Halibut fishing on San Francisco Bay

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then I'm a really grateful blogger today. During an 11-hour halibut fishing trip on San Francisco Bay Saturday, Boyfriend reeled in just one undersized fish. I got nothing. But our friend Evan caught two, and the story of his biggest catch - from dock to stockpot - may not be worth a thousand words, but it's definitely worth a slideshow.


Evan is the one in the first frame; Boyfriend is the one doing the filleting. We tried to get our cat Giblet to pose for the last shot in the slideshow, but the fish was a lot bigger than she is, and she wanted nothing to do with it. Oh well!

Update: If you want to read about the fish's journey after the last slide here, check out Boyfriend's blog - click here.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Challenged to explain: Why I hunt

Being what you're raised to be is pretty much the easiest thing in the world - it's autopilot. Making a major life change, though, is something that makes you think a lot. Why, at the age of 41, should a journalist-turned-professor buy a shotgun, learn to shoot it and invest thousands of hours and dollars in a lifestyle that isn't strictly necessary for her survival?

It is a delicious question, because exploring it reawakens the still-fresh memories of every "first" I've experienced as a huntress. Read more...

And I think about it often, because part of what I do now is explain to non-hunters - or at least try to explain - why we do this. Why we are willing to kill animals when we could just buy meat at the grocery store?

Tonight, though, I answer this question in response to a fellow hunter. Arthur at Simply Outdoors issued a challenge to write about why we hunt, and then Kristine at Gun Safety Innovations rose to it, and man, they touched a nerve.

So here are my reasons:

1. Shouldn't I be doing this myself? When I was a kid, my family raised chickens, rabbits, pigs and even a few goats for eggs, milk and meat. I cried the first time I witnessed a slaughter, even though the rooster in question, Henry VIII, had attacked me in the chicken pen, leaving long, deep scratches down my 7-year-old back. But when Mom put chicken pot pie on the dinner table that night, I was hooked. I saw the connection between life, death and the food on my table, and I embraced it.

The last slaughter of my childhood was memorable. I was 17, it was Christmas Day, and my family was desperately poor. We slaughtered some chickens for dinner. My mother, to this day, bitterly remembers the unmistakable stench of dead chickens dipped in boiling water to facilitate plucking. She hated it, but for me it would be the last time for 24 years that I would take responsibility for the food on my table.

I always felt a bit of nagging guilt after that - I was a careless meat eater. Defrost, run out of time, meat goes bad, oh well - toss it. I had no connection to my food. When my boyfriend started hunting and invited me to join him, I knew it was the right thing to do.

2. Challenge. Wow, hunting is hard! I have always savored the invigorating feeling of a challenge, whether it was writing a story that 300,000 people might read as a young newspaper reporter, moving 3,000 miles across the country all by myself as a 31-year-old or diving headfirst into the incredible complexities of hunting. Shooting, shot size, training, licensing, regulations, packing, decoys, camo, calls, holy-cow-what-time-am-I-waking-up?, animal identification, animal behavior, scan the sky, don't move too much, uh ... how do I pee when I'm on a boat with five guys? ... watch the water, mount, aim, shoot, cripples, searches, death, plucking, skinning, dressing, cooking, eating, thinking, explaining...

Honestly, I think I would just curl up and die if I didn't have new challenges facing me all the time. Hunting is so complex that I know it will keep my hyperactive brain busy for decades to come.

3. Health. The more hunted meat I eat, the less hormones, antibiotics and farm-animal cruelty I ingest. Beyond that, I strongly believe that meat from animals that live normal lives is just healthier. I'm a big fan of Virginia pastured-chicken farmer Joel Salatin, and he wrote something in one of his books that really struck me:

If you have a cholesterol problem, your doctor will tell you to do several things: cut down on animal proteins (meat, eggs and dairy products), exercise in order to metabolize the excess calories of your body (isn't that a euphemistic way of saying "fat"?), eat salad for lunch instead of meat and potatoes. A good doctor will also tell you to identify and then reduce stress in your life. The stress-cholesterol connection is clear.

