KILLING FOR KICKS

As a lifelong hunter and environmentalist I find few claims more offensive than those suggesting hunters “kill animals for fun”, or derive pleasure from killing. That anyone might think hunting is about killing betrays a breathtaking level of ignorance. 

It is disingenuous to claim hunters do not enjoy hunting; of cause they do, but killing accounts for a nanosecond of the long and highly disciplined process dedicated and responsible outdoors-men and women call hunting.  It is the moment when the trigger is squeezed or the string loosed, and while it is likely the hunter is experiencing an adrenalin surge at this moment, few if any would interpret that sensation as ‘fun’. 

In fact, upon approaching game which has been successfully and swiftly brought down, hunters often report experiencing a profound feeling of reverence for the quarry, accompanied by a sense of sorrow and regret.  I have even seen a hunter’s eyes well-up with tears as a result of the emotional response commonly known as “hunter’s remorse”.

To reduce hunting to the instant of the kill is like attempting to convey the nature of chess by describing mate. But nor is it appropriate or accurate to describe hunting in grandiose terms as some noble contest between man and his prey. 

Hunting is certainly a contest, but it will perhaps surprise some to learn that for the most part it is a contest between the hunter and himself.

The hunt begins long before the hunter sallies forth into the field, camo-clad, bow or gun in hand.  Hunters spend inordinate amounts of time practicing to become as proficient as possible in their discipline. They’ll tune, retune and fine-tune firearms and bows. They’ll research the characteristics or various loads and projectiles to ensure a swift and humane kill. They’ll study the habits of their quarry with a commitment to detail bordering on obsession, and they’ll pore over maps studying terrains in an attempt to identify areas of likely interest to the quarry.

When finally in the field the hunter will check the terrain again, not only looking for signs of the quarry’s activity but also signs of recent human activity in the area. Once camp is set up he’ll check his arms to ensure they've not suffered for the jostling received on rough roads. After dinner when it’s dark and everything else is done, he might make his way to the top of a nearby ridge and with his binoculars, search for campfires below that betray the presence of other forest users.

All these activities are part of the hunt.

The hunter will go to bed early in preparation for an early start.  In the morning, after pouring coffee from a thermos made the night before so’s not to fill the damp morning air with the pungent scent of smoke, he’ll run through final equipment and supply checks before setting off into the field proper.

Now is the time of the ‘quickening’; that heightened state of awareness and closeness to the environment that draws so many to the hunters’ way of life. It’s marked by a hyper-sensitivity to movement, sound, sign and scent and it is in this state that the hunter will walk like a ghost for hours, making as little impact on the environment as possible.

The quickening is not driven by adrenalin, though it too may course through the hunters’ veins.  Rather, it is the product of a falling away of all the contrived complexities of modern life, to be replaced by a state of self-reliance the hunter longs to feel in common with those ancestors who’s attempts to convey the selfsame feelings of oneness with the environment were inscribed on cave walls by an ancient firelight.

The hunter does not walk the landscape as though its sole purpose were to entertain some ascended almost godlike creature that no longer considers itself to be subject to its caprices. The hunter immerses himself in the role that nature, with tens of thousands of years of evolutionary rehearsal, has cast him in. 

He wishes not simply to pass through, but to be subject to his environment.

This is the primary distinction between the hunter and the bushwalker. While the bushwalker may be able to appreciate the wondrous diversity and beauty of creation, he has also removed himself from it to a large extent, considering his role as that of benign caretaker or observer rather than a participant subject to nature’s eternal life and death struggles. 

The bushwalker and the hunter see the landscape through different lenses. One will view it from the path, seeing only that part of the landscape that dwells close to the path, while the other views the path only as a means of travelling deep into the landscape where he may leave the path behind to see what lies beyond.

The hunter is conscious of his every step. He feels the gentle roll of the earth from heel to toe underfoot. He feels the sharpness of a well-worn ridge trail through the soles of his boots and the spongy dampness of cool mosses on the valley floor, filled with twigs that may bend silently or snap with a silence-shattering crack depending on recent rainfall.

He knows the sound of the stone that tumbles dislodged from its resting place of a thousand years as he climbs an outcrop in search of a vantage point and he curses himself as it seems that stone will tumble down-hill through the scrub forever.

The hunter has sat in silence for long hours, his back against a tree, just thinking about life and the eternal verities as he looks out across bogs or lush fields well away from the beaten track. 

