all three aspects.

Liking venison - I grew up along the Southern Tier in western New York. Deer hunting was about the only way my father and I ever bonded, other than occasionally playing golf together. For him big game hunting was an annual ritual. Back then, deer hunters actually took time off from work to tromp around in the woods for a week or so. And in Chautauqua and Cattaraugus County the forests are large and abundant. He took me to the big woods in Cattaraugus County where we hunted along the upper reaches of the Allegheny River beside Seneca Land. He never failed to get his deer.

It was exciting for me at age 12 or 13 to accompany him and to learn about hunting - even being given my own compass and discovering that it was essential to not getting lost or being able to track a deer and return to one's starting point. I was always short on patience, and never enjoyed those long periods of silence and being still in the cold. But he convinced me that we were deer stalkers and trackers. It was difficult to outsmart deer. One snapped-off branch might ruin an hour's waiting or tip-toeing. My father was serious, I was carefree - always wondering what was over the next mountain.

When I turned 16, I was sent to gun training classes. My Christmas present that year was a Browning Sweet Sixteen 5 shot semi-automatic shotgun. It is a beautiful firearm, hand-engraved and tooled in Belgium, and it can be fitted with interchangeable barrels for skeet, birds or deer. I won't extol its virtues further, but it is light to handle, well-balanced, and accurate to six inches at 100 yards. I'm now about to turn 74 and still own the gun. It is in perfect condition, and I am growing emotional about getting too old to use it any more. To be candid, I'm still not much of a hunter; accordingly, the gun is not well-worn, and it only has three deer to its credit in nearly 60 years. And my dad is long gone.

For the last 45 years I have lived along the northwest edge of the Adirondacks, a totally different hunting environment. This is a region where folks head off to hunting camp come November, and where membership in prestigious hunting clubs becomes part of one's identity. The hunting skills that I picked up from my father are still embedded. How else could one spend Thanksgiving Day in a cold, snowy forest watching flocks of turkeys wander by without aching to put meat on the table. But this story is about venison.

My mother, always dutiful, became an expert at preparing venison in all of its variations, which included sausage, ground meat, chops, steaks, stews, etc. I learned to enjoy them all. And when she made Swedish meatballs out of the ground-up stuff, I was one happy kid. And venison Stroganoff - wow! Also, her parents worked a dairy farm about a half mile away. Part of my real education and emotional growth came at the expense of observing farm animals being slaughtered for food. Whether it was a chicken or a pig or even a cow, I witnessed their demise. Their sacrifice made food for the family table. It wasn't pretty, but it was life and a necessity on the farm.

The thought of shooting a deer, of course, is anathema to many. Their idea is to choose it as a menu item in a fine restaurant. I, on the other hand, have no unwillingness to step up and fire my gun. When the deer is mortally wounded (hopefully instantly killed by a shot through its heart), I shrug and then congratulate myself on my deadly aim. Hah! I have missed more bucks than I can count on both hands and feet combined. I seldom if ever apply for a doe tag, so the task of being a successful deer hunter is problematic at best. What I do despise is field-dressing the animal. THAT can be a mess if not done correctly. I'm okay at it, but I've seen hunters complete the gutting process in about 10 minutes with a few well-placed cuts and minimal bloodiness. Finally, the real challenge for spending time trekking over hill and dale in pursuit of a wily critter comes afterwards when hauling it out. That entails dragging a 150 pound carcass up a mountain, across a river, and through a swamp or thicket. North country hunters call that being manly. I call it damned hard work. But sitting down at the dinner table with the meat back from the butcher and well-prepared, on the other hand, makes it all worthwhile.

Being in the woods - It's not about getting the biggest or the best buck. And of course, juveniles always get a pass from me. At any rate they are difficult to make out as the day wears down. Does are easier to distinguish because they have a narrower head, and the yearlings look like babies. How could one shoot a button buck? So it's not at all about snagging a trophy. The more points, the more meat, however, is a practical consideration. Here I must speak out with great caution about being overly quick to point and shoot your weapon. This is not a camera. Where you aim and what you aim at with a gun can have deadly consequences. Look what happened in Chautauqua County in the community of Sherman over the past weekend. Never, ever shoot your firearm unless you are certain of your target, don't shoot in low visibility, and make sure that a miss will not carry a great distance, causing unexpected consequences.

I go to the woods because it's fun and amazingly interesting. I used to take kayaking trips for a week or so after bug season into the Canadian Bush 300 miles north of Ottawa. Even after just a couple of days in the out of doors, one begins to sense the environment very differently. One becomes acutely aware of sun and clouds, wind, waves and temperature changes. The longer one is out there, more and more is noticed. The sounds of birds and animals are the waxing and waning of life, and the weather can soon be predicted in advance.