He then goes on to note that the way farm animals live now is precisely the way doctors are telling us not to live: high stress, no green food, no exercise. Salatin contends that the meat and fat of animals raised in this fashion is less healthy than that of animals that live more normal lives - just as the composition of our bodies is unhealthy when we live this way.

And if that isn't good enough reason to eat game meat, try this: Industrial meat just has no flavor. American livestock is corn-fed mush, and Americans have been brainwashed into thinking that monotonous flavor is a good thing. What most people call "gamey" is really a reflection of the animal and where it lived, whether it's a mallard that dined on acorns or a boar that roamed about eating wild oats and juniper berries all day. Eating game meats is like drinking wines and savoring the differences between each one. Once you've gotten used to it, everything else tastes like Wonder Bread.

4. Connection to nature. Here's what I said on Kristine's blog that made me realize I would not be going to bed tonight at the early hour I'd hoped for: Hunting wakes up part of you in a way that will make you think you've been asleep your whole life. That's the gift I never expected from hunting.

Do you ever watch comic-book superhero movies? You know the moment where they realize they have abilities and capacities they never dreamed of? Hunting is exactly like that. I see things now that I never used to see: When driving, I spot game that is invisible to my passengers. Where I used to see weed-covered fields, I see habitat. When I gaze out the window during meetings at work, I see not just birds, but mallards and cormorants and pelicans, identifiable as such even when they're just specks in the sky because their flight patterns have been etched into my brain. When I watch neighborhood cats lie in wait for newly hatched birds in my back yard, I see not cruelty or tragedy, but the cycle of life. When I see a hawk dive into a field and emerge with empty claws, I commiserate - and congratulate the mouse. When I see the hawk rise with a small rodent in his grip, I congratulate the hawk.

Life as we know it is ephemeral. Civilization is a house of cards that can collapse quickly in the wake of a well-placed virus or draught. I love the life that society and civilization offers me - music and art and books and fine food and drink. But I recognize this kind of life is a gift, and the only life guaranteed to us is one in which we can survive only by engaging with our environment, eating what we can and avoiding being eaten by anything bigger or stronger. Hunting connects me to that. It ensures I don't forget what I am - just one of many animals who make their home on this amazing planet.

No, I don't have to live this way. But I'm sure glad I know how.

Now, for the cruel part - tag! If I could pick one person whose answer to the question "Why do you hunt?" I really want to see, it would be Albert at The Rasch Outdoor Chronicles. Albert, I know you're slammed with some projects that are really important to you, but some day when life eases up a bit, I hope you'll do us the honor of telling us why you hunt.

© Holly A. Heyser 2010

Hunting and unfinished discussions

Quite the interesting debate has been raging over on The Hog Blog, where Phillip responded to a hostile comment from an anti with a really eloquent defense of hunting this weekend.

A bunch of us hunting bloggers chimed in, as we're known to do, and an anti-hunter who called himself "Bob" weighed in as well, bless his soul, courageously doing the equivalent of waving a dead rabbit in a lion's den, as Phillip put it.

The debate has been raging for days now, and I'm still not clear on Bob's point, except that he said he isn't a vegetarian, but he does have environmental concerns about hunting. And I'm not sure I'll find out exactly where he's coming from, because the debate got ugly tonight, and it may be over.

Interestingly enough, while much of this was happening, I had gone off to school to join a panel discussion in front of six grad students about different forms of professional writing. I talked about my newspaper career, this blog and commentaries, and how I enjoy the opportunity I have as an opinion writer to set the record straight on issues such as hunters eating what they kill.

That's when one of the grad students piped up and said something to the effect of, "How many actually do eat what they kill? Because I'm an 'anti.' "

I said, "Most of us," but that was it, because this was a discussion about writing, not hunting. And that was just as frustrating as the lack of resolution (at this hour) in the debate with "Bob" on The Hog Blog.