He has seen the sun rise and set over dry hills and across the valley floor, its passage marked by the chorus of one-hundred-thousand frogs. 

He has watched calmly as snakes slither across his path, he has watched the complex courtship rituals of birds while still others make frantic trips to and from nests to feed demanding young.

He has observed with wonder, the elaborate shapes of tiny orchids that grow and flower at his feet. He has seen the myriad varieties of tiny fungi that grow in the leaf-mold at the foot of ancient trees and he has sat perfectly still as cheeky skinks climb upon his boots to catch the sun’s first rays.

And because he travels in silence and well away from the tourist trails, he also observes another common occurrence in the bush; he observes death. 

He sees one beautiful creature killing another for survival, without guilt or malice. He sees where Death has walked across the landscape leaving bones to bleach in the sun, or perhaps just some feathers or a little fur to mark its path.

Sometimes the hunter comes across a creature too old and tired even to run; perhaps a roo just laying in the cool shade beneath a tree, hoping that Death will come swiftly and without too much torment, as a dozen opportunistic predators lay in wait close by. They'll not wait for Death to come before moving in. They’ll simply wait for their prey to give-in to the inevitable before their work begins.

Death is everywhere in the bush, just as life is everywhere and hunters appreciate this better than most. Not because they're harbingers of death themselves, but because their silent journeys off the beaten track make them witness to it more often that most forest users.

But the hunter's ultimate objective is to successfully stalk and kill his quarry and through this process he walks shoulder-to-shoulder with innumerable generations of hunters who've walked his path before.

Unlike so many of his harshest critics the hunter will take personal responsibility for the life he ends and will ultimately consume.

He will kill his quarry, bleed it, dress it in the field, remove its antlers, roll-up its hide and put its flesh in his backpack and he will carry the burden back to camp with the image of his quarry’s final moments of life at the forefront of his mind all the way. 

He will see the beast in his mind's eye. He will analyse the image over and over and in doing so he will venerate the beast for the gift of life its death has provided.

The ultimate in free-range organic meat will be eaten by the hunter and his family. The hide will be tanned and put to practical use and the antlers will be prepared for hafting onto blades and other tools, or perhaps carved into intricate works of folk art that communicate some aspect of the hunt to future generations.

The true hunter does not kill for kicks or thrills. It is participation in the hunt that evokes joy and satisfaction, not the nanosecond it takes to seduce his quarry with the hunter's kiss. 

He is engaged in a love-affair with nature and tradition; with moments spent in the role nature has cast his ancestors in for eons.  It's a role he challenges himself to recall by instinct and play with passion, dignity and respect.

Anyway, I'll get outaya way now....

The Hunters' Way

Did you ever waken early, in the newborn frosted light,
Hear stones a-tumbling in a creek and Wonga take to flight.
Did you ever wrap your hands around a tin-cup to keep warm,
As you watched the mist that rises over wetlands with the dawn.

Did you ever sit on mossy ground, your back against a tree,
And marvel there for hours, at all that you could see.
Breezes rippling through tall grasses, clouds that gather on the hills,
Wedge-tails spiralling for hours, Peewees bombing them for thrills.

Have you seen the blacksnake basking, in the first light of the day,
Have you smiled at little piles of thorns, that waddle ‘cross your way.
And when you knelt to drink your fill, from a pristine mountain stream,
Did you see the hunter looking back, unshaven tall and lean.

Did you recognise his hunger, did you question his right to kill,
Should you linger any longer, is his prey’s blood yours to spill.
And somewhere half detected in the corner of your eye,
Was your father’s face reflected, framed by a clear blue sky.

Did you feel him squeeze your shoulder, gently ruffle-up your hair,
With the shadows growing longer, were you sure you felt him there.
All the hunting yarns he’d told, were they echoed on the breeze,
Did the hunter’s arm enfold you, and put your doubts at ease.

Yes you feel the link eternal, that courses through your veins,
And you hear the ancient echoes, in the valleys hills and plains.
T’was a sacred ageless legacy that drew you here this day,
And you’ll walk this land with honour, for that’s the hunters’ way.

- G. Mallard 2013

If you would like to receive notifications when new posts are uploaded to the Hunters' Stand, send your name and email address to thehunterstand@gmail.com This service will not include notification of new comments. All information provided will be treated with the utmost confidentiality and discretion.

.