Often when I go out back, where there is a 6 mile stretch of continuous wild forest and wetlands, I have encounters. They are mostly friendly. Red squirrels don't like me; they chatter and scold. Owls are very curious; they land silently in nearby trees and watch me curiously. Porcupines basically ignore me. On rare occasions, coyotes slip by; surprised by this sudden intruder in their space. I've yet to see a bear - but they are out there. All in all, I have come to the conclusion that I will never be as much attuned as is the wildlife. Even the chickadees take care of their friends, while crows and bluejays are worse than the squirrels. I am the interloper and only beginning to understand what Native Peoples have known for millennia. All of that said, I am a visitor and feel like I must tread lightly. Thank you whoever you are for the privilege...

I have never used a deer stand because I believe they are dangerous and I think not quite fair; I take a small folding stool, find a spot and settle in. If my little stool is not with me, I walk a few yards, lean against a tree, and wait - sometimes up to an hour in the same place, especially if it has a good view. Usually, I carry my iPhone to use its conpass and to check wind direction - of which I will speak more.

There is a great beauty to walking or standing in the woods during a storm. It is quieter than quiet. I only struggle when my body begins to scold me about the cold. I enjoy watching large flakes or the wind blowing about great sheets of rain. On a gloomy day one can pass without sound through the heart of the forest. On frigid, stony, cold days, I can even walk across the wetlands, sometimes scattering a few wood ducks. There is never really very much solitude in the forest - only continuous activity. And gradually, I am learning more patience. Oh yeah, and then I remember what I'm there to do...

The challenge of deer hunting - Deer are incredibly smart. In addition, they have evolved keen senses that mostly extend far beyond the capabilities of humans. Their auditory and olfactory skills are exceptional, and their coloring changes with the seasons. In addition, they seem to possess a hard-wired sixth sense or what I would call premonition. I think it is derived from immersion in their environment. It is as though both are one and the same. But even though they are so finely attuned, they still seem to have four weaknesses: bucks grow careless during rut (but then again so did Matt Lauer); they are creatures of great habit (sometimes living out their entire lives within a radius of little more than three or four miles); their vision is only about as good as ours; and they are exceptionally curious.

This brings me to the challenge of bringing home a deer. It's all about judging the wind correctly. Deer are particularly attuned to wind direction. One will never find deer giving away their own scent or being in a position not to pick up the scent of other creatures in their vicinity. The hunter must always know exactly which way the wind is blowing, whether stalking or still hunting. Once they have your scent, they are gone. And because they are so difficult to see in the underbrush, one may never see them at all - only hear the thud of their hooves as they flee. I always hunt with the wind pretty much in my face. No deer will ever approach from behind or from the downwind side.

Earlier, I talked about deer vision. It's not great, but in conjunction with their other skills it's still superb. They seem to be able to pick up motion very easily, even the slightest movement. One must be slow and deliberate in all actions. There seems to be some debate about the color orange, the notion being that deer are colorblind in that part of the spectrum. I think that's true, although some hunters get all wacky about wearing camouflage. Maybe it's a macho thing. I wear orange so I can be seen by hunters, not deer.

This past Tuesday I saw three, maybe four deer. Two of them came within 15 yards of me. I know three of them were does, but I could not ascertain any horns on the presumed fourth. I entered the woods where I hunt at the northern end since the wind (relatively strong and gusty) was blowing directly from the south. The duff beneath my feet was exceptionally quiet, mostly because the snow was melting and the ground was subsequently wet. I slowly worked my way south, checking often on my iPhone for wind direction. In the space of an hour I probably moved 100 yards.

And then the first one appeared, upwind to my left, head down and browsing. She was a yearling. Behind her I expect was her mother. Neither of them smelled nor saw me; the other two were simply too obscured by the brush at the edge of the forest. They all came closer and closer, until at 15 yards or so that premonition business set in. Too bad - no antlers, no doe license. All were free to live another day.

What was amazing was how closely we intermingled before I was discovered. I stood dead quiet for half an hour and watched them intently as they fed right next to me. What a beautiful sight to behold. I was frankly happy there were no antlers. Finally, I shifted my weight and my hip buckled ever so slightly. I moved one step to the right. The game was over. They waved goodbye and disappeared in an instant. I knew I was finished for the day and headed home. But what a miracle I had witnessed. I had not beaten them, only played to their weaknesses. Yet in the end they had the advantage.

For me it was about as good as it gets - absent the taking of a wild animal for food. No big deal. I have until this Saturday when the season ends to try again. In fact, it's now nearly 2:00 PM. They will be starting to move about soon. Time to check the wind direction and head out back into the forest.

Carry on,

Paul in Potsdam, NY