I don't look for fights, but nor will I hide who I am or what I do - whether it's on the friendly grounds of Phillip's blog or in a university environment most of us would assume to be hostile to hunting.

I actually look forward to the opportunity to hear out anyone who has a negative opinion of hunting, and to explain my position. I want to know where antis come from: Are their positions based on personal beliefs - which I totally respect - or misconceptions?

Tonight, though, I've come across two people - Bob and the student - who oppose hunting, but I'm not sure why. We never got to have a clear discussion.

And that matters, because while I may not change anyone's mind with discussion, I can make it abundantly clear that I've carefully thought out my choices - that hunting is not something I do out of callousness or indifference, but rather as a result of strongly held beliefs.

I am a meat eater, and I am comfortable with my place in the food chain - even with the notion that I, too, can become another animal's dinner. I believe there is no difference between animals dying on my behalf and animals dying because I personally shot them. I believe if I'm going to take an animal's life, I damn well better not waste it - I'll use every part I can. I believe that hunting has connected me to nature in ways that hiking, bird-watching and photography never could, because it has put me right back in the middle of it.

So, if you're out there, Bob and Grad Student, just know that this is where I'm coming from.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Is the decline in hunters a blip?

Or, more accurately, is the decline in hunters the end of a blip?

That's the interesting idea I came across this morning in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review: Delta Waterfowl leaders are suggesting that the decline in the number of hunters simply reflects the departure of Baby Boomers from the ranks of hunters as they age.

Tribune-Review Outdoors Editor Bob Frye reports: Delta likened the baby boomer's impact on hunter numbers to a rabbit being swallowed by a rattlesnake, saying, "That rattler was long and lean before it ate the rabbit and will be long and lean after the rabbit is digested, but for now there's a noticeable bulge passing through its body."

The analysis seems logical, but I haven't seen enough data to know for sure. The U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service does a statistically impeccable survey of hunting, fishing and wildlife viewing every five years. But current survey methodology dates back only to 1991, and the entire survey goes back only to 1955, when the first Boomers were already old enough to start hunting.

Boyfriend - who's just weird enough to have a bunch of squirrel hunting data on his computer - notes that there's hunting license data that goes further back. But you really need a lot of data to get a complete picture of the snake. Hmmm... that'll give me something to do during summer break.

But I digress.

Delta notes there are other issues affecting hunters' ranks too, such as increasing urbanization and the loss of huntable private land. That last one hit home this weekend when Boyfriend and I were out hunting turkeys in Amador County with our friend Evan and had a grand total of three ranches where we had permission to hunt.

Evan said there used to be far more places to go in Amador. But while much of the land is still open and rural, it has changed hands, either converting to vineyards or becoming the retirement homes for equity-rich retirees from the San Francisco Bay Area (not a region particularly friendly to hunting).

Even so, I think the ranks of hunters are due to rise, because there's another bump coming through the snake: young female hunters. Now, if we can just make sure their grandparents save some habitat for them, we'll be onto something.


© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Our last turkey hunt of the spring

After last weekend's surreal turkey hunt in Napa Valley, Boyfriend and I decided to head out to Amador County Saturday for one last hunt before the spring turkey season ends.

Boyfriend still hadn't gotten a turkey, and even though I had finally gotten my first, you can never have too much turkey in the freezer. Besides, my boss - an avid fly fisherman - had told me that turkey feathers are fabulous for fly-tying, and I wanted to help him out.

But while last weekend's hunt was perfection from start to finish, yesterday's excursion served as a vivid reminder: hunting is hard. All those people who think having a shotgun somehow means you can kill everything in sight are nuts.

We met our friend Evan at o'dark-thirty to head out to an area ranch where turkeys were known to hang out. Evan had been out of town for a few months, though, so none of us had actually scouted this land. So there we were, crammed into the cab of his beat-up black Ford Ranger, cruising up and down a dirt road half an hour before sunrise looking for a spot his brother had described to him. As the truck crawled, we scoured the trees for the silhouettes of roosting turkeys and found nothing.

