This is a little long but you'll be glad you read it.
Why I Hunt
By
Steve Galea
It is a rare hunter who has never been asked, “why do you hunt?”
For some reason non-hunters -- from the curious neighbour who watched you rig up your decoys to that young cashier who rung in your ammunition purchase -- feel the need to know and sometimes comment about what amounts to a very personal issue.
If you’re short on time, and if you care to reply at all, there are always the pat answers. We tell them that we hunt to connect with nature and to understand the natural world. We say that we love the excitement of the chase and the game meat it brings us. We note that hunters were the first conservationists and that good wildlife management depends on the role of the hunter.
We say that our passion is an ethical, legal and time honoured pursuit and point out that our licence money and the conservation organizations we support have done more for wildlife and habitat than any other group going. We speak warmly of the camaraderie, lifelong friendships and the fine traditions. And, of course we baffle them by confessing that we truly love the game we seek.
And, all that is true, but I hunt because it feels right. As a predator, and only as a predator, do I see the natural world through eyes that are honest, passionate and inquisitive. I know where the game I eat comes from; I was there at the time of its death. I understand its roots, why it was where it was, its part in the landscape and even the legacy that its gut pile will leave behind. I see the animal and its existence in a fuller context.
I do not need the meat or the fur. I prefer it, yes, but I do not need it. I could get all my meat from the supermarket as most people do. Then I’d be insulated from the death that goes on and I might fool myself into thinking that there is no blood on these hands.
But as a hunter, I know there is no free ride. I understand that there is something visceral and ultimately honest about picking up your lifeless prey and knowing it was once vital and wild. My hands have been at the drawing of that last breath and because of that I revere the miracle that is life all the more. And that meat is respected and celebrated.
But though the meat is a valued and tangible gift from the experience, it is that experience itself that brings a hunter back. And many times that experience is accompanied by an empty game bag. Still, there is always something to learn. Hunters spend their time in prime habitat, mostly observing. And fishing, by the way, is just another form of hunting.
Yet, I’ve heard it argued that anyone can observe nature, that hunting need not be a part of it. Perhaps, but I have never witnessed anyone other than a hunter leave a cozy bed prior to sun up to sneak into the wilderness and be there for the start of a new day. Some might do it from manicured trails or patio decks. Or from camp sites. But even the most low-tech camp is intrusive and its very presence changes the landscape.
Hunters immerse themselves fully in the wilds time and time again. And certainly, no one but a hunter would go afield during the foul weather and unfriendly times of year that are routine to those of us who hunt. From camouflage to scent management, they and they alone make great efforts not to interfere with that other world of woods and water – except at that moment of truth.
Of course, it is this moment of truth that is the crux of the matter. If not for this, few would object to hunting. Then again, if not for this, it would not be hunting.
But it is from this moment of truth that all I love and respect of the game is born. Pulling a trigger or loosing an arrow at a living creature is no small thing. For practical and ethical purposes a hunter wants the kill to be clean. A good hunter goes to great lengths to achieve this and I don’t know a single one who is not haunted by a shot he refused to take for fear of wounding his prey. If anything makes us different, as a predator, it is this. We temper our predation with thought, conscience, morality and intellect.
Many non-hunters I know say that they could not shoot an animal so beautiful as, say, a whitetail deer. They might be surprised to know that many hunters I know constantly struggle with those same thoughts too. But a hunt is incomplete without a kill.
The kill is what it’s all about. And I make no apology for it though it seems that today that is what society demands. A hunter’s kill is perhaps the most natural act in all humanity. After all, we are the descendants of successful hunters.
I know that the killing of an animal is neither cruel nor inhumane. I have seen the bloody trail of a deer pulled down by a pack of wolves and I do not begrudge the wolf for eating. I have watched a shrike impale a mouse on a thorn and I’m sure there is no malice there. I understand that in nature there is no quarter and that everything that lives will one day die, myself included. More than that, I know we can not simply withdraw from the equation. Hunting has taught me this much.
For me the kill is a sacred ritual. It’s a simple act that has real meaning. In fact, it’s the most meaningful thing I do. It is final and I cannot approach a kill without feeling a wide range of emotions. There is joy, satisfaction, awe, tension and respect for starters. A snap shot is burned indelibly in my mind’s eye. In that image, the incredible dignity of the animal is most prominent. And so to is the moment when it ceased being an animal and transformed into a carcass. In an incredible instant as miraculous as birth, death takes hold. And it too seems natural.
Yes, this brings also remorse and sadness. Sometimes my knees shake as I approach the animal. Some hunters I know need to sit and admire the animal for a while. Others have to immediately immerse themselves in the first steps processing it into meat. But none can deny that with each kill, in some intangible way, the hunter grows more. His understanding of the animal is enhanced when it is right there, still in death, for him to examine, own and contemplate. His perception of himself is also enhanced by the culmination of the hunt. A successful hunt changes a hunter. And, eventually and ultimately for the better.
So then, maybe the original question should be answered by more questions starting with, “why do you not hunt?”
Do you not care to witness a sunrise transform a sea of dark cattails to gold as mallards wheel over the potholes and herons stalk the rim of the pond? Does the image of a mature whitetail buck walking furtively across a hardwood ridge not excite you? Do you not take joy in watching squirrels prepare for winter? Or the snowshoe hare sitting huddled on a carpet of snow in a dry cedar swamp? Can you honestly believe that there is something more beautiful or wild than a flight of wood duck twisting through the flooded hardwoods at the height of a bright autumn morning? Or that there is anything more mysterious than a woodcock rising from a hawthorn thicket, one minute visible in the duff, and the next towering high and exposed against a clear blue sky? Does the drumming of a ruffed grouse not mimic your own heartbeat? And what, in your experience, is more majestic than a bull moose testing the air and surveying a silent backwater lake?
More than that, you can’t honestly assume to understand the power and elusiveness of a black bear from a television show, can you? Or the regal bearing of a wild turkey from its fat, dim-witted cousin in the barnyard?
When the autumn wind whistles near your house or town do you truly think that it sounds the same. When an oak leaf drifts from the sky and lights upon a placid brook, does its passing hold the same importance?
Hunting has given me the answers to all these things. It might provide different answers for you. It has made me a keen observer and true participant in a world that few but hunters understand.
A hunter, a good hunter, soon becomes a naturalist but, I believe, a good naturalist is lacking in education if he or she does not hunt. It is no accident that all great and revered naturalists from Audubon to Leopold were hunters.
I believe that without the drama and passion brought on by the chase, naturalists are merely skilled observers. They have opted for the easy way out. They will never understand the desperation and the drama. They are on the outside looking in. They have restricted themselves to two dimensions and ignore that third and most critical one: participation.
I am a hunter and for every deer I’ve killed I’ve watched one thousand more. I value the living and the ghosts. For every duck I’ve plucked from the sky, I’ve watched ten thousand pass. And I’ve rejoiced at this sight too. A cow is just a cow; domestic, tainted by breeding, and moulded to our own needs. But a wild animal suits itself and nothing else. And in that wildness, there is something very real and common to all living beings. Hunting has taught me this much and more.
And that’s why I hunt.
Steve Galea is an award-winning author and newspaper and magazine columnist. He lives near Tory Hill, Ontario.