It was getting close to wake-up time for turkeys, so we really needed to get out and set up. We looked for a place that looked "good" for turkeys - eyeballing the terrain as if we were scouting for a picnic spot - stopped, and broke out the shotguns and decoys.

Then we heard it.

Gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble.

Good spot, then!

Boyfriend and I crept into positions at the base of two oak trees while Evan set up decoys, then hit his box call to see if he could interest the gobblers in checking out some of our plastic hens.

Evan called. The turkeys gobbled. Evan called. The turkeys gobbled. Evan called. The turkeys stopped gobbling. Twenty minutes passed and we heard nothing. Clearly, plastic hens and the sound of a little box with a squeaky lid were not too attractive to these boys.

So we decided to switch things up: I'd head down the hill closer to where we'd heard turkeys before in hopes they'd come back; Evan and boyfriend would head out and scout for more. I sat pressed against a tree, ready for anything. At one point, I swear I could smell turkeys. But I never saw a thing, and finally Boyfriend came back and said they'd had no luck. We were moving.

We piled into Evan's truck and moved back up the dirt road, and it wasn't 30 seconds before we saw the turkeys about 100 yards ahead. We stopped. Boyfriend crept under a tree. I crouched beside the truck. Evan hit the call. The turkeys wandered off.

Oh, so that's what it's going to be like, eh?

Yep.

Boyfriend and I stalked through the oak forest for a while, occasionally seeing turkeys at some unshootable distance and pushing them farther away from us before we finally had to concede this wasn't working. So we unloaded our guns, got into the truck and moved to another ranch. All we saw there was a huge pack of cottontails, which aren't in season.

OK, fine, turkeys. If you want to be like that, screw you - we'll just go get breakfast.

We stopped at a cafe in Ione, fueled up on eggs, toast and coffee and headed back to the truck. As we moved our guns and decoys from the cab to the bed of the truck, a passerby peeked in.

"Get any turkeys?" he asked.

"No," we said morosely.

Our last effort of the day would be at the very ranch where Evan and I had seen a huge flock of turkeys last fall. Having just spent a bunch of time on foot pushing turkeys away from me, I didn't feel like doing that again, so I proposed positioning myself under an oak near a creek and letting the boys head uphill to see what they could find.

It was perfect. Just like last weekend, I found an oak tree with multiple trunks, something I could sit against and blend into. I had a good view of a hillside up to my right, the creek down below me, and a cow path heading along the creek.

I sat with my shotgun ready. There was enough cover that if anything approached, I would be able to mount my gun and aim it without being detected. A breeze washed through the oaks, carrying the spicy smell of already-dry native grasses, filling me with a dreamy, peaceful feeling. All the stresses of work and life evaporated because, unlike the rest of my waking hours, my job this hour was to sit still and observe. When you move all the time, it's easy to forget how hungry for stillness you really are.

But the only turkey sounds I ever heard were Evan hitting that box call somewhere up the hill. After a while, he and Boyfriend approached on the path below. I heard them before I saw them, and I sat still, waiting for them to notice me. I'm invisible!

Evan finally saw me. "Good spot!" he said.

Good spot indeed.

We walked around for a while after that and never did see anything, so we decided to head to a saloon in Sutter Creek for some beer. As we sat at the bar, a small herd of weekend wine tasters moved in, standing behind us as they waited to be seated.

"Are you turkey hunters?" one woman asked, eyeballing our camo.

"Yep."

"Did you get anything?"

"Nope."

"You should come to our house - they're right outside our front door!"

Awwww, hell, that was just mean.

"Give us your address!" I said hopefully. But she lived in Chico, about three hours away. Oh well.

You always want to end a hunt with game in hand. But the truth is, you never end a hunt empty-handed. In this case, we left with a little more knowledge about turkeys and scouting and positioning. And I came out of it with a sense of relaxation I hadn't felt for months. Can't complain about that.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008